SOCCER IS STUPID, and Thank the Good Lord the Olympics are OVER.

Yes, I made this. I rock.

First, I will admit that not ALL Olympics coverage made me want to sit on an active nuclear warhead. Only most of it.

I thought some of the male divers were nice to ogle, and this one Swedish girl’s awesome hair cut was kind of inspiring. And who can argue that watching Gabby D win gold for her insane gymnastics wasn’t the best thing since tampons? And I mean that reference especially for gymnasts because God knows they can’t wear a fucking pad in those tight outfits. And HOW can they ever get away with wearing white, for shit’s sake? Have they not considered being embarrassed by a huge blossoming blood spot in front of the entire freaking world? Can you say “period leakage” in a thousand languages? I want to hear Bob Costas try.

I wonder if gymnasts even have periods. Some of them are kinda skinnyish. Except for that one really tall woman, Catalina Ponor, from Romania, who looks about 35-years-old.  She’s really 24, but I don’t know. Maybe she is one of those nesting dolls, and she has smaller and smaller gymnasts hidden in secret places. The girl who performed right after her once--when I was forced to watch since the Olympics were playing on every fucking television in my house--weighed about 10 pounds and could easily pass for a 4-year-old. She was from China, where they apparently get a couple of rice grains a day for sustenance, and she could easily fit up in that Romanian’s uterus. Speaking of tampons. But I digress.

What I mean to discuss is the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart (Where?!), down in my heart (Where?!), down in my heart now that the Olympics are OVER. I’m thrilled beyond measure that all those “athletes” were able to show their stuff and earn lots of multi-million dollar endorsements and lots of thousands (that better turn out to be tax-free, America) for each medal looped around their necks. I say “athletes” because YOU explain to ME how those bitches who pranced around with fucking Hula-Hoops in the “rhythmic dance” competition can compare to Bolt’s running or Phelps’s swimming or the Williams sisters’ tennis swings?!?

NO. I never said I could hold a candle to a competitor in the rhythmic dance category, but I can’t piss in a twenty-foot arc either, and no one’s clamoring for that to be an Olympic event. Jesus. What’s next? Burger Grilling?

Anyway, the BIGGEST issue I have with the summer Olympics is soccer. Or as I like to call it, why-the-fuck-are-people-watching-these-idiots-run-up-and-down-a-field-for-hours-doing-absolutely-nothing. It's just a big version of a 6-year-old's game of "keep-away." Seriously. I came into the room when my husband was glued to minute 85 of a girls’ soccer game between the US and somefuckingbody, and the score was 0 to 0. What the?

Who watches 85 minutes of people hurrying down to one end of a big field—sometimes kicking a ball, sometimes not—and then, oof, stopping when the ball rolls out of bounds, and then turning around and running down the other way, and then, oof, stopping when the ball doesn’t get anywhere near the goal that takes up practically the ENTIRE fucking end of the field, so that there is ONCE again, no score?!

The whole population of Ethiopia could fit in a soccer goal, but no one can seem to get the human-head-sized ball in there much. No wonder people nearly climax and rip their clothes off when the ball goes in. It’s like a fucking miracle. The Pope should be there blessing that shit. There ought to be long lines of the afflicted waiting behind soccer goals so that when a ball goes in, the lame can walk; the deaf can hear; the mute can speak; liberals can reason. I mean, at least there would be SOMETHING good to come out of a motherfucking soccer match.

You Don't Have to Commit a Felony to Get Past Your Ex

See? Even fucking BEARS can get married!! What is WRONG with this country??

My parents were the second set on our block to divorce. I could see it coming for miles, and I was freaking terrified. The demise of Sonny and Cher didn’t help a whole hell of a lot. Right after the Breaking News report, I ran to the kitchen where my mother and father were frying chicken and mashing potatoes, and I breathlessly shrieked, “You’re not getting a divorce, are you?!” They both feigned shock and lied straight through their pearly whites. I vowed then and there never to lie to my children any time my divorce was imminent. And I didn’t.

My brother has just completed his second divorce, and my husband and I share an assortment of prior disasters. We’re kind of like the Brady Bunch of divorce. But the fact that we lived to tell the myriad tales shows that no matter how difficult or devastating the end of a marriage may be, it’s pretty survivable.

I will now share with you some easy tips to help you weather the tempest of unmarrying. Every now and then, Bloggurl simply must offer some usable advice besides “Never vote incumbent,” and “Fuck Charlie Sheen.”

Now. Even the kind of divorce that is more relief than heartache still hurts. It’s a death, for God’s sake. The death of dreams and plans and shared memories and perhaps even deep friendship. And it’s certainly more often than not the last nail in financial stability’s coffin. In fact, the divorce rate in America has steadily dropped over the last few years probably in large part because many couples simply cannot afford to separate. You must mourn the many little deaths or they will linger like a sloppy-drunk distant relative at a wedding reception and fuck you up later.

But sometimes, no matter how much praying, begging, counseling, struggling and compromising we do, the end credits scroll on a relationship. And then what? Acceptance and forgiveness. These are the keys to getting on with your life after divorce.

Accept the fact that your ex is truly a mother-fucking pig who is 99% responsible for the break-up. Forgive yourself for the vivid homicidal fantasies that are keeping you up at night.

Oh. Stop. I’m only (partially) kidding.

Accept your part in the failure of the relationship. Own up to your own imperfection. You can change your own uglies-and-nasties, you know.

Forgive yourself and your former spouse for almost everything. (Okay. You can forgive domestic violence too, but don’t ever accept it.)

While you are working diligently at acceptance and forgiveness, there are some other critical coping strategies to practice.

Plan.

Before the actual split, know exactly where you are going to live. If you must bunk with Mom and Dad in your childhood bedroom, for fuck’s sake change the wall paper. And have an exit strategy and a time frame, and stick to it.

Talk, talk, talk.

Yes, your friends are supposed to be a shoulder on which to cry. But most people can tolerate only so much of your stringy snot on their fine washables. That is why you must not use your friends as your support group. Talking about your divorce is essential; but find a real support group, preferably with a certified counselor. It’s important to listen to the experiences of others and to share your own. That’s how you learn that things will be all right eventually. But unless you want to find yourself as friendless as a Republican on MSNBC, save the complaining for the experts.

Do something you have always wanted to do but were too afraid to try.

It’s time for that first tattoo! It only hurts like holy hell, but do it anyway! Go skydiving. There are quite inexpensive simulators now, so you don’t even really have to jump out of a plane. (Unless you really want to, but if you are thinking about doing it without a parachute, then I am really thinking you should stop reading this and visit your nearest psychiatric hospital. Hurry.) Take up belly dancing even if you have more than one belly. Learn to swim. Learn to knit and make scarves for the less fortunate. No one said you actually have to go near the homeless and less fortunate. Really pretty churches with solid gold fixtures accept donations on Sundays, and if you go to the early service, your chances of running into the homeless are greatly reduced.  

Figure out what is truly acceptable and what’s not in a mate.

Now that you can be honest about your ex’s faults and your own, write down the deal breakers. Ready to admit that you hate tighty-whiteys with skid marks? Finally owning up to your disdain of the female mustache? It’s high time you decide the things you may not adore but with which you can live. Then, jot down what you really desire in a mate. You know. Things like compassion, a true interest in your desires and well-being, and a really big…flat-screen t.v. Fill out a pretend online dating application. You will be floored by the shit you can learn about yourself! And if you decide to submit it, you could be getting laid by Thanksgiving!

Never, ever, ever involve your children in the adult mess. Ever.

This is very, very important. Exes can remain friends or at the very least, friendly. But even if you despise each other and know in your heart of hearts that your ex is a dickless porn-monger who eats his own snot and can’t go a day without masturbating in the bathroom sink, keep your poison to yourself around your children. You owe it to them to be the adults. You can be honest (“Your mother and I can’t live together without driving each other mad.”), but you don’t have to be vicious (“Plus, she sucks in bed.”). It is not acceptable to turn your children against your ex-spouse so that they will be “on your side.” Besides kids don't need us to point out how fucking lame some parents are. They can easily figure that out for themselves.