Watching, and not watching, the 2016 Olympics in Zika-infested Rio de Janeiro,

It's good to see Michael Phelps win his 21st (or 23rd) gold medal, and to fantasize that he were nude and his medals crowns of olive branches.  Even to try to imagine what pert, lard-butted negresses do in the name of "gymnastics," however, makes me, as Jewish girls say, nauseous.  Or would if I could.  But I can't.