It was supposed to be about Bob Costas

I was in the midst of a delusion of some sort, perhaps one of grandieur, that my initial presentation as a blogger was going to be relevant and entertaining. Now I find myself most certainly coming down with an illness of sorts and my girlfriend's damn cat has decided that my keyboard is now the pinnacle of comfort, far preferable to pillows and couches, or even my lap. The short of what I had intended to say: How irritating/integral has Bob Costas become concerning any television production of the Olympics? This guy...I am going to kill this fucking cat...this guy has created a genre of spoken word moralizing that is his and his only. The worst part, we need it to be there, otherwise it just isn't the Olympics. There is more to this and more to my blogging, but I need to take an overdose of Thera-flu and call it a night. At least I wrote more than Anne. What about public gyms like Bally's or Gold's Gym? My girlfriend's personal trainer is named Lyle. I would like to hear Bob Costas work as a commentator for the television show Cops. We could really find a way to fall in love with the "plight" of crack addicts and white-trash whores. Hell, it worked for the women's gymanstic teams of all of the countries of Eastern Europe (I think one of them girls is actually a white-trash crack addict whore nowadays, or used to be, Bob Costas makes me cry).