(I had a dream like this once. I was getting a blumpkin in a public fountain in Japan.)

… and has been for some time. That is the only explanation I can think of that would account for Wenlock and Mandeville, the official tard-puppets of the 2012 Olympic Games. The past decade has seen a series of what-the-fuckery from the UK, including Gehry’s Serpentine Pavilion, Susan Boyle, and the Bleeding Tombstone of Hinckley. This time, I think, the new British law – that basically says you can drink, but you’ll get thrown in the Tower of London for having a good time doing it – pushed those bangers humping limeys over the edge into Rasta levels of green overload. Even the sports writer over at BBC, who is himself having trouble stomaching the two steaming piles of adorable from the bowels of gay sci-fi hell, is so baked off his arse he’s having trouble with the very keystrokes he’s employing to mock them:

Right. Now I know you Greeks are having a rough time of it a the mo, but get this, them Olympic Games you put on 1000 years BC, they’re nowt when compared with the might of the Wenlock Olympian Games.

It’s cute that your cockney illiterates get to write for your most major news outlet, but in our country, we don’t let our hicks write without the benefit of a sixth grade education. Be that as it may, you have a real point there, Eliza: despite the fact that bronzed, male athletes greased up and stripped naked to perform in the original Greek Olympic Games, it probably wouldn’t cause Tinky Winky – the hulking purple Teletubby with the purse, if you’ll recall – to punish his big purple puppet knob more than these lobster-clawed, phallic-faced monstosities.

We don’t watch the Olympics to enjoy the twee [<-- that's the polite-ass English word for gay] adventures of Manderwen and Lockville, or any other transient piece of animated tut. I don’t even think children watch it for that, do they? Nah, it’s the jumping, running, cycling, winning… that’s it.

The steroids, the cheating Chinks, the injuries, the feculent irrelevance and waste of it all. I am continually astounded by people who like to watch cycling, which is as “twee” as a rubber penis suit that can look at you. Is it the queer little strangle pants they wear, or the sheer fascination of someone busting ass to cover a distance a car could span in half the time? Seriously, there’s porn in the world, and we’re clinging to this millenniums-old pissing contest between nations that straight up Odd Couple despise each other for the sake of world-wide camaraderie. Maybe the Brits have the right idea, and we should all just hit the bong and watch these dystopian Disney mascots dance around like inbred idiots on ecstasy to distract us from the sheer uselessness of the whole operation.

Why do we need to spend a shedload of cash on mascots for 2012? What are they going to do exactly? Flounce about being really flipping annoying. Couldn’t we have just used Timmy Mallet?

Why do you have such a farting problem with swearing, dude? You clearly want to, you little fletcher. And for the record, looking at this Timmy Mallet invention your race’s top minds spent their lives creating, no, no we couldn’t just use him. I have ire stored up in me like Shakespeare’s characters get spleeny, and the fact that you even made me look him up makes my vitriol engorged brain want to explode from not knowing where to start. You’re on the list, fella.

Pictured: The product of a doped up, basement dwelling imagination.