Packages.

The Olympics the other night was: For the Ladies.

Men’s Synchronized Diving. Men’s Swimming. And, Men’s Gymnastics.

Lots of guys in tight Speedos or, even, shirtless. (For my WeHo friends. Hi, y’all!) You get my point.

I haven’t seen this many packages since last year’s Christmas rush… And, I work for UPS!

(Umm…. No, not really.)

Up until now, I thought the official Olympic bikini waxer had her hands full with the female swimmers and gymnasts and volleyball players. (As far as I can tell, they’re doing a great job… And, I have a Big-Screen Hi-Def TV. That’s something I would notice…)

But, good God! The manscaping required for these male athletes must be a full-time job. I mean, where do you draw the line? Belly-button? Armpit? Mid-thigh? Knee? Calf? Ankle?… Little piggy?

Even Lynn stopped complaining about the skimpy women’s uniforms while watching the guys. (Methinks she likey.)

Double standard? Um… Yeah, still….

But, Dude! You’re not the Maytag repair man. I don’t need to see that much crack unless you’re connecting my fridge’s ice maker. Divers, please, pull your damn shorts up.

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