He's a merman, he doesn't need your voice
So, last April, I was both delighted and a trifle bemused by the sport of swimming getting its sparkly gay on.
I am thankful to know that they continue this grand tradition, because Michael Phelps dressed up like a mermaid for the Annie Leibovitz Disney portrait series. No, seriously. (And yes, I say mermaid, not merman. If you're going to put on a big sparkly tail, I get to call you a mermaid.) Originally, I found the links and pictures on Towleroad, but asouthernthing has much better quality pictures up here. You can also read Annie Leibovitz gushing over the experience here. She keeps using the word beautiful.
"Yes, Julianne has a big mermaid tail; it's interesting," Leibovitz recalled from the shoot. "Michael, too. His movements were so graceful and beautiful you just felt like you were watching a real merman."
Leibovitz worked her mastery on soundstages on both coasts. Fitted in his silvery fishtail, Phelps was lowered into a backlot tank in Los Angeles used for underwater movie scenes. Leibovitz was on the outside, snapping away, communicating her instructions to Phelps via members of her crew.
"One of the most complicated shots I have ever done," said Leibovitz. "I didn't know if it was going to work, what to expect. I have to tell you, he was beautiful. Michael put on that tail and ... he just became like a modern dancer. He just took to it and enjoyed himself and swam through this tank. I was blown away."
"It was kind of weird to be able to put on a tail and swim around in a tank," Phelps admitted. "To work with Annie and try these crazy sorts of ideas is really an honor and something I won't forget."
A host of swimming stars, past and present, joined Phelps in the water and final image: Janet Evans, Rowdy Gaines, Brendan Hansen and Cullen Jones.
Dear Michael, Brendan, and Cullen,
GAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY.
Also, thank you. You guys rock.
Sincerely,
Thorne
I have to confess, the reason this delights me so much is that for the past month or so, I've covertly been writing something to amuse twigcollins, occasionally known as "the untitled scaly dick project". I'm still not sure how it happened, honestly; there was this one night where we were talking about seahorses or something, and one thing led to another, and somehow I started showing her pictures of Michael Phelps in his Speedo Fastskin suit, and the next thing I know, I've promised her an epic story of swimming RPF mpreg. I don't get it either. Witness my shame beneath the cut.
***
When Michael woke up with scales growing on his dick, he immediately figured he was going to have the worst day of his life.
And that was before he found out that he might be pregnant.
***
"What do you mean, scales?" Ian said through the phone.
"What the fuck do you mean, 'what do I mean?' I mean I have scales growing on my dick! Didn't you hear me the first time?"
"I really wish I hadn't," Ian muttered, and all Michael wanted was for the world would catch up with Star Trek technology so he could beam himself to Texas and punch Ian right in his stupid face. "Anyway, maybe you should see a doctor."
"Are you fucking insane? I can't go to a doctor!"
Ian yawned. "Well, I dunno. I think it makes sense. I'd see a doctor if I had stuff growing on my junk. I mean, what if it spreads?"
"It's not going to spread," Michael muttered, directing the words to his crotch as well as the phone. "It's not."
"Okay, then I'd tell your coach."
"I can't tell Bob. He'll think I'm drunk or high or something, and then he'll give me, like, a talk."
Ian was quiet.
"I can hear what you're thinking, and also, fuck you," Michael snapped.
"Hey," Ian said. "You were the one who called me at 4:17 in the morning to scream about how you've got some kind of aquatic STD, without sending a picture or saying anything except 'fuck' for the first five minutes, and I'm just supposed to-- look, I don't even know what I'm supposed to do."
"It's not an STD!"
Michael looked down at his dick for what was probably the five hundredth time in the last twenty minutes, and gingerly poked it with one finger. He thought about what Ian said about spreading, and grabbed for the pump bottle of alcohol-based hand sanitizer on his desk. He squeezed about half the bottle on his hand; it dripped off his fingers in globs, too much to evaporate.
Anyway, Ian had never had a Talk from Bob, let alone one that had anything to do with dicks. Talks With Bob usually deserved capital letters, sort of like The Duel in the Pool, only the Talk outcomes were usually a lot more humiliating. Bob had cornered him after practice when he was thirteen and gave him the Sex Talk; unable to escape, Michael had tried to drown himself in two feet of water after the third time Bob had said 'scrotum'. He'd gotten it twice when he was fifteen in Sydney: right before the Games when Bob was sure he was going to be ritually deflowered by hot foreign women, and then a slightly revised version of it five days later, after Bob caught him giving Aaron a blowjob.
There'd been one in Athens too, although that time Bob had paid Lenny to do it, which was somehow even worse. Lenny used props.
"Seriously, what would you do if this was you?" he asked Ian, flopping backwards onto his bed. "Besides telling people who I can't tell."
"No doctor and no coach. Huh." There was a pause, and then he could almost hear Ian's shrug through the phone. "I'd probably show Aaron," Ian said. "As long he promised not to put it on youtube afterwards. Seems like the kind of thing he'd get a kick out of."
"You're no fucking help."
"Yeah, why did you call me?" Ian asked.
"Don't tell Aaron about this or I swear I'll kill you," Michael said, and hung up.
After forty-two seconds, he called Ian again.
"Seriously," he said.
"Call your agent," Ian said. "Peter Carlisle gets paid for a reason."
"Yeah, right. Don't tell Aaron, I mean it," he said and hung up again.
Ian called him back two minutes and thirty-seven seconds later.
"Shouldn't you call--" he began to ask, and Michael said "No," and hung up and stuffed his Blackberry under Herman's doggie bed for good measure.
***
To cap that off, observe the power of Photoshop and magically disappearing wangs. Man, you'd think someone would have taught that boy by now to tuck down, not up.
Anyway, after all the mermaid excitement, I went and caught up on about three months worth of swimming news. Michael Phelps is moving back to Maryland, doing his weirdly cute stalker thing again, trying to get Ian Thorpe out of retirement, striking sexy poses, and cannot drive stick. (Oh, the puns I am discarding.)
Meanwhile, Ian Thorpe managed to upstage that when he accidentally put out the Olympic Torch. Way to go, champ!
Finally, I had a long conversation with kadrin about swimmers. The problem with trying to reproduce these conversations is that I'm sure they make no sense to anyone else and they always devolve into all-caps shouting.
ThorneScratch: I dreamed I was helping Ian Crocker, the Olympic swimmer, carry his groceries home, and he had bought the three bags of chips. In the dream, I meant to go back to the grocery story; when I woke up, I was momentarily disappointed because I knew I had no chips.
KadrinHeroSchool: You should call him up right now. "Crocker, where are my chips?"
ThorneScratch: I totally should. I mean, Olympic appetite aside, he couldn't have needed all three bags. He could have spared me one! What a selfish bastard.
KadrinHeroSchool: Absolutely! Well, maybe one was for Michael Phelps and one was for Ian Thorpe.
ThorneScratch: That would have been nice of him. I would feel a little more kindly towards him. Still, they didn't carry the groceries for him, and I did. I deserve those chips more.
***
KadrinHeroSchool: …now look what you made me do, Thorne, I'm being attacked by a flatland prowler.
ThorneScratch: Patrick, it is not my fault every time you get attacked by a flatland prowler.
KadrinHeroSchool: THIS ONE SHOUTED "THORNE AND QUEEN BEATRIX OF THE NETHERLANDS SEND THEIR REGARDS".
ThorneScratch: DAMN THAT BEATRIX, SHE NEVER LETS ME KNOW WHEN SHE IS SENDING OUT FLATLAND PROWLERS.
KadrinHeroSchool: IT SOUNDS LIKE YOUR UNEASY TRUCE WITH THE NETHERLANDS IS RUNNING INTO DIFFICULTIES; DO YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT?
ThorneScratch: YEAH, IT ALL STARTED WHE I TOLD PIETER VAN DEN HOOGENBAND THAT I THOUGHT HIS NAME WAS WEIRD. HE HIT ME WITH A KICKBOARD, AND THEN IT WAS JUST ON.
KadrinHeroSchool: IT SOUNDS LIKE THEY HAVE THE PROBLEM, NOT YOU. ESPECIALLY THAT VAN DEN HOOGENHOOGENHOOGEN. 'CAUSE, LISTEN, THAT NAME IS FUCKIN' WEIRD.
ThorneScratch: I KNOW, RIGHT? I MEAN, IF YOU REPEAT HIS NAME OFTEN ENOUGH IT NO LONGER SOUNDS LIKE ANYTHING EXCEPT GIBBERISH. WHY DIDN'T HE MAKE HIS SURNAME LESS WEIRD?
KadrinHeroSchool: ...I'LL ADMIT THAT I DON'T MUCH MIND BECAUSE I LIKE SAYING HOOGEN.
ThorneScratch: YEAH, BUT, I MEAN, HE DIDN'T HAVE TO GO TO HITTING. THAT IS THE PART TO WHICH I OBJECT.
KadrinHeroSchool: YES. ADULTS USE THEIR WORDS.
ThorneScratch: PLUS, I MEAN, HIS FULL NAME IS PIETER CORNELIUS MARTJIN VAN DEN HOOGENBAND, SO REALLY, THAT IS WAY MORE NAMES THAN A PERSON NEEDS.
KadrinHeroSchool: REALLY, YOU SHOULD HAVE HIT HIM. AND SAID "NO, YOU'RE DRIVING UNDER THE INFLUENCE - OF BEING A TOO-MANY-NAMED JERK."
ThorneScratch: THAT OR ACCUSED HIM OF BEING GAY FOR MOLEMAN. BUT I WAS TOO BUSY WONDERING WHERE IAN CROCKER HAD TAKEN MY CHIPS.
KadrinHeroSchool: OKAY, WAIT, IN SWIMSLASH FANDOM, WHO IS HOOGENHOOGEN GAY FOR?
ThorneScratch: USUALLY (IN ORDER OF HOW OFTEN IT APPEARS) IAN THORPE, MICHAEL PHELPS, GRANT HACKETT, OR HIS OWN BROTHER, THE WATER POLO PLAYER, WHOSE NAME I CANNOT REMEMBER AT THE MOMENT.
KadrinHeroSchool: MAN, EVERYONE'S GAY FOR THORPE, HE'S LIKE THE ANTI-MOLEMAN.
ThorneScratch: I KNOW, HE'S LIKE THE SWIMMING FANDOM'S BICYCLE; EVERYONE'S HAD A RIDE. I LIKE ANTI-MOLEMAN BETTER THOUGH; I WILL CALL HIM THAT FROM NOW ON.
KadrinHeroSchool: YOU COULD COMBINE THEM. "HE IS THE ANTI-MOLEMAN; THE BICYCLE OF SWIMMING FANDOM."
ThorneScratch: MICHAEL PHELPS WOULD THEN IMMEDIATELY ATTEMPT TO BECOME THE ANTI-MOLEMAN. I THINK IT WOULD ALL END IN HIJINKS.
KadrinHeroSchool: I FEEL IT MEET TO INFORM YOU THAT I AM CURRENTLY PLAYING A TAUREN SHAMAN AND, AS SUCH, AM WILLIAM SHATNER.
THIS SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING YOU MUST WRITE. "ANTIMOLEMAN ADVENTURES, STARRING A BICYCLE."
ThorneScratch: THIS KNOWLEDGE HAS EMBIGGENED MY LIFE SO MUCH.
I.... actually have a quote in a terrible WIP that actually kind of covers that subject. I am a sad person. (But I have an excuse, I am blaming it on Twig because half of it was her idea.)
KadrinHeroSchool: SERIOUSLY. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ouSrpsAHf8
Man, awesome. I approve. I will tell Twig thus when I next see her.
ThorneScratch: ...Wow. Just, wow. Shatner, man. Wow.
(The ironic thing is that I'm pretty sure she couldn't pick Ian Thorpe out of a lineup.)
KadrinHeroSchool: Check out the Mr. T one in the related videos, while you're at it.
(I could, but it's required to be an Australian.)
ThorneScratch: I shall! I see a midget.
(She also mixes up Ian Thorpe and Ian Crocker, which I find hilarious but quite understandable.)
KadrinHeroSchool: That is Verne Troyer, naturally.
(I probably would too, but only in believing that they are both Ian Thorpe and, indeed, that all swimmers, people named Ian, people named Thorpe, and tall people are Ian Thorpe.)
ThorneScratch: Yeah, he is a fairly recognizable Famous Midget. I can recognize only a handful of midgets, but he is one of them.
(Maybe we should just lobby to have everyone in the world renamed as Ian Thorpe. It might solve a lot of problems.)
KadrinHeroSchool: All midgets are Verne Troyer, I presume.
(It would be like the Bruce sketch, but with Ian Thorpe and Verne Troyer.)
ThorneScratch: Pretty much. Or they're Kenny Baker.
(Wow. That mental image just... wow. How many Vern Troyers does it take to make an Ian Thorpe, anyway? At least three.)
KadrinHeroSchool: This is how America plans to win the 2008 Beijing swimming events. By stacking three Verne Troyers on top of each other and making them an Ian Thorpe.
ThorneScratch: ...HE KNOWS. QUICK, EVERYONE, TAKE YOUR SUICIDE PILLS!
You don't really need to read the conversation. Basically, it can be summed up thusly: Pieter van den Hoogenband has a fuckload of names, Ian Thorpe is tall, everyone is gay for Ian Thorpe, Michael Phelps can't decide whether he is gay for Ian Thorpe or just wants to be Ian Thorpe, and Ian Crocker should share his goddamn chips more often. Also there's a bunch of Simpsons references, and some stuff about midgets and William Shatner.
I am thankful to know that they continue this grand tradition, because Michael Phelps dressed up like a mermaid for the Annie Leibovitz Disney portrait series. No, seriously. (And yes, I say mermaid, not merman. If you're going to put on a big sparkly tail, I get to call you a mermaid.) Originally, I found the links and pictures on Towleroad, but asouthernthing has much better quality pictures up here. You can also read Annie Leibovitz gushing over the experience here. She keeps using the word beautiful.
"Yes, Julianne has a big mermaid tail; it's interesting," Leibovitz recalled from the shoot. "Michael, too. His movements were so graceful and beautiful you just felt like you were watching a real merman."
Leibovitz worked her mastery on soundstages on both coasts. Fitted in his silvery fishtail, Phelps was lowered into a backlot tank in Los Angeles used for underwater movie scenes. Leibovitz was on the outside, snapping away, communicating her instructions to Phelps via members of her crew.
"One of the most complicated shots I have ever done," said Leibovitz. "I didn't know if it was going to work, what to expect. I have to tell you, he was beautiful. Michael put on that tail and ... he just became like a modern dancer. He just took to it and enjoyed himself and swam through this tank. I was blown away."
"It was kind of weird to be able to put on a tail and swim around in a tank," Phelps admitted. "To work with Annie and try these crazy sorts of ideas is really an honor and something I won't forget."
A host of swimming stars, past and present, joined Phelps in the water and final image: Janet Evans, Rowdy Gaines, Brendan Hansen and Cullen Jones.
Dear Michael, Brendan, and Cullen,
GAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY.
Also, thank you. You guys rock.
Sincerely,
Thorne
I have to confess, the reason this delights me so much is that for the past month or so, I've covertly been writing something to amuse twigcollins, occasionally known as "the untitled scaly dick project". I'm still not sure how it happened, honestly; there was this one night where we were talking about seahorses or something, and one thing led to another, and somehow I started showing her pictures of Michael Phelps in his Speedo Fastskin suit, and the next thing I know, I've promised her an epic story of swimming RPF mpreg. I don't get it either. Witness my shame beneath the cut.
***
When Michael woke up with scales growing on his dick, he immediately figured he was going to have the worst day of his life.
And that was before he found out that he might be pregnant.
***
"What do you mean, scales?" Ian said through the phone.
"What the fuck do you mean, 'what do I mean?' I mean I have scales growing on my dick! Didn't you hear me the first time?"
"I really wish I hadn't," Ian muttered, and all Michael wanted was for the world would catch up with Star Trek technology so he could beam himself to Texas and punch Ian right in his stupid face. "Anyway, maybe you should see a doctor."
"Are you fucking insane? I can't go to a doctor!"
Ian yawned. "Well, I dunno. I think it makes sense. I'd see a doctor if I had stuff growing on my junk. I mean, what if it spreads?"
"It's not going to spread," Michael muttered, directing the words to his crotch as well as the phone. "It's not."
"Okay, then I'd tell your coach."
"I can't tell Bob. He'll think I'm drunk or high or something, and then he'll give me, like, a talk."
Ian was quiet.
"I can hear what you're thinking, and also, fuck you," Michael snapped.
"Hey," Ian said. "You were the one who called me at 4:17 in the morning to scream about how you've got some kind of aquatic STD, without sending a picture or saying anything except 'fuck' for the first five minutes, and I'm just supposed to-- look, I don't even know what I'm supposed to do."
"It's not an STD!"
Michael looked down at his dick for what was probably the five hundredth time in the last twenty minutes, and gingerly poked it with one finger. He thought about what Ian said about spreading, and grabbed for the pump bottle of alcohol-based hand sanitizer on his desk. He squeezed about half the bottle on his hand; it dripped off his fingers in globs, too much to evaporate.
Anyway, Ian had never had a Talk from Bob, let alone one that had anything to do with dicks. Talks With Bob usually deserved capital letters, sort of like The Duel in the Pool, only the Talk outcomes were usually a lot more humiliating. Bob had cornered him after practice when he was thirteen and gave him the Sex Talk; unable to escape, Michael had tried to drown himself in two feet of water after the third time Bob had said 'scrotum'. He'd gotten it twice when he was fifteen in Sydney: right before the Games when Bob was sure he was going to be ritually deflowered by hot foreign women, and then a slightly revised version of it five days later, after Bob caught him giving Aaron a blowjob.
There'd been one in Athens too, although that time Bob had paid Lenny to do it, which was somehow even worse. Lenny used props.
"Seriously, what would you do if this was you?" he asked Ian, flopping backwards onto his bed. "Besides telling people who I can't tell."
"No doctor and no coach. Huh." There was a pause, and then he could almost hear Ian's shrug through the phone. "I'd probably show Aaron," Ian said. "As long he promised not to put it on youtube afterwards. Seems like the kind of thing he'd get a kick out of."
"You're no fucking help."
"Yeah, why did you call me?" Ian asked.
"Don't tell Aaron about this or I swear I'll kill you," Michael said, and hung up.
After forty-two seconds, he called Ian again.
"Seriously," he said.
"Call your agent," Ian said. "Peter Carlisle gets paid for a reason."
"Yeah, right. Don't tell Aaron, I mean it," he said and hung up again.
Ian called him back two minutes and thirty-seven seconds later.
"Shouldn't you call--" he began to ask, and Michael said "No," and hung up and stuffed his Blackberry under Herman's doggie bed for good measure.
***
To cap that off, observe the power of Photoshop and magically disappearing wangs. Man, you'd think someone would have taught that boy by now to tuck down, not up.
Anyway, after all the mermaid excitement, I went and caught up on about three months worth of swimming news. Michael Phelps is moving back to Maryland, doing his weirdly cute stalker thing again, trying to get Ian Thorpe out of retirement, striking sexy poses, and cannot drive stick. (Oh, the puns I am discarding.)
Meanwhile, Ian Thorpe managed to upstage that when he accidentally put out the Olympic Torch. Way to go, champ!
Finally, I had a long conversation with kadrin about swimmers. The problem with trying to reproduce these conversations is that I'm sure they make no sense to anyone else and they always devolve into all-caps shouting.
ThorneScratch: I dreamed I was helping Ian Crocker, the Olympic swimmer, carry his groceries home, and he had bought the three bags of chips. In the dream, I meant to go back to the grocery story; when I woke up, I was momentarily disappointed because I knew I had no chips.
KadrinHeroSchool: You should call him up right now. "Crocker, where are my chips?"
ThorneScratch: I totally should. I mean, Olympic appetite aside, he couldn't have needed all three bags. He could have spared me one! What a selfish bastard.
KadrinHeroSchool: Absolutely! Well, maybe one was for Michael Phelps and one was for Ian Thorpe.
ThorneScratch: That would have been nice of him. I would feel a little more kindly towards him. Still, they didn't carry the groceries for him, and I did. I deserve those chips more.
***
KadrinHeroSchool: …now look what you made me do, Thorne, I'm being attacked by a flatland prowler.
ThorneScratch: Patrick, it is not my fault every time you get attacked by a flatland prowler.
KadrinHeroSchool: THIS ONE SHOUTED "THORNE AND QUEEN BEATRIX OF THE NETHERLANDS SEND THEIR REGARDS".
ThorneScratch: DAMN THAT BEATRIX, SHE NEVER LETS ME KNOW WHEN SHE IS SENDING OUT FLATLAND PROWLERS.
KadrinHeroSchool: IT SOUNDS LIKE YOUR UNEASY TRUCE WITH THE NETHERLANDS IS RUNNING INTO DIFFICULTIES; DO YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT?
ThorneScratch: YEAH, IT ALL STARTED WHE I TOLD PIETER VAN DEN HOOGENBAND THAT I THOUGHT HIS NAME WAS WEIRD. HE HIT ME WITH A KICKBOARD, AND THEN IT WAS JUST ON.
KadrinHeroSchool: IT SOUNDS LIKE THEY HAVE THE PROBLEM, NOT YOU. ESPECIALLY THAT VAN DEN HOOGENHOOGENHOOGEN. 'CAUSE, LISTEN, THAT NAME IS FUCKIN' WEIRD.
ThorneScratch: I KNOW, RIGHT? I MEAN, IF YOU REPEAT HIS NAME OFTEN ENOUGH IT NO LONGER SOUNDS LIKE ANYTHING EXCEPT GIBBERISH. WHY DIDN'T HE MAKE HIS SURNAME LESS WEIRD?
KadrinHeroSchool: ...I'LL ADMIT THAT I DON'T MUCH MIND BECAUSE I LIKE SAYING HOOGEN.
ThorneScratch: YEAH, BUT, I MEAN, HE DIDN'T HAVE TO GO TO HITTING. THAT IS THE PART TO WHICH I OBJECT.
KadrinHeroSchool: YES. ADULTS USE THEIR WORDS.
ThorneScratch: PLUS, I MEAN, HIS FULL NAME IS PIETER CORNELIUS MARTJIN VAN DEN HOOGENBAND, SO REALLY, THAT IS WAY MORE NAMES THAN A PERSON NEEDS.
KadrinHeroSchool: REALLY, YOU SHOULD HAVE HIT HIM. AND SAID "NO, YOU'RE DRIVING UNDER THE INFLUENCE - OF BEING A TOO-MANY-NAMED JERK."
ThorneScratch: THAT OR ACCUSED HIM OF BEING GAY FOR MOLEMAN. BUT I WAS TOO BUSY WONDERING WHERE IAN CROCKER HAD TAKEN MY CHIPS.
KadrinHeroSchool: OKAY, WAIT, IN SWIMSLASH FANDOM, WHO IS HOOGENHOOGEN GAY FOR?
ThorneScratch: USUALLY (IN ORDER OF HOW OFTEN IT APPEARS) IAN THORPE, MICHAEL PHELPS, GRANT HACKETT, OR HIS OWN BROTHER, THE WATER POLO PLAYER, WHOSE NAME I CANNOT REMEMBER AT THE MOMENT.
KadrinHeroSchool: MAN, EVERYONE'S GAY FOR THORPE, HE'S LIKE THE ANTI-MOLEMAN.
ThorneScratch: I KNOW, HE'S LIKE THE SWIMMING FANDOM'S BICYCLE; EVERYONE'S HAD A RIDE. I LIKE ANTI-MOLEMAN BETTER THOUGH; I WILL CALL HIM THAT FROM NOW ON.
KadrinHeroSchool: YOU COULD COMBINE THEM. "HE IS THE ANTI-MOLEMAN; THE BICYCLE OF SWIMMING FANDOM."
ThorneScratch: MICHAEL PHELPS WOULD THEN IMMEDIATELY ATTEMPT TO BECOME THE ANTI-MOLEMAN. I THINK IT WOULD ALL END IN HIJINKS.
KadrinHeroSchool: I FEEL IT MEET TO INFORM YOU THAT I AM CURRENTLY PLAYING A TAUREN SHAMAN AND, AS SUCH, AM WILLIAM SHATNER.
THIS SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING YOU MUST WRITE. "ANTIMOLEMAN ADVENTURES, STARRING A BICYCLE."
ThorneScratch: THIS KNOWLEDGE HAS EMBIGGENED MY LIFE SO MUCH.
I.... actually have a quote in a terrible WIP that actually kind of covers that subject. I am a sad person. (But I have an excuse, I am blaming it on Twig because half of it was her idea.)
KadrinHeroSchool: SERIOUSLY. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ouSrpsAHf8
Man, awesome. I approve. I will tell Twig thus when I next see her.
ThorneScratch: ...Wow. Just, wow. Shatner, man. Wow.
(The ironic thing is that I'm pretty sure she couldn't pick Ian Thorpe out of a lineup.)
KadrinHeroSchool: Check out the Mr. T one in the related videos, while you're at it.
(I could, but it's required to be an Australian.)
ThorneScratch: I shall! I see a midget.
(She also mixes up Ian Thorpe and Ian Crocker, which I find hilarious but quite understandable.)
KadrinHeroSchool: That is Verne Troyer, naturally.
(I probably would too, but only in believing that they are both Ian Thorpe and, indeed, that all swimmers, people named Ian, people named Thorpe, and tall people are Ian Thorpe.)
ThorneScratch: Yeah, he is a fairly recognizable Famous Midget. I can recognize only a handful of midgets, but he is one of them.
(Maybe we should just lobby to have everyone in the world renamed as Ian Thorpe. It might solve a lot of problems.)
KadrinHeroSchool: All midgets are Verne Troyer, I presume.
(It would be like the Bruce sketch, but with Ian Thorpe and Verne Troyer.)
ThorneScratch: Pretty much. Or they're Kenny Baker.
(Wow. That mental image just... wow. How many Vern Troyers does it take to make an Ian Thorpe, anyway? At least three.)
KadrinHeroSchool: This is how America plans to win the 2008 Beijing swimming events. By stacking three Verne Troyers on top of each other and making them an Ian Thorpe.
ThorneScratch: ...HE KNOWS. QUICK, EVERYONE, TAKE YOUR SUICIDE PILLS!
You don't really need to read the conversation. Basically, it can be summed up thusly: Pieter van den Hoogenband has a fuckload of names, Ian Thorpe is tall, everyone is gay for Ian Thorpe, Michael Phelps can't decide whether he is gay for Ian Thorpe or just wants to be Ian Thorpe, and Ian Crocker should share his goddamn chips more often. Also there's a bunch of Simpsons references, and some stuff about midgets and William Shatner.