I don't know Michael Phelps. Apparently he swims.
I don't swim (I imagine this is because I was a fat kid and never wanted to take my shirt off) but I admire those who do. If only this Phelps guy was around when I was a young boy, I might have discovered that exercise is cool, that swimming is a great way to improve muscle tone and cardiovascular health, and that being endorsed by Subway restaurants and Kellog's cereal is a necessary part of living a meaningful life and growing to be a strong, charismatic young man who swims... a lot.
But I'm sure that little boy, who could have gone on to do great things (like swim... a lot), would have been devastated, outraged, and confused by this betrayal (not just betrayal... betrayer is too good a word, reserved only for those who make catty comments about the way other sixteen year-old girls are dressed or are instrumental in handing over the son of God to the Romans). My chances of growing up to swim (... a lot), would have come to an abrupt halt when I learned the most celebrated Olympian since... uh... ... that Michael Phelps (after a photograph of him smoking marijuana had been published in England and crossed the Atlantic faster than... let's say Michael Phelps) admitted to smoking marijuana in the off season in the privacy of some guy's dormroom.
What happens now? I'll tell you what happens, the fictitious little boy (who lived in an alternative past where Michael Phelps would have been his hero but then isn't because everyone started talking about how this swimmer was no longer a role model), who could have been inspired by Michael Phelps winning more necklaces than anyone else, gets to grow up to be some complete waste of a person who does not in fact swim (... a lot).
How could you, Michael?
How could you do something so harmful?
Michael Phelps doesn't care about our children.
Or so I thought.
But here's a shocking statistic. In the year two-thousand-five 3,582 unintentional drownings occurred in this nation's many swimming pools (I have no idea how many souls were claimed by rivers, lakes, and hot tubs) according to a website I found with a picture on its homepage of an attractive interracial couple kayaking.
I spent some time searching for people who died, in that (or any) year, by falling into a giant pile of marijuana (as well as less the less likely scenario in which someone would be unfortunate enough to be near some amount of marijuana that has caught fire and happened to inhale the fumes) and found a staggering no deaths (definitely two, but maybe as much as five, less than the peanut-butter Kellog's had pulled from the market due to a salmonella outbreak sometime before deciding to no longer sponsor the young swimmer).
Let's consider (if only for a second, this sick, twisted, selfish-bastard) Phelps (with his damned celebrity, elitist, "I'm the best swimmer in the world," devil-may-care attitude who thinks it's all right to put things in his own body that are sort of illegal) has caused even one child to throw in the towel (in this case into the pool and subsequently decide not to wade after it but rather allow it to float around for a bit before clogging the filter) and lose hope of one day being freakishly proportioned and unpopular enough to have fifteen hours in a given day with which to spend in the water, instead goes to a party where he's passed a joint, inhales, coughs for a bit, gets to second base with some girl who'd always thought he was kinda funny, and wakes up in the morning feeling like a real champion.
Let's consider the possibility that this child is one of the several thousand who would have died needlessly, at the bottom of a pool, in the safety of their own backyard while their parents whispered petty things about the neighbors' kids, who they're certain are all getting high and throwing Sunday-morning-orgy-brunches.
I'm not suggesting Michael Phelps smoking pot has saved any lives, but I can't bring myself to ignore the numbers.
