ArcaMax

For Americans of my generation, the Olympics have been miserable since the Soviet Union fell apart.

Back there in the land of the rotary phone, all good Americans wanted to see the United States win more medals than the Communists. It was fun, but it was serious. It was prideful. It was James Bond taking on Soviet evil. It was an ancient-looking John Wayne expecting us to believe that he was young enough to play a soldier fighting in Vietnam. Hell, Elvis wasn't even dead yet.

It was also before you could ask the Olympic people to put an event into the Olympics, and they would.

Rhythmic gymnastics. Beach volleyball. Truth or dare. Rock-paper-scissors. Everything either is, or may soon become, an Olympic event.

There are shooting events in the Olympics, too, a laughable notion in America. We see an Olympian shooting a shotgun at a mechanically-launched clay pigeon, we say, "What the hell! You wanna use a shotgun, you put it right up against the store owner's belly. He'll give up the money."

Have they considered "drive-by shooting" as an event?

"The white Mercedes is rounding the corner, slowing nicely," the play-by-play man says. "The rear tinted window is rolling down.

"Little Wiggy opens fire on the target and, yes, it looks like he hit that 17-year-old gang member square in the head.

"If that isn't a perfect 10, I don't know what is," the play-by-play guy screams, as the victim does a perfect, head-first dive into the gutter.

Too crude? Nah. The ancient Greeks started the Olympics. They competed naked, and all they did was wrestle, box, throw heavy objects and run until they died. No ancient Greek worth his olives was puttin' on a cup and playing hopscotch. The naked athletes would just laugh at him, and maybe make him wrestle in high heels, which probably happened during practice anyway.

Faced with a dining table lined with drag queens, those ancient athletes would have swaggered over, naked, and asked one of the drag queens out for a drink.

"Hey, you! The one with the blue hair! What are you doing after the Last Supper/Bacchanal/ Thanksgiving Dinner gig?

"You wanna go somewhere quiet? I'm already naked."

Yeah. People paired off easy then, none of this "what are our wedding colors?" nonsense. You were gonna die at 50 anyway, so you might as well start trading lice with the first partner you could find.

And it worked. Drag queens should marry early. If they don't, they just get a lot of cats, and boom! there's no more democracy in Athens, and someone has to dye his hair orange and Make Athens Great Again.

The hair color is key, by the way. Blue hair means you're a drag queen. Orange hair means you're the leader of the Free World, the standard-bearer of Christianity and a stable genius who would never trade lice with a porn star.

Is this history? Nah. I made it up.

The best kind of history is the kind you make up yourself. It always proves your point, and your side always wins.

To find out more about Marc Dion, and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, a collection of his best columns, is called "Mean Old Liberal." It is available in paperback from Amazon.com and for Nook, Kindle, and iBooks.