Yeah so remember when I had inappropriate cougar feelings about Michael Phelps? Duana almost broke up with me over Michael Phelps. Every morning she’d give me five minutes to giggle and moan. And if it didn’t stop, she’d hang up on me over Skype. Skype hang-ups are rude. Like if the word rude could be a noise, it would be a Skype hang-up.

Well, of course. Duana was right. Was I blinded by the gold medals? The abdominals? The number 8?

Because I don’t even know that person anymore. I don’t even know who I was for a few weeks there in August. Today, looking at him promoting his book… there’s nothing. Not even a fleeting memory. Not even the ghost of a crush.

What there is however is a serious case of UGH. Maybe if he was naked things would be different. But fully clothed, with that punk ass cap, and whatever’s happening with his neck, and even a little bit of beat-me face…my loins are f-cking repelling me. And rebelling against me. As if they refuse to believe me when I tell them they once quivered for him.

Having said that, if he took his clothes off and jumped into the pool, maybe they would change their minds. The loins are fickle.

Michael’s book is called No Limits: The Will to Succeed. Am sure it will be very interesting and informative and inspiring for a new generation of hopeful athletes.

For this generation of gossip lovers however, hopefully it will also include information about the Olympic Village and the sex games going on in tandem with the competition. I’ve heard stories. Seriously, someone should write a book about that.

Photos from and