Buzz.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

It's a funny word, buzz. Especially when you use it to describe an amphetamine-like high. It's one of those onomatopoeic words, like tick-tock, hiss, or bow-wow.

I'm feeling one now. Buzz that is. Electric current. Brain expanding beyond the cranial cavity, out into the ether.

But it's not crack, it's not speed, and it's not even caffeine.

It's not the sex drug, ecstasy, either, which was actually patented way back in the 1920's as an appetite suppressant. I guess that kicking back a hit of ecstasy with a shot or two or 12 shots of tequila and then taking your pants off in the middle of an awards banquet for Title Nine athletes and holding your throbbing member in both hands and bellowing, "Who wants to catch my javelin!" really does melt off the pounds and yeah I'm talking about you Dan John.

But nope, nope, nope, it's none of those. Just test-driving a new Biotest supplement named 11-T. Oh it's not specifically intended to make me buzz, but that's just a pleasant side effect. It's the prize in the Cracker Jack box, at least the prize in the Cracker Jack Box when they were plastic whistles and animals and not just lame rub-on tattoos or stickers.

Damn Cracker Jack people.

But writing while buzzing is a little weird. There's laser-like focus, but it doesn't stay on a particular topic for very long, so rather than fight it, I'm going to ride this bad boy like Coleridge dreaming up the lines to Kubla Khan did a stately pleasure-dome decree during an opium-dream and then struggling to remember them and get them to paper when he woke up, or maybe like Kerouac hyped up on bennies and type, type, typing on a roll of tracing paper for like 3 days straight until he had one long paragraph of a novel.

Oh, I'll write all right, unless I get tempted to turn on those damn Olympics. Sure, I'm a lemming, watching sports I never gave a damn about. Come to think of it, does anybody, or more specifically, any guy, give a damn about the majority of the sports they show on prime time?

I'm entirely convinced Olympic programming is aimed solely at women.

Look at the sports that get primetime coverage:

Swimming. Who the hell watches swimming? You go to any non-Olympic meet and the only people in the stands are the sad sack parents who rue the day they bought junior a tiny little plastic pool and he took to it like a fish, or more accurately, a tiny little human outboard motor.

Synchronized diving. Okay, it can be slightly erotic to see two women in swimsuits diving into the water with perfect synchronicity, their bare backs arched and their firm athletic breasts yearning for the sweet embrace of the water, but that's because it's slightly erotic to see two women doing anything, even shopping, because part of your reptilian brain is thinking, hoping, believing that in-between helping each other slip into their new, brightly colored bras and panties in the dressing room, they're licking and sucking and probing each other with some of the organic vegetables they just picked up from Whole Foods.

Those female divers you just saw? They're in the shower right now, naked, loofahing each other's taut athletic bodies... .

But have you seen synchronized diving with dudes? Jeebus! I don't know anything about the sport, don't wanna know anything about the sport, but it's clear some of these guys, particularly the Eastern European mopes, have been practicing bodybuilding bonsai, depriving themselves from vital nutrients so their muscles and skeleton shrink, all with the goal of making as tiny a splash as possible. And then they shave the hair on their heads, too, presumably with the same goal in mind.

I'm sorry but these dudes look like AIDS patients. Would it kill you to at least get a tan and not remind the world of the Holocaust? And could you butch up the sport a little bit? Because deep down I know the male divers I just saw are in shower right now, naked, loofahing each other's taut athletic bodies... .

Speaking of pools, don't pay 20 bucks to go in the naked pool at the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas. I asked the guy at the entrance if there were naked women in the pool and he said, "Oh yeah," and so I paid my 20 bucks and went in but there weren't any naked women in there, just some chubby ones wearing JC Penney bathing suits who were juiced up on Mojitos, so I walked out and told the guy it was lame and that I'd tell people about how lame it was. So now the prophecy has come true.

Whadda' ya' think of me now, pool guy at the Mirage?

And then there's the endless coverage of gymnastics. You know what gymnastics are? The summer version of figure skating! It'd be one thing if these women didn't look like homunculi, as seeing some tiny flexible elastic hoo-hah flipping over and over and over is worthy entertainment, but homunculi hoo-hah? No way. Give us a break, NBC, and show us a little boxing instead.

And the sappy profiles... my God, does any male in the world care about the alleged adversity some athlete had to endure to get to the Olympics? You know what adversity is? Digging ditches for a living. Working in a cubicle all of your life. Being a lifeguard and sporting a huge, vestigial third nipple that all the children point to and snicker.

Going to the gym to train 8 hours a day while having mom and dad or some sponsor foot the bill is not adversity, regardless of how you had to pick up your chin and keep bravely practicing your synchronized diving with your life partner, Horst, even though your uncle was sucked into a wind turbine on the family farm in Bucharest.

Anyhow, even the website Slate is smarting from the schmaltzy coverage. They've identified 33 syrupy words that NBC has chronically overused, words like adversity, battled, cancer, challenges, courage, cry, death, dedication, determination, dream, emotion, glory, hardship, heart, hero, inspiration, inspire, journey, magic, miracle, mom, overcome, passion, proud, sacrifice, spirit, tears, tragedy, triumph, and rectal fissure.

Okay I made that last one up, but Slate is even giving daily awards for the sappiest line of the day. NBC commentator Al Trautwig was a big wiener the other day when his profile of the women's gymnastics team included the line, "Behind the smiles, they'll never be able to explain the sacrifices made, or adversities overcome."

Jeebus! Please, somebody, have the Romanian women's gymnastics team use this guy's spleen as a vaulting platform.

Hey, if a rogue comet hits the earth during the Olympics, it'll be curtains for human kind because all the women will be wiped out! They'll bear the brunt of the carnage because they'll be upstairs watching swimming coverage on the big plasma screen... all the men will escape horrible deaths because they'll be safely ensconced in the basement watching reruns of Two and a Half Men on the 20-year-old Magnavox.

The house will be burning and the air will be filled with screams of terror, but they won't notice because the picture on the Magnavox will have gone out and they'll be busy thwacking the side of it because the picture went out in the middle of the episode where Charlie Sheen has become "Charlie Waffles" and is using his popularity as a jingles writer for children to pick up moms.

There'll be nothing but men left and the world will turn into a giant OZ with groups of men roaming the countryside committing savage anal rape; that, and thwacking the sides of every television they stumble across to find out how that Two and a Half Men episode turned out.

That's what'll happen unless NBC stops showing swimming and gymnastics and water polo and shit like that.

For some reason, I'm remembering a lot of things while on this supplement buzz... maybe my IQ went up, of course memory doesn't really correlate with IQ. Oddly enough, IQ does correlate with speed in the 35-yard-dash and how long you can stand on one foot. Seriously. Square biz. Nobody knows why.

Of course, high IQ might sometimes be a bad thing. Scientists discovered that smarter flies died sooner than dumb flies. They figured that the increase in neural activity weakened the fly's life-support systems.

I went to my first male-male wedding last week. You know what the most interesting thing about gay weddings is? They're just as mind-numbingly boring as straight weddings, with the notable exception that there aren't any bridesmaids to bone in the hat check room... well, at least not any female bridesmaids to bone in the hatcheck room.

Gay people, just like straight people, also don't know better than to wear dark wool suits during the dog days of summer.

You know why they're called "The dog days of summer"? Most people think it has something to do with that old line about how only dogs and Englishmen don't know enough to come out of the noonday sun, but it actually has to do with Sirius, the Dog Star, which rises in August. Sirius was thought to give off the heat of a second sun, so when it pops up in August, people assumed it was because of Sirius. Hence the dog days.

I do have to say, though, that gay wedding music is a little better. Not once did I hear There Will Be Love or anything by the Carpenters and picking out a wedding gift was a lot easier, too. In fact picking out a wedding present was more like buying a present for your sixteen-year-old brother. The registry was comprised almost entirely of various electronic gear, including the Xbox and the I-Pod, along with DVDs like the blue-ray version of the Star Wars set, some anime stuff, or the HBO John Adams biography.

Hey, did you see that HBO mini-series on John Adams? I couldn't believe that after umpteen perfunctory years of elementary and middle school history classes, I didn't know that John Adams defended the British soldiers involved in the Boston Massacre, nor did I know they were acquitted!

Of course, neither the history books nor HBO mentioned the second President of the United States spent his retirement drinking hard cider and "rejoicing" at how big his manure pile was. Seriously. Some old guys collect stamps or even tinfoil or string, but Adams? Liked to pile up the manure.

Another page of gay wedding presents consisted entirely of camping gear; there wasn't a dust ruffle or monogrammed towel to be found, so if you're a homophobe, take solace in the fact that those gays sure know their wedding presents.

You gotta wonder about the Japanese some times. These are the guys who invented vending machines that distribute soiled panties that you can take home and either use as Dennis Hopper ether masks or make soup with them. And they're the ones who invented underwear that you can wear six days straight by rotating them 120 degrees each day for three days and then turning them inside out and then repeating the underwear carousel thing for another three days.

And then there's the bukkake thing, which is kinda disturbing even for a preternaturally open-minded guy like me. Man, I don't wanna be in the same room with any other erect man, let alone a couple of dozen who are playing glaze waterfall on some poor girl's Krispy Kreme of a doughnut face.

But I gotta admit, I get a little turned on by the Anime thing. You give me a choice between a Red Tube clip of Carmen Luvana being boned by a cabana boy and some saucer-eyed Kilimanjaro breasted Japanese girl trying to bravely swallow some giant gaijin trouser-maguro and I might opt for the Anime. I don't know why. I don't analyze my beastly urges, I just ride them and hold on for dear life.

But lookie-o-lookie, anime has crossed over into real life. Take a look at the pic below:

She's not CGI and she's not a Real Doll; she's a real girl. She's transformed herself into an anime babe through iris-enlarging contact lenses. They come in a rainbow of colors and you can even incorporate stars, hearts, or butterflies on your doll-like eyes.

That's the thing about a living Anime girl...she's got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. Like a doll's eyes. When she comes at ya, doesn't seem to be living... until she bites ya, and those black eyes roll over white and then... and then you hear that terrible high-pitched screamin'. The ocean turns red, and despite all the poundin' and the hollerin', they all come in and they... rip you to pieces.

At least that's what Quint says.

The U.S. is playing Nigeria in women's team table tennis on CNBC right now. Time to go in the basement and wait for the comet.