So I’m falling, and for the first time in years, I could use a sweater. As I’m falling I’m not only getting colder, but younger. I guess this is what happens when you die – your life flashes before your eyes. But I’m not so sure I’m dying. For all I know, I could  just be falling.

Without warning, the flashes return. I see quick successive images of the future, which could really be from the past – but since I’m falling downward and forward, it somehow seems to make sense. Even though it doesn’t.

I’m continuing to fall. This is starting to get ridiculous I think to myself. Even the butterflies are less dramatic and flappy. But as I continue to fall deeper into who knows what, I notice something in the corner of my eye. Gloves. Gloves? A pair of Olympic gloves with the maple leaf on them. I manage to put them on. Luckily for me, they fit like a pun.

I flash ahead (or is it behind) to when the gloved hand came out of my toilet. The hand I grabbed. I was trying to figure out what it all meant when I suddenly land unexpectedly in a pool of water. Pool is me being polite. This water is more like a sewer, filled with piss and poop and puke. I see a light above (or was it under). With my gloved hand, I reach for the light. I’m getting closer and the light is shining brighter. Then the light blinds me. I reach out further and feel something oddly familiar. It’s my naked hand coming from the toilet. My 1992 hand meeting my gloved hand from I’m not sure when.

I feel the pull. I feel the push. I’m embracing myself while fighting off myself.

The moral of this post? I found my doppelganger.

Al and I ran toward the crack in the ice. No sign of Tonya Harding. She must’ve fell in or jumped in or clubbed her way in with a back metal pipe or something.

Tired of being in hell and tired of being hot and tired of listening to the 2058 Winter Olympics from Iceland over loud crackling AM speakers and tired of drinking flat tepid tonic water and tired of seeing nothing but Weird Al videos and tired of not being able to tell day and night apart because hell always looks like one big orange flaming fire of hellishness, I decided to take the plunge into the crack in the ice.

When in Rome do as Tanya Harding does, is what I like to say.

The feeling of falling was immediate. The cold hit me fast. I heard Weird Al from above saying beat it and I replied don’t you mean eat it and I heard Al say good one. I was falling. And fast. I was cold. And nipply. Where would I land? Or better still, when would I land? Did it matter? Where was Tonya Harding?

The moral of this post? Weird Al is not leaving hell anytime soon. He likes the music there.

The ‘84 Winter Olympics in Sarajevo are in full swing and although Canada is playing Sweden in hockey, I’m going to take a patriotic break from reality and, instead, I’m going to cheer and applaud parody – that’s right, I’m off to the Weird Al Yankovic concert.

No shit.

My friend Mark Smith and I are both going. Neither one of us would admit it, but we both think Weird Al is pretty lame, and the only reason we’re going is to go backstage in the hopes of seeing someone famous. And no, we’re not thinking Weird Al.

Will we sneak in Popeye cigarettes? Non-alcoholic beer? Oregano? A blow up doll to put on our shoulders? Seeing that this is a Weird Al show, we agree to bring all of the above.

Here’s a little sample of what we were, um, treated to.

After the show, we went backstage, like planned. What wasn’t planned was seeing Weird Al feeding grapes to Dorothy Hamill. Both were in skin coloured suits. Al looked fittingly weird. Dorothy looked like something out of Penthouse Letters, only she wasn’t fully naked, and there was no erotic letter to masturbate to.

So I did what any 14 year old boy would do when he sees his dream girl almost naked. I fainted.

The moral of this post? Or maybe I overdosed on oregano?

The year 2058 seems to be a banner year for the Winter Olympics. From hell, we hear the cheerin’ and the jeerin’ of Icelandic fans, hootin’ and hollerin’ and not puttin’ any effort whatsoever at bein’ grammatically correct on how they’re talkin’.

Weird Al and I are less obsessed about the Olympics, as we only get to hear them on the radio. Wherever we walk, I not only hear the Icelandic version of the Olympic Games, but I also hear and see Weird Al videos and songs. I’m talking everywhere. Or, as the Icelandic people would say, I’m talkin’ everywhere.

I won’t subject you to any more, for that would be cruel. But let me just say that hell is long from being aurally pleasurable. And I’m not talking about the lack of Weird Al going down on me. And visually, that’s just not right, either. Nothing with Weird Al ever is.

So Weird Al and I are walking in our high heels (don’t ask, we’re in hell). We’re getting closer and closer to the skater on the ice. When we get to a dozen burning flames away, both our jaws drop. It’s Tonya Harding! And she’s struggling hard on her skates. She sees us. She stares us down. Then she lifts her left hand, high in the air – like I’ve seen Weird Al do so many times here in hell. She points to her wedding finger, and glaring at Weird Al, she slides the wedding ring right off of it. Slides is me being nice, in reality, Tonya Harding struggled with the ring because her fat finger didn’t feel like cooperating.

That’s when, for giggles, I start singing have some more chicken, have some more pie, it doesn’ matter if it’s boiled or fried.

Now Tonya is not only annoyed, but now she’s mad as, well, hell. I turn to see Weird Al and he’s smiling proudly at my homage to him. He’s even holding a lighter in the air, flame lit and all, swaying his body from side to side. I tell him Eat it is not a ballad, Weird Al. He says don’t be such a douche, Pet.

Suddenly, a loud crrrrrrraccckkkkk fills the air. Both Weird Al and I turn our heads. Tonya has taken the ring and has sliced a long line along the ice on which she was skating.

Guess you were right Weird Al, says Tonya, it is a real diamond. Here, she says, tossing the ring to Weird Al. See you on the other side.

Whoooooossshhhhh, and just like that, Tonya disappears through the ice.

I look at Al and say what the fuck. Weird Al doesn’t answer. He’s holding Tonya’s wedding ring, sobbing like only Weird Al can.

The moral of this post? Diamonds cut through ice.

I was watching the ‘84 Winter Olympics from Sarajevo. I was 14 and with my buddy Mark Smith. We were trying our best to be enthusiastic and patriotic but when you watch Finland play Norway and you’re 14, you’d rather go play with something that was made in Taiwan. So we went down to the basement, got the mini sticks out, and turned on the radio.

Yes, the station was Q92. Yes. there was a contest. Yes, we were the correct caller and we guessed Weird Al. And yes, my buddy Mark Smith and I had won backstage passes to meet Weird Al at one of his upcoming shows.

At 14, I couldn’t see flashes into the future. But I thought of Dorothy Hamill, regardless. Little did I know that she too would be backstage with Weird Al. This was getting so good, it was getting bad. Or, as Weird Al would say, even worse.

The moral of this post? “My zippers bust, my buckles break, I’m too much man for you to take.”

It was 1984. Dorothy Hamill had taken a break from the Ice Capades and enjoying a little Dorothy Hamill time. The 84 Winter Olympics from Sarajevo were on TV – and, of all things, figure skating was on. Hamill watched, and relived her Olympic glory from eight years earlier.

In the background, Dorothy had the radio on. She always did. There’s no real reason for it, aside for setting up what was going to happen next. This is what she heard:

Your butt is wide, well mine is too
Just watch your mouth or I’ll sit on you
The word is out, better treat me right
‘Cause I’m the king of cellulite
Ham on, ham on, ham on whole wheat, all right

My zippers bust, my buckles break
I’m too much man for you to take
The pavement cracks when I fall down
I’ve got more chins than Chinatown

Well, I’ve never used a phone booth
And I’ve never seen my toes
When I’m goin’ to the movies
I take up seven rows

Because I’m fat, I’m fat, come on
(Fat, fat, really really fat)
You know I’m fat, I’m fat, you know it
(Fat, fat, really really fat)
You know I’m fat, I’m fat, come on you know
(Fat, fat, really really fat)
Don’tcha call me pudgy, portly or stout
Just now tell me once again who’s fat

After a few more verses and a half dozen choruses, the station disc jokey came on the air to inform his listeners that the 11th caller to correctly identify the artist of the song that was just played, would get to meet that artist backstage at his concert – the following night.

Being a fan of freebies and radio promotions in general, Dorothy picked up the phone. She dialed.

RADIO GUY: Hello Q102, who’s this?
DOROTHY: It’s Dorothy.
RADIO GUY: Where you calling form Dorothy, Kansas?
DOROTHY: Haha.
RADO GUY: Hahahahahahaha!
DOROHTY: Ha.
RADIO GUY: Alright Dorothy, you’re the 11th caller!
DOROTHY: Whoo-hoo.
RADIO GUY: For a backstage pass to his concert, name the artist’s whose song we just played?
DOROTHY: Weird Al Lankovic.
RADIO GUY: Lankovic…close enough, Weird Al Yankovic is the correct answer!
DOROTHY: Sorry, I meant Yankovic, I’m just nervous.
RADIO GUY: Not as nervous as you’ll be backstage with Weird Al!
DOROTHY: Pardon?
RADIO GUY: Just kidding, remain on the line Dorothy and we’re going to get some of your deets okay?
DOROTHY: Okay.
RADIO GUY: You’ve got it locked on QQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQ102, up next a classic from Van Halen, stick around.

The moral of this post? Where was I in all this?

I wake up near the fornt door. The bump on my head is pretty high, putting me over the six foot mark. I see stars and birds but I don’t see any Tonyas or Hardings. What happened to her? Why did she hit me with that black pipe? Is this still 2002?

I look over at the TV which is still on. The broadcasters are talking about Salt Lake, so being the problem solver that I am, I conclude that this was indeed 2002.

I thought I heard the doorbell ring but then figured it was my head that was ringing and not the doorbell. That kind of stuff happens when Tonya Harding hits you over the head with a black pipe. Then I thought I heard a knock at the door, but again, it was my head playing knock knock tricks on me. Then I heard another knock at the door and I said ouch my head, but then I heard the knock again, more pronounced and more manly. I looked through the peephole.

That’s when I woke up. Ouch my head, I thought. But this time, it was real. Tonya Harding was lying next to me smoking a cigarette. Weird Al Yankovic was next to her cutting his painted toenails in the shapes of little aboriginal teepees.

I closed my eyes, hoping it would go away. And when I opened them, it did – it went away.

Guess the flashes had come back.

The moral of this post? I thank God I haven’t seen any flashes of Oprah. Yet.

Al Yankovic was watching his parents’ black and white TV. The 1976 Winter Games were on and Dorothy Hamill was skating wonderfully. Al was 16, watching this, boner and all. His dad hated figure skating and made no attempt to hide his hatred by saying this is for queers before getting up from the couch, walking all of three steps, and flipping the knob right then and there to another channel.

Hey said Al. Hey what said his dad. I was watching that Al said. You were watching a sissy sport that only sissies watch said his dad. You’re 16 Al, shouldn’t you be out drinking with your firends or vandalising the city or something? Why are you so weird Al? I’m gonna call you Weird Al from now on, what do you say about that, hey Weird Al?

Al didn’t answer. He knew what he liked about figure skating. It was the figure part of figure skating. Namely Dorothy Hammil’s figure and that tiny little dress of hers flapping teasingly in the wind. And if watching this made Al feel wired, especially down there, so be it.

That night, as Al closed his eyes and dreamt of double axils and single fannies, he promised himself he would not rest until he had a ring around Dorothy Hammil’s finger. Or at least a parody of Dorothy Hammil’s finger.

The moral of this post? Apparently Mr. Yankovic was right. Al was weird.

The ding dong of the doorbell woke me up. The TV was on and N Synch was playing live at the 2002 Winter Games in Salt Lake City. Apparently, I had a thing for N Synch. And figure skaters. Man, my head hurt and I couldn’t even blame it all on time travel. Unfortunately.

Ding dong ding dong. I got up from the couch and made my way to the door. I said who is it? Nothing. I said who is it? Nothing. I said who is it? Nothing. I said who is it? Nothing. I said I’m persistent. Then a voice on the other side of the door said no shit.

So I swung the door open and took a few steps outside. No one there. I said where are you? Nothing. I said I’m not playing this game again.

I stepped back into the house and shut the door. Hello Sebastien said a blonde woman wearing figure skates. You startled me I said. Sorry she said. Is this Halloween, I said. She said no guess again. I love guessing I said. Okay go on she said. Okay, don’t rush me I said. I’m not she said. Are you Tonya Harding I said? She said yes. I said yippppeeee do I win a toaster. Oh he’s so hot Tonya Harding said, looking at Justin Timberlake on TV. I turn to see him (out of reaction only, not because I’m GAY) and then wham! (not the band), Tonya Harding hits me in the side of the head with some black metal pipe.

Before fully passing out, I mumble that…wasn’t….my…kn-…knees.

The moral of this post? Tonya Harding 2 Nancy Kerrigan and me 0.

In 2002, the winter games were in Salt Lake. This is what I tuned into.

After about 13 seconds, I flipped the channel. This is what I saw.

The moral of this post? A parody within a parody within a parody within a parody after having watched N Synch perform at the 2002 Winter Games makes for an itchy scalp.