There is a reason they call them the Games of the XXX Summer Olympiad – and it’s not just because the quadrennial pageant of amateur athleticism began in 1896.

Have you seen the athletes? Have you been paying attention to the uniforms or lack thereof? Now that you’ve seen the synchronized divers clad in their Spandex fig-leaves, are you now feeling insecure about your athletic performance as well as your performance in the bedroom?

Not only are these competitors the pinnacle of athletic achievement, but they also look like supermodels – the men and the women. Whatever happened to Hulga, the East German powerlifter? All the gals used to like her – except for the women’s gymnasts who all looked like Macaulay Culkin. Now they all look like Giselle or Rafaela or whatever one-named wonder graces the sticky pages of your midseason Victoria’s Secret catalog.

Every four years we hear about the athletes’ dedication, their training, their dogged pursuit of the pinnacle of their sport: Their Olympic dreams coming to fruition on a world stage! But these look like Olympic dreams of the wet variety and not just in the Aquatics Centre.

Truly, there’s something for everyone in the Olympic Village – for Pat and for Stacy. Did you see Team Denmark during the Parade of Nations? The IOC ought to send another shipment of condoms into Stratford whenever they’re done competing. Whatever your complaints about NBC’s coverage (and there are too many to list here), the Peacock Network understands the artistic (and economic) reasons for having the U.S. Olympic Men’s Gymnastics Team pose shirtless for their event-promos. I believe the industry term of art for this is, “They know their audience.”

Even the commercials are hot: I’ve stopped the TiVO on more than one occasion for some Fruit of the Loom action. Forget the Green Grapes, the Purple Grapes, the Red Apple and the quirky Leaf – this ain’t no fruit: It’s eye-candy, bitches! If I had known those underpants could make my husband look like that on the monkey bars, I would have saved that $7 I spent on Magic Mike and gone straight to Target instead to buy a three-pack.

It’s not just me: I never knew Pat was this interested in women’s cycling… or women’s swimming… or women’s modern pentathlon… or women’s field hockey… or women’s volleyball. He doesn’t even know how to score volleyball, but his ears perk up when he hears that Destinee Hooker is on the floor.

Let’s pause for a moment and congratulate the University of Texas graduate for rising above her name and killing it on the stage at the XXX Summer Olympics, instead of on the runway at the Spearmint Rhinoceros. As we have been reminded over and over by the blathering broadcast crews and tear-jerker P&G “Thank You, Mom” commercials, Olympic dreams are nurtured by dedicated parents the world over: “Get out of that bathroom this instant – it’s time to go to practice! You’ll go cross-eyed if you keep doing that, and it’s not going to help with your archery scores!”

Prospective parents-to-be (or any of the genetically gifted athletes getting it on in the Olympic Village without one of those omnipresent condoms), please, please, PLEASE consider the future implications of all names with which you propose to saddle your child. Chris Rock says that a father’s primary job is keeping his baby girl off the pole – give her a leg up by following these simple rules:

Avoid all makes and models of automobiles: Lexus, Porsche, Mercedes, Cadillac, Kia… If you can ride in it, you don’t want some sweaty redneck riding on it. Skip all names of animals – especially those of the feline persuasion: Cheetah, Lynx, Sparrow, Jaguar (violates both the cat and car rules), Impala (see Jaguar – and yes, I realize an Impala is a form of antelope. It’s still an animal. Giselle is to Gazelle as Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show is to Little Darling’s Cabaret… same concept, different execution). Eschew all metaphysical, new-age states of being: Aura, Destiny, Epiphany, Infinity (violates both the car and crystal rules), Vortex … and, just because you change the spelling to Infiniti or Destinee, doesn’t change the fact that her destiny will likely include the Mons Venus instead of an Olympic venue.

Destinee Hooker was one of the lucky ones – genetically predisposed to greatness and sadly subject to all sorts of double entendres from the broadcast booth due to an unfortunately ironic naming convention: Destinee Hooker dominates the floor! Destinee Hooker with the deep penetration! Destinee Hooker with the back set!

God bless that poor child: It’s not her fault that her physical climax coincided with the XXX Summer Games. It’s her folks’ fault for not visiting a cabaret to cross-check prospective names before her due-date! (And it’s my fault for taking the cheap laugh… I said “climax.” Heh, heh…)

Now if you’ll excuse me, Chinese trampolinist Dong Dong is about to make his XXX Summer Games debut…