When Michael Johnson set the 200 meter world record in Atlanta in 1996 (running a blazing quick 19.32) track and field gurus said that was a benchmark that would stand for generations. Conventional wisdom had it that anybody alive to have watched that event would go to their graves with the record still intact.

So much for long term prognostications.

Usain Bolt obliterated the field in Beijing. Sprints, especially those involving the most elite athletes in the world, are usually photo finishes. But Bolt was lengths ahead of the second place finisher. To put his feat in perspective, covering the distance he did in the time he ran (especially the back half--the second 100 meters) means he was moving at close to 25 miles per hour. That's nearly top speed for a Yugo.

The frightening this is that he's not yet reached his peak. See you in London, pal.

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That seems to be the premise of a Slate piece today by the insightful Troy Patterson, who argues that, above all else, she has a sense of humor with regard to herself. Witness, as exhibit one, her self-satirization in Borat. All of this may be true, but the line that stopped me short was this one:

This is not a bimbo: Wherever else the woman's tongue may have been, it is often found in her cheek.

It's a swell piece of writing, to be sure. And it also offers a terse summary of his premise. My problem with it are the visuals it conjures. I prefer to live my life without thinking about Tommy Lee or Kid Rock in any circumstances whatsoever (as do, I believe, most sentient human beings). Needless to say, that wasn't possible as I tried to enjoy my first cup of coffee this morning, while reading this story.

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