In recent years, I’ve made a sport out of studying celebutards and trying to detect if they’ve had work done. I grimace at Bruce Jenner’s frozen face, even if he can’t. I want to take a pin to Nicole Kidman’s and Meg Ryan’s oft-inflated lips. I can’t look Heidi Montag in the eye. I know my mythology; I might turn to stone.
Enter the Olympics. I’m watching men and women who have transformed their bodies and worked them towards a goal. Such as Bob Costas. Specifically, his face. In looking at the NBC commentator, I’m a little confused about his particular end goal. Is he going for the gold in the Look of Perpetual Surprise Freestyle? Was he replaced with a Madame Tussaud’s wax figure after he was stopped at the border with an expired passport? Did he get a makeover from a Real Housewife? What the hell is going on?
I don’t know, but I do know that he’s a real eyesore. High definition has not been kind to Bob.
If his dark hair wasn’t distracting enough (is it just me, or has his pelt gotten darker every Olympic Games?), he looks as if he’s had an eye lift, some Botox to a forehead that’s now as tight as Johnny Weir’s short program costume, and some sort of peel. I’m afraid that his waxy skin will melt off if he gets too close to the Olympic Torch. Remember Frankenbob: Fire bad.
Not only is this sports commentator out of medal contention, he’s out of his mind. You’re a 57-year-old sportscaster, dude—it’s okay to age gracefully. We’re not looking at you anyway; we’re watching the speedskating gods in their formfitting unitards. In this case, high definition, good.