Fear and loathing at the women's beach volleyball

It was a Thursday at the office when I felt the Olympic pull drag me in the direction of the office door. Without a clue as to what I wanted to see, I consulted my attorney. "I advise you to go to see the women's beach volleyball," he said. Then he sighed mournfully. "You do realize I'm forced to come with you."

As we arrived at Chao Yang Park, it was clear this was no ordinary law-enforcement activity. Police swarmed the scene like bees to nectar, looking for the numerous criminals, terrorists, and Tibetans undoubtedly infesting our midst and perpetrating the most heinous crimes as we speak. But we had a dirty little secret of our own. That's right. We had no tickets.

Surreptitiously, we sidled up to people who looked shady enough to possess the contraband we so desperately sought. The guy in the shades and the trenchcoat standing next to the playgound, the nice young lady with the miniskirt, fishnets, and cigarette dangling out of her mouth, the Indian man selling Rolexes for a very good price.

Our intrepid adventure was cut short when a bunch of of brazen bronzed Brazilians walked straight up to us and said point blank "Do you need tickets?" After a few moments of haggling my attorney and I had the contraband, and I turned to find that a cop had been curiously watching the whole sordid affair.

Affecting an air of nonchalance, we strolled toward the gate and past the cop, who seemed as if he were undergoing a deep internal struggle to contain his indifference to our existence. A few minutes later, we were inside the stadium.

As for the actual event itself, I feel it can best be displayed pictorially.