For me, the return of the Winter Olympics mean one thing, Johnny Weir is back. If you don’t know J-Dubs, he’s basically the John Madden of figure skating, but with much more sass and tighter hips. John Weir is unarguably the best at his job, and when I say job, I mean roasting figure skaters while wearing fabrics and furs I never knew existed. He’s also impressively gay. Like I could carry out a three way relationship with two other men, and still look like Mike Pence if I stood next to him. On top of being an Olympic commentator, he himself was also once a gold medal figure skater, and has also worked in fashion, music, advertising, and charity. All of this adding up to make him the ultimate Gay Swiss Army knife.
So as you can tell, I’m a bit of a John Weir superfan. John Weir is the gay best friend I never had (I think). Both of my dads think its gay that I’m such a big supporter of #Weirsanity, but if respecting John Weir for being at the top of his profession is a homosexual act, then call me, well, John Weir.
John Weir has made me realize that my biggest regret in life so far is playing hockey as a kid instead of figure skating. I was hitting the boards while he was bored of getting hit on. He was getting checked out while I was getting checked. I was cross checking while he was cross dressing. We lived parallel lives and I didn’t even know it. Hockey seemed like the right choice at the time, but if I knew puberty was going to leave dancer legs like mine on my doorstep, I think I would do it differently if I had the chance. (Just kidding, even for my sexually ambiguous online persona, figuring skating is a little too gay).
What I do need is John Weir to commentate Sunday Night Football. I’d much rather him talk about how ugly the Cleveland Brown’s costumes are than hear Chris Colinsworth spew gibberish into a microphone all night. John Weir is Tony Romo with more glitter.
All in all, John Weir can do no wrong (unless he moves to Russia or Malaysia). But until then, we’re here, we’re Weir, get used to it.