The 2012 Olympics are underway in Foggy Londontown, and you know what that means: all the world’s a stage for the Brits to let out all their dark, nasty sexual impulses. You see, behind their accents, which serve as a sort of misdirection for their shitty personalities and delusions of grandeur, there lays a seedy and persistent undercurrent of sexual dysfunction that defines the British Experience. Anything to distract from a London man’s teeth or a Liverpudlian woman’s face, right?
The Official Logo, meant to vibrantly visualize the numbers for ’2012,’ was designed by local brand consultants Wolff Olins. Already by the company’s name, you can tell that at least three hookers die every year at their Christmas Party alone. They were paid 400,000 pounds to make something that looks like an inbred kid who was blinded in a horrible gangbang jizz accident made as Stained Glass Art on MS Paint. Coincidentally, a horrible gangbang jizz accident is usually what British girls want for their Sweet Sixteen. Constant, soul-crushing rain has consequences, folks.
Here it is:
Did they make a logo that makes real artists want to kill themselves? Yes, but they also managed to add a dash of that good ol fashioned Disgusting British Sex Fantasy to boot. A few years ago, when this logo was released, astute observers adjusted the colors to expose the logo for what it really is:
Yeah, that’s Bart Simpson getting his dick sucked by Lisa Simpson, and by the looks of it he’s having a blast (in the back of her throat) because all that saxophone practice paid off. It’s been years since Wolff Olins decided to get their sick cartoon incest jollies off on the world, and nobody in London saw fit to do anything about it.
Because this to them isn’t even softcore, it’s just baseline British fetishism, like sideboob.
Now, when you spend the next few weeks getting drunk like a patriot for the patriots competing on team USA, you’ll have to be bombarded with the depraved sexual impulses the British enjoy just as regularly as tea, shitty weed, and thoughts of suicide. If you’re a whore working the Olympics this year, I hope you have a good therapist or a good heroin dealer (the latter usually doubles as the former, natch), because you’re about to get pushed harder than Michael Phelps by Ryan Lochte.