I Could Really Use a Locktail.

And finally, after a colorful two weeks in Rio de Janeiro, the Games of the XXXI Olympiad are dust in the wind. Always fun for a fortnight every four years to crank up the Motorola and watch one freakishly athletic body after another perform one freakishly athletic feat after another. Seriously, all I have in common with most Olympians is ear size and a daily need for Spandex.

As you know, these were the first games held in South America; also the first to take place in what many would consider a developing country. Thing is, Brazil is actually a member of a group known as the BRICS (Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa) which are all large, rapidly developing economies and potential future superpowers, and hence aren't considered Third World.

These economically ascending nations unfortunately still harbor Third World poverty. In Rio, 22 percent of its citizens reside in favelas, or shantytowns with improvised sanitation systems and rampant disease—Zika, tuberculosis, Dengue Fever—even leprosy, stalk the 6 million favela occupants in Rio alone. Add in the extraordinarily polluted waters used for sailing, rowing and distance swimming (Glurp! Argh! I swallowed some... glochkghptawwshit!"), and you realize Rio was a hot mess from the get-go.

Nonetheless, I found myself predictably enraptured for sixteen consecutive evenings. I fell into the comfortable habit of enjoying a two-hour, NBC-ified dose of world-class awesomeness from the comfort of the cracked leather davenport.

More often than not, I'd be accompanied by my favorite summertime beverage, a frosty refresher I indelicately refer to as a "Mormosa." It's a tall tumbler filled to the brim with two-thirds seltzer and one-third orange juice, so anyone from Donny Osmond to Mitt Romney to Philo T. Farnsworth, inventor of the television, could sip on one of these beauties without placing at risk the planets they'd been guaranteed to govern upon death.

Now, as I watch these Games slowly recede into the rear horizon, I'm regretful that I didn't take that extra step, exert a bit more creativity into my beverage choices to enhance the Olympic experience. So many opportunities existed that I ignored in favor of the tried and true, so to make up for it, here are some ideas for Olympic-themed drinks:

The USA women's basketball team won their sixth consecutive gold medal, and their Rio performance was akin to a cat slowly removing the legs from a baby mouse (I saw my cat do that once). Winning each game by an average of 37 points, let's celebrate their dominance with what I call a "Brittany Grinder." Take a pound of any type of meat and put it in a blender. When the contents take on the consistency of a pink, gamy pudding, it's ready to throw back. Or up.

I truly wish I'd enjoyed a nice Pilsner, maybe a Stella Artois or Pilsner Urquell, for watching Usain Bolt's hella sick sprinting performances. It's my brother's favorite type of beer and I'm reminded of how much he and Usain have in common—they both wear yellow shirts and finish in well under ten seconds.

On the men's basketball side of the ledger, I watched Team USA play only once, in the final against Serbia. Outside of Kevin Durant, the North Americans played like possum breath and still won by 40 against a gaggle of slow but scrappy, scruffy Slavs. Performances like these call for an IPA—International Players Arekindofshitty.

Swimmer Katie Ledecky dominated her individual events, setting world records in each of her three finals. In the 800 meter freestyle, she won by so much that she could have finished the race, toweled off, hugged her family, bellied up to the concession stand and made it back in time to high five the just-arriving silver medalist. Let's have a large Dr. Pepper and Red Rope in honor of Katie and those hard-working food vendors at the Rio Olympiad.

Finally, I'm sure by now you're a little tired of all the Ryan Lochte drama, so here's a nice little cocktail to nurse while listening to him stammer and lament a situation that didn't have to happen. It's rather simple really. I call it a Lochtea:

Just a fifth of whiskey and a douchebag.

Now I Can't Stop Thinking About Milkshakes.

I chugged on the elliptical trainer this morning, wearing the last clean gym shirt in the rotation. It’s a red, white and blue soccer jersey with “coach” on the back. Not only do I look goofy in it, but how are you supposed to sweat in one of those things? The perspiration on my torso ran around like a champion basketball coach looking for someone to hug.

Thankfully, my shorts performed admirably, soaking up the downward flowing burden of the ugly and nonabsorbent Eurogeek wear.

On the machine next to me was an elderly woman I’d never seen before. I'd entered the Y parking lot this morning just as she climbed out of her Prius. She hadn’t pulled forward far enough into her space, and her car stuck out about six feet into the driving area. By the time I’d gotten out of the minivan, she’d slowly hobbled halfway up the stairs. Thus began my dilemma:

Should I:

A) tell her that her car is sticking out and then watch her gingerly go down the stairs and stagger back to her vehicle, risking a broken hip and ensuing death from pulmonary edema? 

Seemed prickish.

B) ask her for her keys and offer to move her car?

Little too Ted Bundy. And I'll bet she remembers when he was on the loose.

I chose C) do nothing—overwhelmingly the most common answer in these personal character quizzes.

Anyway, back at the elliptical, as usual I was listening to sports radio and a commercial came on for a new beer, “Miller Fortune,” with 6.9 percent alcohol content. It's aimed at Millennials and its slogan is “You might choose a regular beer. But then you might get a regular night. Try Miller Fortune, now with ecstasy.” That third sentence is actually not part of the ad, just a little marketing nugget for the folks at Miller, free of charge.

I started thinking about the barrage of products the fiercely competitive beverage industry has doused us with, finally realizing that since I was old enough to pop the top on a Squirt, I've drizzled nearly every make and model of liquid refreshment down the old gorge. 

As Julio Iglesias once crooned into the craggy glower of Willie Nelson, “Dude, I have loved them all.”

Regrettably, many I’ll never again sample, due either to discontinuation or the clammy, Schick-Shadle-type aversion I've acquired for them over the years. 

Among the drinks I've grown to abhor are:

The Graveyard—Next time you’re at Shakey’s, take a pitcher over to the pop machine and mix together Sprite, Coke, root beer and orange pop. You’ll realize how they came up with Mr. Pibb and then you'll get a scorching gut ache.

California Cooler—Remember the two-liter bottles filled with bright orange and red and purple poison? The neon glow of your lips and tongue betrayed your toxic choice for the evening.

Shasta Chocolate Soda—Around for just a couple shallow gags back in the Seventies. No big mystery, though, since it tasted of fizzy pork bullion.

Budweiser or Bud Light or Bud with Lime or even “Meat Bud,” a satisfying Pilsner with a hearty slab of jerky cleverly attached to the can—Nothing personal against Anheuser Busch; actually it’s quite personal. Let’s just say Bud's products tend to launch a blitzkrieg on my lower intestinal London.

Still reading? Thanks.

Finally, Olde English 800—As if the “e” on the end of “old” makes this swill any more chokedownable. This beverage, when fresh from the frosty confines of the AM/PM cooler, is tolerable at best. But that last tepid half-inch of a forty is like sucking on Tuesday's roadkill through a green Starbucks straw.

Gross, sorry. I don’t want to end on a down note, so here’s a quick list of my five favorite drinks:

Chocolate malt

IPA

Jamba Juice Orange Dream Machine

Coppola Merlot

Mug Root beer float 

Looks like I’ve got my lunches lined up for next week.