Oh, hey there. Didn’t see you. Sorry, I was sleeping. And before that I was awake and not giving a crap about you or anyone else. Maybe you know me. My name is Boomer Phelps.
What’s that? Just kidding. I don’t care. Yeah, I’m at the Olympics. Pops is doing his thing, as he does. You’re probably wondering how I got that sick death glare, on view in the photo above. Because you’re an idiot. I obviously got it from this guy, otherwise known as Dad.
All week, people have been trying to pretend that I’m cool with them. The selfies are constant, and look, I get it. I understand why. There are a lot of people at these here Olympic Games, but few, if any, care less than me. And that impresses people, I know. I know that. So yeah, I’ll snap a pic or two in the stands, but don’t pretend we’re actually cool. We’re not.
I’ll admit, I’m younger than most people out here. Smaller, too. But listen, that doesn’t mean you can emasculate me. I’m still a man, aren’t I? The answer is yes. So do me one small favor: When I go to give you a pound, give me a pound. Don’t just grab my adorably small hands and act like I’m lesser than.
Now I know what you’re thinking: “Where did he get all his swagger from?” Yeah, I get that a lot. A whole lot. And I can’t really give you a straight answer to be perfectly honest. I could say it’s my impossibly clean shirts. Or my dope noise-canceling headphones (I’m rocking Future for those wondering). But nah, swagger isn’t derived from what you wear. It comes from within. Some people have it. Some people don’t. I’m in the former camp. You’re in the latter.
So if you see me in the coming days, yeah, you can come through. Say what’s up. Say hi. Whatever. I love my fans, and I’m here for you. All I ask is that when I’m snoozing, you give me my space. That’s my me time, you know? Boomer time, as I call it. And that’s what’s up.
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