Previously on “A Quick Word From“…
You vaguely know me. I am a giant yellow cat monkey thing. I’m the official mascot of the 2016 Rio Olympics for God’s sakes. Guys, you know me. You know who I am. What’s my name, huh? Tell me what my name is.
My name is Vinicius. You probably didn’t know that. You know it now. Please don’t forget it. I demand to be remembered. I will not fade into obscurity, goddamn it. I was designed to be memorable, and I will do everything within my power to drill myself into your subconscious.
I understand there’s a new mascot every Olympics, and sometimes there are multiple mascots. Sochi had three. Normally they are very scary, but I’m a friendly cat monkey thing. I’m cute! I’m harmless! Please make me a thing. I want to be a thing, ok? Make me trend. #Vinicius.
Like all Olympics mascots, I have been specifically designed by an advertising agency to be excessively representative of the host country of the Olympics. This could have made me a freak like the Cyclopses from the London Olympics. Do you remember them? Look, here’s a picture of these monsters:
“Oh, yeah,” you think, “I do kind of remember those guys.” That will not be my fate. No, sir, you will learn my name. I will not be a trivia question in four years at a really hard pub crawl. I represent “a mixture of all Brazilian animals,” and my official backstory is that I was born from the joy of Brazilians. That’s goddamn beautiful. Internet, please make a big deal out of me. I’m trying to meme so hard.
Did you forget my name already? Don’t you dare scroll up. Think. Think. Remember me. I am an Olympic mascot. This is what I look like:
I’m named after Brazilian poet and composer Vinicius de Moraes. Do you still not know it? It’s Vinicius. Vinicius. Drill it into your stupid head. VINICIUS. I am on so much merchandise, and I am terrified I am not catching on.
When you watch the Olympics, you think, “Oh look, Ryan Seacrest for some reason.” You know his name. You know so many names. You can now distinguish between two completely different Simones, but you don’t know one single Vinicius?
Every four years you briefly learn the rules of handball. That’s ridiculous. Give me your brain space. Do it.
Leslie Jones doesn’t even know my name. We have probably taken so many photos together. It’s Vinicius. My name is Vinicius.
What do I have to do to get a listicle or whatever? Come on. “15 Times Vinicius Slayed the Olympics” or “8 Times Vinicius Was Us as Hell.” Even just an article or two about “What is that Cat Monkey Thing?” would be enough. I need this.
Why am I not catching on? Am I not doing enough cartwheels? Am I not comically walking around in the background as tired Olympians are interviewed? I tried to give Usain Bolt a stuffed version of myself, but he wouldn’t take it. What do you expect from me? I’ll run the steeplechase. I’ll do it. It’ll be so cute and funny. You have no idea. I’ll push people into the pool. I’ll get mean.
I will punch Bob Costas in the face if you think Twitter would like that.
Who am I kidding? I won’t do anything but wave and slightly dance. It’s so hard to be an Olympics mascot. You have no idea how much pressure is on me to become a part of pop culture. We never do though. I look at the forth place athletes, and I try to hug them. I try to let them know I get it. We will not be remembered, either of us, but maybe that’s ok if we have each other. But when I hug them, they normally push me away because they are sad and tired, and I am a giant furry cat monkey.
Vinicius. My name is Vinicius. You will forget this in an hour.