Michael Phelps, You Are Cordially Invited To A Party...

In my pants. Said party commences immediately, now that you have some time and energy after swimming one of the most grueling programs in the history of the Olympics, winning more gold medals than any Olympian EVER, winning more gold medals in a single Olympics than anyone EVER, and breaking SEVEN world records in the process.

Also encouraged to attend the party in my pants are your eight gold medals, your seven world records, and all of your relay teammates, ESPECIALLY one Mr. Jason Hotass Lezak. You're pretty fucking awesome, Phelps, but we all know this wouldn't have been possible without that other lightning fast hotness.

Required attire: Nothing but swim caps, baby. Actually, Phelps is the only one required to wear the cap. For my own personal reason.

The shindig should look like this, but with less clothing:



Oooooh.

I can't even, like, form a coherent thought when I look at that group of manflesh. I wish there were a way for me to be the meat in that quadruple decker sammich. Perhaps I can work something out with the magic of Photoshop? I dunno.

It's been a long seven days of suspense, people, so let's just sit back and look at that bod, think nasty thoughts, and then look at the bod again:



Speedo, I do believe I owe you some royalties for the appearances these trunks make in my dreams. But just a very small percentage, since they're not on for long.



Oh, to be the person attached to that hand (without the artificial nails, of course). Or even that granola bar. Hell, at this point I'll take what I can get.



Um......

Phelps, I love you so much I don't even care that you cup your left breast during the National Anthem. You know that's not where your heart is, right? Well, you're a superhuman, so perhaps that IS where your heart is located...



Not only is this fine gold medal winning machine an excellent athlete AND easy on the eyes, HE'S ALSO TRYING TO SAVE ELLIS ISLAND:



AAAAAAAND I'M SPENT