So far this blogger has escaped being infected with World-Cup excitement, as befits a true-blue American with three-and-a-half centuries of Yankee forebears. "What", I will remark, "is this poncy trotting around on grass by boys wearing silken panty-shorts?"
It seems like something only a Catholic priest would like.
And in fact there is naught wholesome about the spectacle at all.
Where, I demand to know, are the damned soccer riots?
Spectator violence is the only thing bearable.
About a game likely invented in Greece.
The source of multiple perversions.
On the entirely other hand, I saw approximately ten minutes of Belgium wiping the United States buttocks this past Tuesday. And was mightily impressed. Both sides fought like gentlemen.
Totally unlike every match that bunch of drama-queens from Italy have been involved in. Rolling around on the gras theatrically while screaming "he..., he..., he... HURT ME!" Then flailing arms and weeping.
What a silly Latin exhibit. It was enough to give a man indigestion.
No wonder that spoiled man-bitch (Chuckie Ciellini) got bit.
Luis "The Cannibal" Suarez deserves a medal.
By the way: not that I'm paying any attention at all, but I thoroughly enjoyed the Netherlandish team waltzing all over the Spanish five to one. Handing them their balls on a platter. Stomping them and their hopes into the ground. Wupping Iberian donkey. Rampaging roughly all over the Spanish Exquisition. Killing them, slaughtering them, ripping their eyes out, and utterly and completely defeating them. Spain will never live this down, it will be an eternal shame, they'll weep and soil their dhotis everytime they think of it, their busty love-interests will consider them infertile and testicularly impaired because of it, their mothers will chase them and their viagra-addicted syphilitic paternal elements from the family cave, and banks will refuse to extend loans to them.
Not that I'm paying any attention at all.
What a complete and utter waste of time.
Now ice-skating, that's a real sport!
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For some reason the train had been stalled for a few hours (landslide? Snowdrifts? Trees down across the tracks?) and I ended up pooling cig...
4 comments:
How did the cigar bar react to the US's loss, or if you were not there, where did you see the game?
For what it's worth (and more than the whiny bitch himself deserves), that's Giorgio Chiellini.
I wasn't at the cigar bar at that time, but I shall imagine heartache, despair, and existential angst. Plus weeping, wailing, rending of garments, and gnashing of teeth.
Giorgio = "Chuckie".
Like the daemon doll.
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