So I admit it: I’ve got world cup fever! Either that or chlamydia. I can’t believe its come to this (the thing about soccer that is) because as an American male, I am preprogrammed to hate futbol. Certainly this year is one of the absurd. Pat Robertson claims to be the new Magnus Von Magnus, Matt Jones claims to be the new Paul Tergat (just google the name and laugh), and the Turkey Hunter claims to watch soccer. I even taped team USA’s match yesterday and went out of my way not to hear the result so that I could watch it last night.
I was a bit dissapointed in the old Red, White, and Blue’s effort yesterday. They got scored on so much they’re up for an AVN award. But, as dissapointing as team USA was, my new found crush that is soccer still thrives. I love a crowd so unruly that should either team win, the stadium may erupt in violence. Watch an international soccer game and tell me with a straight face how crazy the “bluehearts” are. At best, if they were there, they would be used as kindling to firebomb a volkswagen. That, my friends, is team pride.
I do have one serious bone to pick with the soccer players of the World Cup. It has to do with the fact that every time a player is so much as farted on, he falls down clutching his leg, writhing in agony. Hell, yesterday Big Ben took one off the face with a Buick and he would still be listed as probable should the Steelers be scheduled for a game this Sunday. Grow a pair soccer stars! I know you are on the world’s biggest stage and want the dozens of people with televisions back home in your third world country to see you, but come on! If I see one more person leave on a stretcher only to check himself back in before Miguel can set up the wall, I may lose it. Once upon a time you saw a stretcher and you thought Dennis Byrd. Thanks to the world cup, I wonder whether my foreign little friend received a purple nurple or is suffering from split-ends.
That being said, I am addicted to watching the World Cup. And meth. Just kidding.