It’s almost upon us. Five days from today, the most eagerly-anticipated event in the history of sports will commence. This event is often credited with uniting the whole world in peace and harmony, fueled by a common love for the greatest sport there ever was, the greatest sport there ever will be – The Beautiful Game.
Of course, when I say the “whole world” (don’t give me that confounded look, you imbecile. I speak of the reference in the third sentence of the above paragraph) I mean everyone but the glorious country of the United States of America, aka Uncle Sam, aka I-don’t-give-two-fucks-about-you-if-you-aren’t-a-Caucasian-American. If you are one of those new-age idiots who get distracted by long sentences devoid of grammatical errors, the following pictorial representation will make it simpler for you:
It’s not that they don’t like football – Hell, they absolutely adore it. The problem lies in the fact that this “football” they love isn’t the football WE love. It’s a game that’s mostly played with the hands, helmets, shoulder pads and 24-pack abs, by guys that make Leonidas look like a 12-year old Boy Scout. And did I mention that the “ball” in this game looks like a pig’s bladder on steroids? It even has a white patch on one side where you can see the cut they made to open the bladder up and sewed it back on.
To avoid confusion, and because Americans are too cool to use ANYTHING that’s used anywhere else in the world, they call OUR football, “soccer”. This word is right up there in the ‘Confuse Everyone Else Chart’ with gallons, miles, Farenheit, yards, and such other tosh. The other day, my GPS stopped working in the middle of a drive to an acquaintance’s house, and I was forced to stop and ask a friendly neighborhood gentleman for directions. “Make this left, go straight for a 100 yards, and make a right”, he said. I had no conception of what a yard was. AT ALL. Next thing I know, I’m leaving the beautiful state of Indiana behind, with a sign that said ‘Welcome to Ohio’…