Thanks to my love, nay, calling, of helping to shape the hearts and minds of today's young people into aerodynamic objects worthy of being dropped off a cliff, I've got oodles of congés payés that I never use.
Lo, verily HR speaketh & demandeth I must useth it or loseth it.
Thus, after today's swanky footsie, internets invisibility for the majority of the next couple of weeks as I plop my posterior on my semi-comfortable couch in order to watch the beautiful game while participating in the ugly one, i.e., boxing up our crap for the Great Migration of 2010.
Be well, all. Except you, Brazil.
Halftime P.S. I miss the first 20 or so minutes on the way to work, and of course the Koreans don't want no freaks, up 1-0, making my Greek "sleeper" more of eleven shambling somnambulists.
Fulltime P.S. Defensive breakdown, it's always the same. I'm havin' a nervous breakdown, drive Athens insane.
Halftime P.P.S. What we learned: Argentina ain't too shabby (should be up 2-0, 3-0), Nigeria is game (nice dive before half, dude) and Maradona owns/is renting a suit that makes him look like a shaggy Paulie from the Rocky flicks.
Fulltime P.P.S. Hey ESPN, if I wanted impressionism, I'd head to Giverny, dig up Monet's bones and reanimate them. Speaking of reanimation, Diego might want to try the local muti on his team's feet. Finish!
Halftime P.P.P.S. We can't pass (sometimes), we can't defend (sometimes), but it's 1-1. Go on, blame the ball, you fucks! HAHAHAHAHA!
Fulltime P.P.P.S. Concerning Mr. Tim Fucking Howard, Robbie, you are no doubt Green with envy. Groan all you want, we'll take the point. We'd also like a creative midfield type, send your CV to the USMNT c/o the U.S. Soccer Federation, Chicago, Illinois 60616.