His job is more fun than my job.
And you would blog 500 more. 502, to be exact. Despite the monumental task lain before me upon this island gig, utter detachment from everything save footie was, and is, completely worth it. Blogging, even in the low-heat, haphazard slapdash style performed by yours truly, is hard work. I might even rather shift boxes of books. Fuck, that was tiring, almost as exhausting as blogging.
Anyway, a few of the things I've learned this past week away from you dapper flappers: I picked Mexico and Uruguay to emerge from Group A, the who-cares-not-us frogs crashing and burning and so far, so good. I am so S-M-R-T.
Greece was to be my drunken, off-the-wall "sleeper," a term used quite loosely as they would be fodder for either of the above teams, and so far, almost good. I remain so S-M-R-T, at least until the Greeks get bombed in the last match.
The Yanks have courage and pluck and truckload of first-half Clerks slack while the Limeys have permanently codified their position as the poster boys of the sum of the parts is greater than the whole. The next time Frank Lampard passes, he'll likely break out in a nasty rash. Awful, fucking awful eye burn, though not as fucking awful a disgrace as ♪ we all live in a yellow card machine ♫ or worse, Stevie Wonder. Since FIFA prizes nothing more than transparency, I'm sure we'll get an answer.
The second of the seven apocalyptic signs is here:
Germany missed a penalty shot.
No one had more touches in the opponent's box in their first group game than Spain's whopping 49, promptly losing 1-0 to the fucking Swiss. A shot of civil servant-priced booze to the internets soccer Nostradamus.
Know who didn't lose to an inferior opponent? Crazy Diego and His Merry Band of Dribblers. Fuck off, Spaniards, I'm rooting for a team that can finish. Manos, Hand of God!
Now, cut back on the posting this upcoming week or you're getting one of these.