Saturday, July 31, 2010

"I've turned these cans into can-dos!" "Well, you smell terrible. Good luck to you sir!"

If only they were an elected official.

Christyson said employees finding scrap metal on park grounds are under obligation to sell it to a scrap vendor, then they are required to take the receipt and cash to the park manager or another administrator. Metal includes anything recyclable, including cans left by park visitors or metal discarded by Metroparks shop workers.
You're under an obligation to kiss my ass.

And before any self-righteous wanker blurts out about how these taxpayer-funded employees violated the codes, legal *pshaw* or moral *bwah*, of their job, consider
  • placing a wager on whether that $1200 will or will not stave off the inevitable cutback due to economy still sucking ass upon expiration of the current levy in 2014 my property taxes are going up I'm an overtaxed cracker that's 17 cents/day needed for mistresses and my wife's plastic surgery wah wah wah. Don't scoff at my cynicism, this is Callahooga County.
  • your employment and how much time you spend pointing & clicking, including the 7.3 seconds wasted stopping at this scrap heap to leave a self-righteous comment, you amoral, bottom-line averse wanker.
Public, private, all of us shlubs are shambling for some sector of The Man and it's your duty as a member of the peon class to throw the occasional wrench in His vast works, especially in light of the inexorable expansion of cog surveillance.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to steal some pens, which is even worse because they're not garbage.

Friday, July 30, 2010

Fists of fury

Celluloid or vinyl (or plastic or digitally-encoded bits), doesn't matter. The samurai, like the musical troupe, must strike with ferocity -- unless the troupe's instrument of choice is the player piano, then it's a case of ropes and pulleys and the hope that your intended victim will follow the candy trail to stroll beneath this not very ferocious rambling. In short (too late), too much work. A sword's sharpness & that of six strings must be quick & lethal. Thus, more than a passing resemblance between the movie & its diabolically over-the-top troubadour namesake, Lightning Swords of Death. The Extra Dimensional Wound, whose sonic quality is meatier than their debut (not always an artistically desirable mutation in the grimier of metal circles but, in addition to stretchier guitarwork, this fucking huge bottom end noise should off kvlt skepticism) eviscerates with the precision of a Masamune whilst deploying well-placed hammer blows to the skull and whatever body parts are within reach just to make sure the victim's pleas remain in pooling blood where they belong.

Simplicity is a virtue here, flushed through oversized Bathory/Entombed riffs & straightforward orthodox black metal text peppered with more than a hint of Lovecraftian slime, delivered with that same sore throat-on-steel wool rage we all know & love.

Sounds alluring, but when those are the elements of your template, the spine-into-powder power of the riff is beyond key; it's the very ichor of the beast. So, do LSoD pass the death test?

Generally. Making a statement on an album after only a few dozen spins isn't the most prescient hark! the herald reviewers sing! one can engage in. Heads: I know some of my all-time favorites became so only after having years to percolate in the grey folds lost in attic mildew. Tails: instant gratification chord progressions are like Cosmic Candy. They may give your tongue (or in this case, fingers) a colorful workout, but as the last note rings into oblivion, you realize it was only a sugar rush. So you tracks that I'm wavering on, rest easy. You've got plenty of time. The others make me giddy as a schoolgirl tee hee.

The title track marches the album out of the gate before striding into full gallop, occasionally stopping to step on your neck. A couple of speedfreak workouts follow, including the gloriously titled Nihilistic Stench (no, the song isn't about Washington, D.C., though it should be. Number one, make it so). Zwartgallig, Dutch for both melancholy & the national soccer team, is an apt title for a nimble, ambient bass piece & palate cleanser for what is the best track on the platter, Damnation Pentastrike. Gotta be that rubberband faux-stop/start riff stumble. A couple of predominantly (sort of) doomy trudges through the aural muck present the album's magnum opus & closer, the kitchen-sink, eleven-minute & thoroughly excellent Paths to Chaos.

The seeds germinating in the rotten earth of their inconsistent debut have finally begun to blossom, and though no minor masterwork such as the bleakly stellar Remember Your Death of guitarist/primary composer Roskva's (Jeremy Stramaglio to his mama) Endless Blizzard side project, The Extra Dimensional Wound is a trauma worth smiling about unless you hate metal in which case I hope you read this whole goddamn post muahahahahaha, etc.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Easy Rider

As I once opined, all posts can be improved with Putin.

"What about when it's already 100% Putin?"

Then, the fly, a desperate, daring, fast symbol of freedom. Hmm. Do these words decrease the percentage? Is it now only 99.9% Putin? What if I brazenly break national security protocol in mentioning Andropov or Chernenko, once decaying corpses, now rampaging zombies due to Chernobyl's lingering toxic soup aftermath & whose power the CIA hopes to harness to ironically use against their fellow, still living, travelers? Are you fooled by Russia's modern veneer, her meta Potemkin villagery? If not, is theirs more impressive than ours? Because of inherent brain-eating abilities, said organ being the KGB nerve center, is this post now down to 52% Putin, but up to 117% communist? And if so, how can I inject a much needed dose of free-market capitalism?

Sale on interoffice envelopes! Gently used!

Their leader rides hogs like someone who's suavely garroted a man, whereas our effeminate pretzeldent goes on a hysteric-laden teevee show.

C'mon, Hussein X, invade someone new & without a pansy handwringing epilogue. Killing a man & his family while making sure stray shells don't turn his china hutch into a block of Swiss? Being a good guest is hard.


This doesn't bode well.

INTERIOR, library.

Sexy female agent kung-fus office door.

Randal: Hey baby, is that an electronic communication transactional record demand, or are you just happy to reenact my browser history?

A loud report rattles the shelves' contents onto the floor.

Sexy female agent: Terrorist down.

Randal: If only I had gotten my Norelco fixed...


Wednesday, July 28, 2010


I'm looking through a hole in the sky.

At the yellow & hot sun. Too yellow like a cheap Volume 4 import, too hot like last week, too bright, so blinding that it's black. Oh, be a fine girl kiss me won't find this class of gloss. And it's humid, but not claustrophobic. Aren't they the same? No. Though each shares qualities, each delineates disparate states. And though the latter's meaning is bloated with choking airs & catacomb cliche, in it's own way, it's far less severe. You always know where you stand: in the pit, looking through a hole in the earth, a shovel scattering Stygian glint past scabs of rust and torpor. The other? Anticipation of the expected something, an ambiance nudging, sotto voce, the self to document, to shoot stills of what can befall: hope laced with fear. Or worse, the inverse, the teasing euphony of the mercurial out-of-reach, the looking-glass ubiquitous hiding in blank days that end in y.

July 28, 1975 saw me as the weest of lads. Wouldn't have a clue for years about the existence of this compelling imprint, spit-shined grime (unlike their visceral first, more than a few hours and a more than a few hundred quid required) beginning with a propulsive riff that cynically snarls and wearily twists with each return. Was nothing but such adolescent angst, once upon a spin. The rent was never due for me, either, John. I was, after all, a punk kid with limited responsibility and a wandering noodle -- seems you big & famous rock stars & I have something in common -- but soon the plectrum would metamorphose into the punctum of memory.

Butler's bubbling bass entr'acte conjures a glimpse of breezy, eerily calm late 70s Salem's Lot before James Mason's stormy "Throw away the cross, face the master!" monologue. Shrug. Dozens of chill basement viewings color the processes -- what's this? A modernist gaze into hyperspace -- see the soul seller for even rootier roots -- symptomatic of universal disillusion. And healthy doses of sweat, dirt, stacked amplifiers, white powder. Ingested by those blokes, not me, for five-buck-an-hour high schoolers, soon aimless, major-less matriculators, can't afford to be strung out on anything past carbonated beverages, candy bars and cheap American beer. A love that never dies, wot's all this? It's certainly scream-worthy as I imagined love would be. Turn it up. While not as punctuated as misheard Purple Haze, the second verse's seven nightmare unicorn's fucking spectacular. I believed, and still lie, that's what he sings. Cokeheads have their white & I have mine, the amaranthine drone of high summer, cumulus climbing over the song's fading acres of acoustic blue blanketing spinning spokes over hillocks & down.

It seems to have been hot on July 28, 1988, but I checked, for truth's sake: 91 units of Fahrenheit. Humid. Stereo pan megAlomania -- don't toke so much, quality controller -- a collective of dreamily feral measures, bruising progression & substance- & celebrity-stained text, an athanor where I could incinerate teenage wasteland, transmute disaffection into a thing that had I been born earlier might have been in the form of nothing more than bitchin' Camaros, weed and suburban ennui. Some things never change, though substitute bitchin' 24". Why doesn't everybody leave me alone with my sketches, NES, verse that wouldn't fare any better two decades later thanks to an affinity towards indulgent purpling, the girl with the long brown hair, hours of long, fractured crosses, spiked shins and 4-4-2 laced with thoughts about the girl with the long brown hair (whatever happened to her?) while everyone waited for the poorly-struck ball to be retrieved from far afield, Walkman pre- and post-practice, audible to the posable statues masquerading as passers-by to the motionless.

Shielded by sepia-toned sabotage, I know better than you. I still do. Don't question, or I'll play it again, hit rewind & make us wait for evidence. Always waiting, but one can skip at home; the wonders of technology. We still skip in this digital age. Was it wise, to learn to disguise? I'll tell you on my deathbed. Always waiting.

What of ce lit (you don't know any French yet, pal) striving to stretch into wonderland, immersed in the thrill of it all, all that fear laced with hope, that blot, breathing its drowsy speech that pedaled me around town solitaire. It's not as humid, July 28, 1991 (I checked, for truth's sake) the gulf between entertainment and conflict having evaporated further, the spectacle carrying love letters twixt the illicit. Oh, there's love here, too, I suppose, a chorus exhales to say as much, its weapon the aforementioned fear, the choice of all tzars, super or no. I wield it, as do you, tzarina, next to me. Remember, I know better, I have the evidence. You doubt? I confess? I'll never tell, not even after wedding bells.

I know I'm going insane, this song isn't helping (whatever happened to crunch?), so tune my radio. Broadcast stimuli for years, nearly twenty. I know I don't sound very cheerful, but even megalomaniacs can listen. I(you) is listening, for once, for the thousandth time I(you) listening. Why are you(I) laughing? Am I Satan, am I man, have I've changed a lot since it began? Since, children, the second, comically enough, manifesting on this idée fixe twelve years ago, & an omnipresent, self-served writ. Same 99-cent notebook paper, same ink in line after line of stanzas bricked upon each other, our very own tower of Babel. I like to pretend it's served by you, over & over I pretend until at last sift the photographic evidence & see that I never understood more than a handful, & neither do you each and every July 28 and the 363 (remember those relics set aside) that lay beside. This album, this image of tribal fiestas of fire & flesh, ostensibly for many, is burned into a comedown of one ash.

Summer is here. What of the next July 28 and those thereafter? Blinding, sweltering, your fault, my fault, it will be humid. Only slick fingertips can keep those rare moments, the proof that we once could slip through the looking-glass, from disappearing into the escalating dust.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Taisez-vous Tuesday

The Afghan Wikis are slick, but you can't dance to 'em.

Only around 'em. Zing!

"Um, taisez-vous, idiot."

Le Oops. Here's some porn:

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Anastrophy, Or, I Was Bored, Man.

Yesterday, and always: short, curt riffing, prose borne on long winds.
Today, a play: less long (yay! you say), long song (boo! you hoo).


Because I'm sniff too sad sob to chortle type wheez.

Wheez. Cheez Whiz. What a chiz!

At least Samuel's last name isn't Muhammad. Always more enjoyable being a social pariah than being dead unless you're Dracula.

I vant to burn your flag!

Too bad he's not an American citizen. This dead guy'd give Dead Gus Hall a real run for his votitude. Oops, this is longer than I had planned. Sorry. Now listen.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Long live good ole Yankee gumption

With your crutches of high-tech, scanner-proof firearms; School of the Americas training; stateless, shadowy conglomerate and/or military-industrial complex financial backing, what do you have to say for yourself now?

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Shiny things

So pretty.

Somewhere, someone said and/or did something stupid and/or ridiculous and/or gasp traitorous, and I simply must gaze upon and/or listen to its spectacular beauty. In the meantime, know that if I get off my lazy ass, a laziness of such profundity, a veritable abyss of unimaginable slack, you'll be getting a music review or two soon.

Don't you worry, of course it's metal.

Alright, alright, like everyone who's at least barely awake some of the time, I'm not surprised even one-eighth of an iota at this Orwellian Orwellism, save for one pertinent datum point in today's installment: 112 acres of parking? Even we don't have that, and we're a library.

A fucking library!

But if you'd rather trudge through last week's 179 billion phone calls with a Sipowicz clone instead of Horton Hears A Who! with a sexy librarian, well, it's a free country.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Knight to flash 4

My entry this week is so bad, it's like the World Trade went down.

"Looking at it from your/their/his/her point of view, then yeah, I would be pissed also." Does anybody remember laughing at the Brundlefly/telepod mashup, no of course you youngins don't. Well hell that was only three, I quietly thought to myself at the time. A low-volume thought hides well from overly interested ears and, for the initiated, is a treasure easily found amidst the general cacophony of the addled mind, unaided by the dissonance of day-to-day shellshock. But it takes practice --

"Here he goes again."

"Johnny! Be nice to your grandpa!"

-- long hours of blood and sweat, metaphorical of course, because who bleeds when they're thinking unless they've been shot, blown to bits or worst of all, removed from the board? So get started now, kids. Where was I? Oh, yes.

Doesn't mean my fellow minion wasn't right.

"Is that what you told her at the time?"

I don't know. Even when I had the chance, I don't know.

I can't remember.

It was hard to discern her exact words so far back in the line. I crawled closer, crossing a square of surprisingly crater-free Yorkshire fog, sharing black quips of trench foot and our inevitable end. Momentarily safe behind its four walls, we didn't get even one, impatience continued creeping from the castle denizens -- we felt it, your/their/his/her waiting with baying, accusatory breath. My comrade spoke again, one last time, a short lull in the exchanging fusillades permitting her whisper to reach my tired ears.

"You know that feeling when you wake up sweating and think 'thank goodness it was only a dream'?" We longed for that feeling as an ecclesiastical enclave rushed past, soon followed by a whirling, feminine blur. Our eyes met, exhausted globes haphazardly streaked in crimson, soon led off to who-knows-where, prisoners-of-that-godforsaken-war.

In the distance I saw all kinds of birds circling over something, but I couldn't tell what from where I was. As our conquerors, with a funereal sloth, marched us past the carnage, we saw, at last, we saw.

"Grandpa, what did you see?"

The king was dead. Long live the king.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

When you've got the government on your side, pimpin's easier than you think.


All posts can be improved with Putin. Duh.

Took some extra pretty pictures this morning just for you wankers -- don't shrug, you fucking love radiant blooms and you fucking know it -- but then a distressing vision came to me of the camera's USB cable stretched out & relaxing on the coffee table, flipping the bird with extreme nonchalance.

So instead, you get this bad headline, ripped from today's local internets:

And you thought Cleveland was staid & upright.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Plus le sport change...

Behold the power of the mind.

It's me. It's not you, it's me, isn't it?

Got my cold beer water (it was the mid fucking 90s yesterday, sheesh), my pizza rolls, my not-as-comfortable-as-it-used-to-be couch and I's ready for Brankomania! I is.

A little backstory: in my post LeJerk LeDespair, I was on the lookout for a fresh addition to my cadre of annual rooting interests, one that wouldn't shatter my heart into soul-perforating shrapnel as consistently as all these Northeast Ohio bastards. After much deliberation (mostly the promise of a free beer), I had decided to adopt DC United, a team with a short, albeit successful, history. Oh sure, they were off to a poor start this campaign, but at 2-3-1 with an even goal differential in their last 6 matches, coupled with the emergence of young (dude can't even vote for the next Honduran pretzeldent yet) speedster Andy Najar -- and, bien sûr, new signing Branko! -- things were looking up (not really, but I need to work on my lying).

Until the first unsuccessful shot on target.

And the second.

A little help, please.

And a near, ultimately unsuccessful, Najar breakaway.

And another, though at least they're attacking, unlike the last time I saw them.

A Keller save.

Fuck, defensive lapse -- whew!

Another lapse -- whew!

Another Keller save.

72nd minute, begone noted novelist Stephen King. Stop! Brankotime! Sure, he may have booted that long pass into Pennsylvania, but what raw power! Socrates, Rivelino & Jesus rolled into one!

Oh well, one point is better than no p -- HAHAHAHA!

Giving up the winning goal right before the end?

How Cleveland.

Aside #1: even though this is 21st century America, the stadium, and all her attendant rituals, remains a place where a certain level of state-approved dissent is permitted. That said, I was shocked to catch, late in the second half, an acrid whiff of the notoriously unruly barrabravas: the achromatic cloud of either a firework or a smoke bomb. I'm well aware that a metal detector wouldn't have caught that, but where were our uniformed first responders and their busy hands? This is the seat of American power, dammit. First, lighters & wicks, next, tactical nukes in suitcases. For shame, Washington, D.C., for shame.

Aside #2: I'm contemplating taking up scrimshaw.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

No time for blog, Dr. Strangelove!

Yesterday, I scared myself with thoughts of a future without solace, existence as a galvanised corpse shackled in a pre-red giant public sphere (redundant, because there wouldn't be a public sphere post-red giant, but I'm stupid & for that I apologize) for your amused gawking, patronizing nickel tosses my reward for each Karloffian growl. This inevitably led to night terrors various and decidedly not sundry; blind vampires with a supernatural sense of smell (a pox upon thee, onion rings so delicious), attack of the 50 foot high radioactive singing spiders, sludge-level employment in a Wall Street firm &, worst of all, the dayglo horror of post-apocalyptic mutation, globs of poisoned skin creeping off the bone, cannibal holocaust in a low simmer for eight hours, awaiting the rotten, Cyclopean maw of C-Span.

Woke up, shook off icy sweat, petted our pussies, showered & shuttled my sartorial self to the land of systemic study of syntax & semiotics. Oh, and selling stealing & other surreptitious swindles. Can't leave out the MBA program.

Humid today, like fucking Tampa humid.

Which calls for --

you guessed it, your favorite & mine, classic Floridian death metal!

So many memories. Sniff. Play shuffleboard to that, geezers.

Shit, I think I just threw out my back. Getting old sucks.

At least I won't be decrepit & immortal.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Title Wanted: Inquire Within

Minimum wage, tips & the occasional shoe on fire. Footie decompression & poetry procontestation thus no workable brainwave patterns (oh fuck). If I believed in karma, which I don't because then I'd have to believe in leprechauns and everyone knows they're extinct, considerable witnessing of the receiving end of this incoherent patron ur-demagoguery of the due to my frequent public extolling of the of the virtues of no gum flapping of the thee three of thes thuhs, phonetically. Got twenty bucks, now let's see if I've got a hundred fifty twenty ten five lines of non-gobbledygook. Wish me grand prizes and De Jongs for the competition. I Reagan the deadline so best look it up; in the near, Jetsonian future, methinks.

It's alive! It's alive!: later.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010


Everybody was kung fu fighting.

Because you're demanding dogs, and because that final, an awful, cynically grinding display of feigning n' footie, a sick microcosm of nearly the entire roster of 32 flavors, I present unto thee this wretched solution. Fucking sad, and fucking fitting, that the most exhilarating match was the useless third place gig.

"I don't disagree with you, but you have to admit, this puts me in a delicate position."

"I understand, but this is vital to the soul of the nation. Vital."

"Yes, yes, but -- wouldn't this, if we did in fact implement it, be considered --"

"Illegal? Given who runs our show I don't foresee any difficulties, do you? Now, can it be done in time for qualifying?"

"Technically, yes. Morally, I have my reservations. But -- I trust you."

"I believe I've earned that trust. If the spectacle is to work, it must be beautiful, and beauty always comes with a price, a price determined solely by us here at this console, in commanding view of the entire pitch."

"Um, exactly how much of a price?"

"1000 for a yellow, 2000 for a red."


"Relax, Bert, a short burst isn't fatal."

"If you say so, Mr. Cruyff. But is an electrified practice field really the way to go?"

"You abandoned totaalvoetbal. If you abandon this, we'll abandon you to coach in the --

*dramatic pause*

-- MLS."

"I -- I -- I'll get right on it."

Saturday, July 10, 2010

The first shall be last, the last shall be first and no one gives a shit about who's third.

Profitable World Cup, or most profitable?

Au contraire mon frère, wearers of Nair & bearers of ill will. If you hail from Montevideo or Berlin, you give a shit and dammit, I do too & so should you, woo, even though, as this is my 4,192nd consecutive sporting post, 87.6% of you have long hitched a ride upon the passing electrons, flipping the bird as you slip over the glowing horizon.

So, who wins this affair, pointless to most, but not to the coffers of FIFA®, who, once they learn the joys of American fantasy football, will no doubt create a Champions League-style loser's bracket for the knockout vanquished, preambles to the day's match of actual worth.

Wow, I'm like a real capitalist, mom!

Sepp, you're welcome.

I have no idea who'll win, but I know who I'll be rooting for: Uruguay & The Other Diego, bien sûr. Sure, no shot at the Golden Ball, but the Golden Boot's within legit grasp.

As for what really matters, cast aside any notion of the Super Magical Jesus Baby, Allah, Buddha, Zeus, Odin, Vishnu, oligarchs, slick oil men, bankers, hookers, blow, goopers, dums, teabaggers, proggies/proggels/prognosticators, octopi, quietly defiant postmodernist or wide stancing, birth, death, infinity, for tomorrow contains the one place outside of competitive eating or true global conflict -- and we can only hope & pray that that's around the bend, been promised World War III for decades, where's my fucking laser gun you filthy liars -- where one can rightly say, I'm the greatest in the world.*

"What about --"

Stuff it, Special Jose.

Spain likely to win? You bet.

Did I bet? Hell no. Where we you a month ago, Brother Future?

Hup Holland hup!

No, England, that's not the work of Photoshop.

*I am, of course, for reasons of personal sanity, conveniently ignoring the fact that Cleveland is, by far, by far, tops in collective sporting misery. As a famous 'stache once said, suck on this, world.

Friday, July 9, 2010

Comic Sans Font of Wisdom

It's not just for grade school mailers anymore.


P.S. Hey Miami, our 4 through 12 can beat your 4 through 12!

P.P.S. The only offer I've received so far is a free beer from DC United's most furious fan -- that's 3 wins, 2 draws and 9 losses with a -14 goal differential DC United -- and given such Clevelandesque statistics, how can I refuse?


Thursday, July 8, 2010

The Decision


What, you thought I was going to riff on that made-for-TV movie?
Plastic fantastic yawn. Ask Paul the Octopus. Oh, alright.

LeBron should show up dressed like this:

After The Leaving®, Cleveland sporting life will return to a comfortable normal: morbid self-medication while alternating blank stares and cathartic screaming at three shit teams sans championship chance.

The way it should be, dammit.


I've got to drop the neutral's search for aesthetically pleasing sport and decide on a footie side in which to permanently invest emotion that also carries the occasional opportunity for glory and joyful self-medication.

Clubs, I await your generous offers.

*example: fucking awesome!

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Where in the world is Gary Lineker?

The man's a prophet.

I know where I am, at least, still on vacation -- seriously, not going to work whilst enjoying the quiet of a new neighborhood is a worthy pursuit, I highly recommend it. Did I mention that it's quiet? IT'S REALLY FUCKING QUIET -- but I'd be remiss (or maybe I'm simply tired of unpacking) in not throwing something up before the semifinals of the Footie Champion of the Universe Tournament, sponsored by FIFA® and Budweiser®, King of Swill®.

Alright, alright, I either slightly underestimated Deutschland -- sonofabitch, that Schweinsteiger ain't too shabby -- or, more likely, really, really, really overestimated the complete lack of suck inherent in the Argentine defense.

Aside: and a maddening inability to finish.

If memory serves, every German goal seemed to originate from an attack down the right of Atomic Zen Diego's XI. So, while [insert stereotypes of functionality and efficiency here] Germany, not [insert stereotypes of hot-blooded Latin bolero here] Spain, is the team that's scored 4 goals thrice in one Cup, the Iberians will prove a wee bit more of a challenge since they, you know, try defending.

Aside: is it me, or did Argentina take the Merry Dribbler thing a bit too far? Too many one-on-fives and they surprisingly came across a shade to the slow-as-molasses-in-the-Arctic. Must've been downing some of that swill with the English.

Of course, I was quarterfinal wrong, but fuck the Germans. The Spaniards gain their first ever final. Oh, make all the cracks you want about defensive football not being pretty, but in some bizarre way, possibly due to adult beverages, I found Paraguay to be pretty. No, wait, that's their famous fan who, sadly, will now not be strolling through the streets nattily-unclad. Sniff.

I told you the Dutch would knock off the Dungians. Even though I didn't believe it for a single nanosecond of the first half. Comical that for all of the Brazilian defensive panache, the shortest dude on the pitch proved to be the assassin, via the skull, no less, hardee har har. Ruud, lucky and/or good and/or three foot six, doesn't matter. Be glad this Oranje edition isn't going to arrogantly taunt the ball around circa totaalvoetbal's crowning moment.

If you're one of the people going on and on about Luis Suarez's goal-denying handball, kindly shut your noisehole. It's a red card offense, he's going to miss the semifinal and frankly, if Gyan had did his job (believe me, I feel for the dude, too), then we'd be reading five billion column inches about the serendipity that is an African semifinalist in the first African World Cup on African soil in Africa. But beyond that crash n' burn of such a Hollywood story, what's up with those awful shootout attempts? It was as if they were channeling me or some other equally inept couch potato. Sorry Ghana, it's your own fault.

Anyway, The Other Diego will still be on the pitch, but I can't back down from my pre-tournament prediction of a Spain-Netherlands final. Being in the company of turnabout politicians (apologizes for the redundancy) is an icky feeling.

See you chumps later in the week.

Hup Holland Hup!

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Manly men of manliness

"We won again! This is good, but what is best in life?"

"The open bike path, fleet nature, latte at your lips, and the sun in your hair."

"Wrong! Cleveland! What is best in life?"

"To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women."

"That is good! That is good."