Club football's where it's at? I don't care, whispering sweet nothings to the big R over post-whatever as I swoon over a knightly tournament between the rich man's borders mapped in corpses, at least until 2016 when future FIFA Pretzeldent-for-life (you used to be cool, man) porks the Euro out like a North American everyone's-a-winner playoff. Hungary, there's hope for your very own group stage failure. I'm hungry. While I make me some chow, i.e. buy salt from the vending machine because this heart won't attack itself, learn who'll advance & hoist a trophy far less useful than Lord Stanley's Cup & bet accordingly opposite.
Group A: Easiest quartet, possibly. Hardest to predict, certainly. Russia (Zenit), like Spain (Barcelona), has a core familiar with each other, but keep your ushanka on. For now, having no dog but four cats, I have decided to use my mutt heritage to uncover a temporary rooting interest. Scotland's too awful to qualify for anything these days (thus their hope in joint-landing 2020's bloat), Germany's the Fucking Yankees, Merrie Ole's that annoying brat who won't shut the fuck up, thus I'm leaving my kielbasa in Krakow. [ed. note: Parmastan's Polish Village, smartly tapping the zeitgeist, rerevisited the garage days, JP2's wrinkly mug once again decorating Via Popeorosa, though perhaps Jan Tomaszewski's would be more appropriate] Sure, solitary threat Lewandowski's feeds are gonna be marked into the turf, but at least Szczęsny [ed. note: no i? Decadent West, pshaw] won't always be suckered into cleaning up a Wengerian back four disaster. Right? Furthermore, Nergal told leukemia to fuck off somewhere near the Baltic, worth at least one game winner.
Solidarność! Cech's punchless Czechs grind out the other spot. Unlikely, though 'tis a convenient excuse to type Pooty garrotting someone in a dark alley. This Greece ain't as greasy as 2004, but bottles tend to break on the second bolt.
Group of Death: Since Bert van Marwijk's pragmatism incorporates the presence of Sensei Nigel's Withering Touch, I don't see how the Netherlands don't advance unless Arjen didn't waste all his misfires against Fucksea. Not opening against the Germans, who are really fucking good going forward, helps & then there are the hard-luck Danes. Someone's gotta finish last whilst a preening Ronaldo whines for another foul. Wow, that's a lot of negativity, but what's life but parking the bus so the 0-1 doesn't become 0-5?
Group C: Oh, Yugoslavia, dicked by nationalist dickheads, what might have been. Croatia may have the sniffles, such as a few greying scalps & an kinda-sorta out-of-form Modric, but the champs don't. Or do they? Too much mileage, plus no Napalm Death & no David Villa means Prandelli's house brand Baresis perhaps dash past. Speaking of the boot, Trap's Irish are tenacious D & little else; score early, & lollygag.
Group D: Each write-up is smaller than the last. Maybe I'm tired. France is
back less of an epic clusterfuck than in South Africa, but the egadsly Gourcuff's ostensible "replacement" M'Vila is hurt, so maybe they're not, though Benzema's on fire, so maybe they are, look at that word count climb, Sweden is Sweden only in reverse, Ukraine Nation digs techno too much, & a well-coiffed England would win the MLS.
Quarterfinals: The Dutch cash the Czechs [read: Russia], groan, Sweden expects the Spanish Inquisition, groaner, Germany bests Poland (insert your own witty world war punchline, I'm at my Gleiwitz end), groanest, & the eye-talians cheese the inconsistent surrender monkeys, weak like an Uwe Boll flick.
Semifinals: In a rematch of Bladder's ugly final, the Spaniards huff one more time. 2/1 on someone receiving an unprofessional foul. Easy picking the obvious, which is, when there's a scandal (Totonero, Calciopoli), Italy flourishes. Does Serie B criminality banish such bathroom theories? They're going down in the group stage, aren't they. Naw, here. Maybe.
Final: The third time's charmless. Sorry, mushroom man. Germany 2, Spain 1.