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?

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.

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.

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

"Huh?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

Flash-Flash-Two

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."

"2000?"

"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."

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.

Comic Sans Font of Wisdom

It's not just for grade school mailers anymore.















Translate-O-Matic:

















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?
















Branko!

The Decision

DECIDE
ON
TIMELY*
TOPIC
THEN
INSERT
POST
HERE

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.

Sigh.

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!

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!

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."

War for territory

Acquisition & tactical surrender, usage & manipulation of space.

Since I trotted out the beyond-weathered mélange of sporting, war & religious terminology, am I going to be dour, as usual? Of course not, look out below!













Betcha you don't have your own cult, Dunga.

Se o Brasil has cut her futbol fibre antediluvian --
does she now fight & tackle Dungian
& should we ask a licensed Jungian
or is such a task much too Brobdingnagian?

& while we're at it perhaps we can pester Carl for the reasons why Mr. Terry & Co. refused to attempt a defensive state that wouldn't even pass muster in a grade school intramural. Must be that long, long EPL season, laughed Carlos Tevez all the way to the quarters.

Speaking of the quarters, how 'bout some hot predictioneering? Why not, as I've been *cough* stellar so far -- alright, a youthful, energetic Deutschland upending the Three-Legged Lions wasn't a tectonic result, but as fucking poor as the American D was, at least they ran back:

Uruguay, the greatest footballing nation on earth, over the Rebel Alliance. Why? Read the first sentence, chump. En plus, they have The Other Diego. Oh, how the Dungians versus the Dearly, Nearly Dysfunctional Dutch should be a semifinal at worst. But, a gentleman never switches transport midstream, so the Netherlands it is. Let's hope we get something as thrilling as this artifact.

As for the second bracket, especially with the way these two have mastered the pitch (and the refs), we have another potential stunner in Argentina and Germany, but do you seriously think I'm going to turn away from Atomic Zen Diego and His Merry Band of Dribblers now? Spain ain't so plain, but lest we forget, the Paraguayans have a secret weapon:














Don't get me wrong, as a certified pig, I enjoy the boobies, but I'm also a big sap and the single greatest joy that I've derived so far from this World Cup is something else off the pitch. Thanks to the Blue Samurai, Doodily, my usually sports-averse & Japanese-obsessed oldest, has paid rapt attention to each and every round of 16 tie, a turn as unpredictable as England's crash n' burn was its polar opposite. I may be a simpleton for having a smidgen of faith in those overhyped fucks but this can be rectified: please please please, FA, can Capello, nab Redknapp & watch hilarity ensue. If this shall not come to pass, at least I've finally convinced someone else in my household that the beautiful game is indeed that.

In some wars, everybody wins.

















Piston Honda!

Come on and rock me Honduras

USA wins group blah blah blah* defending champ Italy out pass Cannavaro a walker yawn yawn yawn. What you all should be praising the soccer gods, and their sage acolyte, the inscrutable wizard Diego, for is the lowly Hondurans lulling those anathemas to attacking beauty, the fucking Swiss, out of the tournament. Good riddance.

Did you watch Spain vs. Chile? Of course you did. That's what we want.



Minus the vaguely Anschlussian homage of the final ten minutes and that awful fucking dive I'm looking at you Fernando Torres and that awful fucking yellow & red for (maybe, maybe) the most inadvertent of contact I'm looking at you Julian Rodriguez Santiago. Sheesh.






















Though a shot of referee-priced booze for Limey Howard Webb demanding in that gruff Brit schoolmaster way the Slovaks cease and desist with such impudent fakery. Comical.

As for the shining path ahead, don't get cocky. Ghana can't score, but they don't concede either and, assuming we slip past, are we certainly superior to South Korea or, more likely, the Uruguayans? Still, a semifinal appearance is not out of the realm of extreme possibility, and only Bob Bradley on acid would have accepted that crazy fuckery when qualifying started so many moons ago.

*honestly, I let out a rebel yell that scared the hell out of our cats when Donovan scored

FIVE FUCKING MINUTES P.S. YOU STUPID FUCKS WHY CAN'T YOU EVER NOT CONCEDE A FUCKING GOAL IN THE FIRST TEN FUCKING MINUTES? MORONS! 0-1.

TEN FUCKING MINUTES P.S. We'll make Boateng into Cruyff. We have the power. I'm angry Jerry. Angry and tired.

EIGHTEEN FUCKING MINUTES P.S. Dear patrons, each time you come into the library, I have to run away from the television and towards the desk to help you when I don't really want to. You understand, now fuck off.

THIRTY FUCKING MINUTES P.S. Auf wiedersehen Clark, may you be deafened by vuvuzelas for all eternity.

FUCKING HALFTIME P.S. Ugly as a really ugly thing. If someone would've told me we'd play that disorganized yet only be down a goal, I'd shake his hand and stroll off 'a smilin'.

FORTY-NINE FUCKING MINUTES P.S. Playing with urgency in the second half after lack of lustrous everything, didn't see that coming.

SIXTY FUCKING MINUTES P.S. Sure wish we had the ref from Spain-Chile. Yellow cards aplenty!

SIXTY-THREE FUCKING MINUTES P.S. In the immortal words of Flava Flav, yeeeaaaah boyyyyy. 1-1.

EIGHTY FUCKING MINUTES P.S. Editor's note: elbowing is now permitted.

FUCKING FULLTIME P.S. One bourbon, one scotch and one beer.

NINETY-THIRD FUCKING MINUTE P.S. THIS ISN'T THE BEGINNING OF THE GAME YOU FUCKS JESUS MOTHERFUCKING CHRIST ON A STICK DIPPED IN HYDROCHLORIC ACID. 1-2.

HALFTIME OF FUCKING ET P.S. So, when do we tie it up, 119th, 120th or stoppage time?

108th FUCKING MINUTE P.S. Ghana, stop it. Hope you're happy with this bush league shit, Sepp.

110th FUCKING MINUTE P.S. "Yes, very happy, now I shall rub my hands together most Blofeldian."

116th FUCKING MINUTE P.S. Blah.

120th FUCKING MINUTE P.S. Blah. Yes, I'm wasting time.

FULLTIME OF FUCKING ET P.S. Go Uruguay.