Ginga Tu Madre
GHOSTWRITE THE WHIP, pt. II -- Brazeeow Edition
B&C's all about confluence & coincidence. So when B&C Brazillian affilliate Gosfais got at me and told me he wanted to get in on this blog thang-thang I couldn't resist, seeing as dude is 97% translucent anyhow. Proud to present, Ghost by Gos:
If the appliance store in Jacarei S.P. were open today -- game day -- the staff would be dressed as the Seleção, as they are every other day this month. If you decided to go to the gay pride parade in São Paulo instead of watch the U.S. out-ball the Italians you would find the boys in top form and blue and yellow speedos atop the international standard issue gay pride parade bus, and if you wanted to compare gingas you'd only need to look behind the bus to the fifty foot fotos of Ronald's both fat and snaggle-toothed feinting left or right in support, in this particular case, of Team Banco Santander, a Spanish club I think. Really you'd be suprised to see just how many different brands of times (teams in the Portuguese soccer vocab that had no problemo absorbing the words that the English saliors gave for what happens when a shute goes past a golquiper) Ronaldinho is playing for down here in between representing all of football to groups such as, say, readers of the New York Times.
But if such larger than life depictions aren't big enough to convince you that the nation of Brazil is effectively equaled by the media representation of its football team, you need only look to the mall-sized sign (provided by Coca-Cola) visible from the highway and announcing that "This mall is rooting for Brazil." And if you reallly need it given to you literally, watch TV for ten minutes until your futebol inspired advertising is interrupted to track the movements of the team bus whose slogan correctly translates to "This bus is monitored by 180 million Brasilian hearts."
But the point is that you know all this because are not on the street on gameday, not in the appliance store which is certainly not open, not at the gay parade that was rescheduled so as not to conflict with the game. You and your heart are in front of the TV, where you saw... what? What is happening here? What is wrong with Ronaldo? What, it's half time? Oh a goal? Ronaldo didn't fuck up? Oh, another one? Who is Fred? Brazil are qualified? Yes, Brazil are qualified. But 180 million hearts depending on eleven may constitute an actual heart attack, the signs of which may be manifesting, literally, as Bussunda, the well-known comedian who played both Ronaldo and Lula attested to by succumbing to one while working the Bob Hope beat in Germany. Or it could be that the plan of the Brasilian coach to hit full stride at the end of the tournament rather than the beginning may be unfolding and that these easy victories are just the first steps of a juggernaut, bitch.
If it matters, the team they played against was Australia. Ugly dark blue uniforms were somehow un-football. Maybe because Australians (like Americans who also look and play bad in their navy) are not football players, but soccer players. They don't say football for the same reason that if you were right now transported into an Australian rules football game you would literally die. So it seems that Aussie soccer players got their muscles and 'tude for the same reason that the fellas grinding trannies on top of the Madonna-blasting platform bus did. They were tired of getting thier asses kicked by toothless goons. And believe me, you would never call one of those kleets-up bastards a Socceroo to thier face. When they take their shits off after the game you cry out, my god, give those men some cattle to slaughter, give them huge knives to wield and an unlit cigar to stick into those jaws! Pelamordedeus!