SPAIN v. TUNISIA [3-1]
That's A Hawaiian Silky
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yeah, it's a good life, you know.
That's A Hawaiian Silky
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Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 19:33 0 comments
What A Co-inky-dink
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Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 19:32 0 comments
Calm Down, Youngster
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Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 19:31 0 comments
I Can Go To France For Free
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Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 19:31 0 comments
So Much Blight It'll Hurt Your Eyes
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Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 19:30 0 comments
Ginga Tu Madre
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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!
Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 19:29 0 comments
Please, Stop Punning on Czech-Check
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Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 19:28 0 comments
Italian Heartthrobs Could Not Get Rid Of Me
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Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 19:28 0 comments
There is the Perfect Riposte
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Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 19:27 0 comments
Is This the Face of Evil Incarnate?
1nce again, B&C brings you that fire, um, reporting, hitting you what everybody else is scared to say:
Forget the Spanish, the Italians, the Serbs, the Croats, the Greeks, the Argentines, the French, the English before John Barnes, the Dutch until they discovered the secret of ganja brownies (which are "chocolate"), the South Africans before it was cool to do "the Mandela voice," and Oprah.
And pay no mind to all that jive about the ball being TOO round. Think that little Raimundo the 'keeper, playing all day on a dirt pitch in Sao Paulo with a plastic bag filled with more plastic bags for a ball complains about that ish being TOO spherical?
Nah, son. I call bullshit. Smoke & mirrors. A coverup to mask the real Grand Wizard of International Football. And it's not even Paolo Di Canio.
Why is nobody but Blue & Cream asking the question, "Could the real filthy bigot here be adidas' +Teamgeist ball?"
Evidence: Until Bakari Kone's banger, no black player -- despite an overabundance of attempts -- had scored with a long-range shot, what the Brits like to refer to as a "cracker," a/k/a a "Stephen Merritt." Yet, scrawny Czech dudes are rifling in 30-yard bombs with the greatest of ease. I'm just saying. You be the judge. If we're really going to kick racism out of football, let's start by kicking that fucking troglodyte ball to the fucking curb.
One.
(For reals, no joking here: The fact that I was able to link all those countries up there should let you know that something's rotten in the European Union.)
Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 12:18 0 comments
My Oranje Boxcutter Make the World Go 'Round
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Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 11:58 0 comments
Say The Baby
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Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 10:32 0 comments
Becky Ljungberg, Winning In Perpetuity
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Erm, this dude scored.
You really proud of that, Sweden? On the reals? I don't even think Arsenal fans like dude. Whatever. Let's take this opportunity to give props to the man who makes this team at all likeable. Henrik Larsson. Say the name. Or just listen to the Swedish announcers go nuts.
B/T/W, there's no truth to the rumor that Christian Wilhelmsson was found in the locker room post-game, having hanged himself by his own rattail. Swedes love life. I love this website.
Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 10:17 0 comments
Pull My Hair Out
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Conference-calling literary assassin TerrorDactile during the match couldn't even help pull this one out for the Trinis (B/T/W, hope no one missed the '06 version of this in EnnWhy on Saturday). But who knew such awesome dancers could resort to such vile chicanery. That's why a player quit rugby, so one ain't have to truck with fools like this.
England still look to be un gran mentiroso at this tournament (besides the Brazilians, of course -- more on that later) as dainty-armed Frank Lampard couldn't score with Gary Neville's dick (oh, wait--I've got that wrong somehow) on this day. Steven Gerrard can do whatever it is he wants though. A few B&C Associates were lucky enough to attend the University of Westminster with Mr. Gerrard, where he studied under the pseudonym of John Ashland.
Little known fact.
Sung like a bird by d. rodriguez at 09:08 1 comments