Sports are a remnant of a feudal society!
So, in my brain, or what passes for it, I’ve been having a trip.
I was watching the England v. Portugal match. One: OH, ENGLAND.
Two: My father remarked that it was like a small war, and the penalty kicks are the duel at the end of it all. He’s a big fan of military history, and obsessively watches the UKTV history channel, which is programmed by those with similar minds, because its wall-to-wall combat stories. Which are interesting, yes, but gosh. It can become a bit much, so I usually pay half-attention. And then the whole street went into meltdown over the result, and I was a little distracted.
But! This has a point. I promise. I was checking around, and someone mentioned that Ronaldo (the player who scored the decisive penalty kick) was really mean, and always ill-tempered. Of course, my brain goes:
Gosh, he’s like the evil sorcerer who threatens the smiley kingdoms, and promises to exact terrible vengeance on them if they don’t give him valuable jewels, and etcetera. He has a swishy robe, I’d bet, and an evil laugh, hiding behind those boyish good looks and lovely cheekbones.
And then my brain decided that this was a viable scenario. So, Ronaldo makes all the other kingdoms give up their most valuable things, and promises he’ll smite them, and make them fail at…kingdomhood, and qualifying, if they try to pull a fast one, be all “yes, this clod of dirt, that is where it’s at!”
So everyone grumbles, and in the UK there’s a top-secret meeting where they try to figure out what they need to give Ronaldo. And Margaret Thatcher is there, and she says that it can’t be the Falkland Islands. And Tony Blair, well, he’s… out of commission, and Gordon Brown suggests that they send gold ingots. So anyway, all the teams have big meetings and send, oh, old jerseys. Because they are LUCKY, whatever. Brazil has an easy time of this.
But in the US, they don’t have a meeting, and Arena is like, ah-ha! I have a plan. We haven't won for a while, no one will miss a player, it's not like anyone actually goes to the games. So, in this logical fashon, Landon Donovan is shipped to Portugal. And he’s terrified, because, oh gosh, the terrible tyrant Ronaldo is going to kill him or something, and it’s a bad twelve hours for whoever’s sitting next to him on the plane. And then there are freaky guards who take him from the airport, and they won’t talk to him, not even in Portugese, which he learned out of the dictionary that he bought in the airport bookstore.
Then Donovan gets to the Lair, and he really really wants to go home, because it’s green and red everywhere. These colours are clearly wrong, and he’s going to have a little freakout, even if the Lair is a giant mission-style thing, and it’s always sunny. Donovan knows that this is a sign of the evil of Ronaldo, because the dictionary has no words for “sunny” in it, even though it looks like home.
Finally, Donovan calls up Bruce Arena, the US coach. And Arena is all “Well, you’re my favourite, and they asked for the best of the best, and really, Ronaldo has us, and go do your civic duty. Further the diplomatic relationship!” Donovan is so desperate for love and attention that he listens to Arena. This is a mistake, but Donovan is fragile, and he needs the attention, so he grits his teeth, and steels himself to dealing with Ronaldo.
But then, he starts thinking that it might not just be a shoot-out, and he might have to do something else. All he can think about is that Portuguese is a difficult language to learn, and he’s bored.
And then it comes out that Donovan is supposed to, I don’t know, do something smutty with Ronaldo. So there’s another call to Arena, where it goes like this:
Donovan: “I’m worried!”
Arena: “Shush. You are my favourite, and see all the love I have shown over the years towards you, even though you are difficult. This will be easy.”
Then it becomes clear that Arena is really controlling the US, and he’s totally bad, and has warped Donovan. But the Eddies (Johnson and Pope) are listening in, and they realize that Donovan has been manipulated, and he’s going to be compromised by Arena’s lack of ethics and Ronaldo being smutty and powerful.
So a rescue mission is launched. It is all very cloak-and-dagger, and the Eddies creep around the edges of Ronaldo’s Lair, and then there’s a terribly significant light snuffed out, and the Eddies look at each other, and nod. They know that smutty things are happening, and that only they, the Eddies, can stop them. And then there’s a cry in the night, but the Eddies already know that they have to rescue Donovan.
So they bust in, and Johnson is all righteous, and they find that Donovan’s room is all done up in red silk sheets, but he’s sleeping on the floor because he has a COMPLEX. And it’s tragic, because Johnson discovers that Donovan’s hand is all busted up. And it is all Arena’s fault.
So then they take Donovan away, and they help him get all better. And then the Eddies run for the Presidency, and WIN, BIG TIME. And not only because Donovan is all “they are awesome” and waves from his hospital bed.
AWWW.
Perhaps it is time to go get drunk and feel the misery of England losing. WOE.
I was watching the England v. Portugal match. One: OH, ENGLAND.
Two: My father remarked that it was like a small war, and the penalty kicks are the duel at the end of it all. He’s a big fan of military history, and obsessively watches the UKTV history channel, which is programmed by those with similar minds, because its wall-to-wall combat stories. Which are interesting, yes, but gosh. It can become a bit much, so I usually pay half-attention. And then the whole street went into meltdown over the result, and I was a little distracted.
But! This has a point. I promise. I was checking around, and someone mentioned that Ronaldo (the player who scored the decisive penalty kick) was really mean, and always ill-tempered. Of course, my brain goes:
Gosh, he’s like the evil sorcerer who threatens the smiley kingdoms, and promises to exact terrible vengeance on them if they don’t give him valuable jewels, and etcetera. He has a swishy robe, I’d bet, and an evil laugh, hiding behind those boyish good looks and lovely cheekbones.
And then my brain decided that this was a viable scenario. So, Ronaldo makes all the other kingdoms give up their most valuable things, and promises he’ll smite them, and make them fail at…kingdomhood, and qualifying, if they try to pull a fast one, be all “yes, this clod of dirt, that is where it’s at!”
So everyone grumbles, and in the UK there’s a top-secret meeting where they try to figure out what they need to give Ronaldo. And Margaret Thatcher is there, and she says that it can’t be the Falkland Islands. And Tony Blair, well, he’s… out of commission, and Gordon Brown suggests that they send gold ingots. So anyway, all the teams have big meetings and send, oh, old jerseys. Because they are LUCKY, whatever. Brazil has an easy time of this.
But in the US, they don’t have a meeting, and Arena is like, ah-ha! I have a plan. We haven't won for a while, no one will miss a player, it's not like anyone actually goes to the games. So, in this logical fashon, Landon Donovan is shipped to Portugal. And he’s terrified, because, oh gosh, the terrible tyrant Ronaldo is going to kill him or something, and it’s a bad twelve hours for whoever’s sitting next to him on the plane. And then there are freaky guards who take him from the airport, and they won’t talk to him, not even in Portugese, which he learned out of the dictionary that he bought in the airport bookstore.
Then Donovan gets to the Lair, and he really really wants to go home, because it’s green and red everywhere. These colours are clearly wrong, and he’s going to have a little freakout, even if the Lair is a giant mission-style thing, and it’s always sunny. Donovan knows that this is a sign of the evil of Ronaldo, because the dictionary has no words for “sunny” in it, even though it looks like home.
Finally, Donovan calls up Bruce Arena, the US coach. And Arena is all “Well, you’re my favourite, and they asked for the best of the best, and really, Ronaldo has us, and go do your civic duty. Further the diplomatic relationship!” Donovan is so desperate for love and attention that he listens to Arena. This is a mistake, but Donovan is fragile, and he needs the attention, so he grits his teeth, and steels himself to dealing with Ronaldo.
But then, he starts thinking that it might not just be a shoot-out, and he might have to do something else. All he can think about is that Portuguese is a difficult language to learn, and he’s bored.
And then it comes out that Donovan is supposed to, I don’t know, do something smutty with Ronaldo. So there’s another call to Arena, where it goes like this:
Donovan: “I’m worried!”
Arena: “Shush. You are my favourite, and see all the love I have shown over the years towards you, even though you are difficult. This will be easy.”
Then it becomes clear that Arena is really controlling the US, and he’s totally bad, and has warped Donovan. But the Eddies (Johnson and Pope) are listening in, and they realize that Donovan has been manipulated, and he’s going to be compromised by Arena’s lack of ethics and Ronaldo being smutty and powerful.
So a rescue mission is launched. It is all very cloak-and-dagger, and the Eddies creep around the edges of Ronaldo’s Lair, and then there’s a terribly significant light snuffed out, and the Eddies look at each other, and nod. They know that smutty things are happening, and that only they, the Eddies, can stop them. And then there’s a cry in the night, but the Eddies already know that they have to rescue Donovan.
So they bust in, and Johnson is all righteous, and they find that Donovan’s room is all done up in red silk sheets, but he’s sleeping on the floor because he has a COMPLEX. And it’s tragic, because Johnson discovers that Donovan’s hand is all busted up. And it is all Arena’s fault.
So then they take Donovan away, and they help him get all better. And then the Eddies run for the Presidency, and WIN, BIG TIME. And not only because Donovan is all “they are awesome” and waves from his hospital bed.
AWWW.
Perhaps it is time to go get drunk and feel the misery of England losing. WOE.