So that was it. One month of emotion. The tears have fallen. The cheers have started to die down. The plays have been counted. The feelings have been felt. We told you what this was about and now it's over. Many countries entered. One country walked. The feeing of pain and anguish on both teams as they all walked around. It's over.

These were two teams who had been through the war. They both stood till the end. But really, someone had to go down in the end. Italy took the whole fucking thing. So congrats to Italy! Great playing.

Sure, France ended on a bad note and Zidane ended his career by basically telling his team to fuck off, but meh, I don't know what the Italian guy said. I don't know what he said. I have no clue. But, he did a dumb fucking thing by getting a red card. It's over now. I have given my concession speech to Michele already about Germany going out, so all I can say is good job Italy. I hope you all have fun tonight cause we will be back. In four years. We will be back And next time...we will be drunk! -T

It was a good game. Not a great game, but a good game. I hate to see something like this decided on penalty kicks. But that’s how it happened and I’m pretty damn pleased with the outcome. Yay, Italy!

And I just want to say to Zidane: Thank you for being a complete fucking loser. Thank you for being a selfish jackass who, in one moment of brilliant idiocy, fucked his teammates and his country’s fans over. Way to end a career, buddy. Thanks for the memories. And the cup.

Italy, fuck yea! -M

Posted by Michele Christopher at 5:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

First: Just want to keep a reminder up top to go nominate your favorite 80's punk albums for our poll.

It's been a hell of a ride in World Cup. The falls, the punches, the cheap shots, the anger, the tears and the goals. People sliding on the ground after they score! GGGGGOOOOOAAALLLLL! We have told you about the hatred, told you about the divisions, told you how this was played and told you how this works. But, this is it. It's all over, folks. Welcome to the end. Two power houses are now going to play and whomever wins will get their cocks sucked in any bar they go into. They took on the world. And guess what? They got to the next game. So who will win?

Italy v Germany.

Lets do this fucker and see who is better. It's kinda funny about the match coming up because Michele is full blooded Italian and I'm mostly German. Yeah, I say mostly cause Grandpa liked to drink. So I'm not as pure as my better half is. But hey, I can shoot a bow and arrow better then any of you. I can build a teepee and make dynamite. What can she do? Make Ravioles? Hell, I can even spell that right. So what you have here is two of the most violent cultures squaring off together in a 90 minute free for all of shit and anger on the pitch, paper in the air and majic spray on the legs. You hate these posts? Just wait for another four years to come around. Then we will both be there. Wireless from the games. You think this is bad now? You haven't seen shit. We are gonna be live from World Cup 2010.

Anyways, since this our last post about World Cup we decided to do something different. Instead of talking about the the teams, we have decided to make it more personal. Italy v Germany = Michele v Turtle. What makes our countries so much better or so worse and why we can always look down at the ground when something happens and just say "I didn't come from there. The Indians. That's where I came from. The Indians." Well, fuck dude. You have to fall back on something when churches are being lit on fire and race riots are starting in your home country. "The indians. I'm an indian. Woo woo and shit. Indian see?" But I digress. Let's talk about the food, the country, the fun, the people, the places. This is it folks. If you hated these World Cup posts make a comment about it. We will listen to it. Probably naked while eating Cheetos. Then we'll start to review indoor soccer. Just. To. Piss. You. Off. Cause soccer is cool. Nudity is cool, and so is the new flavor of Cheetos. I think it's called "Bite My Ass Nacho Flavor."

So here we go! Germany v Italy. Michele v Turtle. Greasy fuckers are gonna lose as they put back their ravofuckingthewhatever as Germany storms to another victory like the Germans did in WWII..........oh wait... My analogies suck. Now I want pasta. Anyways, here we go!

Germany

Since we aren't really here to bag on other cultures or anything like that, I have decided that I will write about my Gramma and my upbringing. I have no clue what Michele is doing so I have to just stand back. This idea was thrown into my head by a bunch of bad nights sleep, lack of food and too much god damn Oprah. God, I hate her. Well, hates a strong word. Dammit. When is "24" coming back on?

I sat here thinking about what to do. Write about how cool Germany was in the past? Ummmm. No. Write about how cool they are now? Ummmm. No.

Well it looks like I am fucked. Not my fault they can't win a war or that their national dance is the fucking polka. I mean come on guys. The polka. But, they do have Octoberfest. And they have beer and tits at those places. Kinda of like the strip club down the street except without having to pay for airflight - just a drink cover and then you get to see all of your friends who couldn't make it in the modeling business blush when they give someone a lapdance while looking at you with a certain "Turtle, don't be pissed. At least I'm making alot of money," look. It's a hard look to define. If you want to know kinda what it is like, take off all your clothes and sit in front of a mirror. Smile really big. Like you are the happiest god damn motherfucker on the earth since Walt god damn Disney, then bang your toe with a hammer. Oh yeah that hurts. But keep smiling. That look of pain and humiliation for what you just did. You can see it in your eyes. Plus, if you take some pics you make some money on www.bdsmismackedtheshitoutofmyfoot.com. Good money there, baby. Good money.

But Germany was what we were talking about. I think. I'm not sure sometimes where I'm going with these, but I just keep trudging.

My family lived in a poor part of a small town that was basically 90 percent illegal immigrants packed into houses. The area was, I guess, nice in the 60's. Then the agriculture business stepped up. Then the houses got cheaper. Then the gangs came in and then most people moved out and away. I'll be the first to say that my parents left there first. They had met each other at school. Two 100 percent Germans, except for my dad. Grandpa drank. So I kinda grew up in an enviroment that, as Michele knows, has alot to do with soft tacos and chimichangas. Seems all I eat is tacos and enchiladas anymore. Yes, I can make some food like you wouldn't believe. Yes, I gave that all up now cause I just eat fast food now. But, back then all I ate were two things. Mexican food and German food.

I can see the way this post is going now. I must be hungry.

But German food! That's good stuff. Mana from the gods. Something that would make you question your reason in life. Was it procreating? Or just eating shitloads of sausage and other foods. Getting German food where I live now is impossible. It's been years since I tasted any real German food. Hell, I can go to the one of thousands of Mexican places around here, but good German food? Not gonna happen.

I remember walking home from a store and seeing cars surrounding my house. Not like the usual cars. Older ones. Like older lady cars. You know the ones they drive. Insert your favorite old lady stereotype here.

If any of you don't know, my house was a gathering place everyday for the neighbor to come over to. Every day there would be a Pinnochle game going, money on the table, women in the kitchen cooking some kind of food, and a bunch of people watching TV. This was every day. It kinda got me used to sleeping with noise in the background for my later life, but at the time when I was younger, it was just annoying.

When I say every day, I'm serious. My grandparents had everyone over everyday.

But, today was different. These were different cars. Hm. I wondered what was going on. Why no one parked on the lawn. Where was the god damn accordian music? Why did this place smell like baby powder and perfume? I turned the corner into the kitchen. The usual suspects weren't there. There were no gamblers. No drinkers. No smoking. Something had happened here.

The table was surrounded by little old German ladies. All wearing crosses around their necks. What's with the crosses? I'll be the first to say I might have fucked up getting a pentagram tattoo on my chest, but all these ladies had crosses. That's boring. At least I was drunk when I got mine. What was their excuse? Oh, religion. I got it.

The stench was unbelievable. Boiled cabbage. Boiled onions. Boiled meat. Or maybe that was cooked meat. I don't know. All wrapped up in a doughy piece of bread and shoved in the oven. This is going to stink. Bread, in my opinion, stinks when you make it. Boiled cabbage, oh christ, that smells like a rotting body. Getting hungry yet? They were doing something with all this. Making something. Rolling away in complete concentration staring at the dough. Rolling it out. Ten were rolling. Two were boiling. About five out back drinking off my grandpas "kegerator". That was my beer. What did they think they were doing? Wanna stink up my house? Cool. Wanna drink the beer that I wasn't supposed to drink but I did anyways? Not cool. I was a kid. I didn't know. I asked Gamma what the hell was going on here? They were from her church. There was a sale coming up. A food sale. To benefit the church. Did I want to help?

You can guess my answer. I went to bed.

When I woke up the house was filled with this smell of heaven. I stumbled out and looked at what they were doing. They were gone. Church was over.The doors were shut. These were the days before I became a nudist, so it would have been cool if they were there anyways. Nowadays if that would have happened, they would have had a groggy naked turtle asking if anyone had a cigar. But, those were different times. My Gamma sat smoking looking at me. Pissed in that Gamma way that I didn't help her. Gammas are masters at that, hm, "why didn't you help look". I lit a cigarette and just got a glass of water. I was hungry. Sure, I was sorry I didn't help, but I was still hungry. Something smelled good. I asked her what they made.

Bierocks!

This was Germany. This was food. Cabbage, meat, Tapitio (I had to have hot sauce, always), and bread! This food was perfect. Three ziplock bags in the freezer. Each with a name on them for someone who lived in the house. Evidentally, they had made about 200 or so. I guess. They took them all to the church for the sale, but left some for us. I had about 10 or 12 waiting for me in the freezer. This food goes so well with beer. It is the uber Hot Pocket. Think those pizza rolls are good? Try one of these. They look like hell but the taste like heaven. When you ate these you had the feeling like the power you had in you might make you take over you brothers room in the middle of the night and stamp a flag in his toy chest with a big "turtle" symbol on it screaming about how if he just shuts up and gives you all his toys, this would go alot easier. Cause you had ways of making him talk.

There's something with Germans, food, beer and world domination.

I tasted that power that day. And I wanted more. I also wanted my brothers Lego's so it all kinda worked out that night.

Also, Italy sucks.

My prediction: Italy 0 Germany 1

Cause if you got the balls to eat this kind of food and still be able to take over a toy chest in the middle of the night, you know you can take a soccer game.

That's all I got. - T

Italy

Funny how this worked out. Both of us rooting for USA, of course, then both turning our allegiances to Brazil and now it’s come to this. Italy v. Germany. My ancestry vs. Turtle’s. Rammstein v. hmmm....Lacuna Coil? That’s all I get?

When I was in fourth grade I had this teacher who was really into this heritage thing. We should all honor our heritage. Know it. Love it. Live it. She wore lederhosen to school. Just to prove a point. Well lady, you really don’t want me to come to school dressed like an Italian, do you? Because at that point in my life I thought Italians all wore pinstripe suits and fedoras and carried around machine guns in violin cases. Unless you were my grandfather. Then it was a wine stained wifebeater and a pair of chinos. Grandma? She was always in one of those baggy house dresses with her boobs hanging down to the ground, resting just at the spot where her pantyhose started to bunch up. I don’t think Mrs. Marjoroski wanted me to come to school dressed like any of that.

So Italians. Are they better than Germans? Well, is that what this is really supposed to be about? I don’t know what Turtle is writing about but knowing him it’s gonna end up being about hookers and chili dogs and have nothing to do with Germany, Italy or the World Cup. That’s just the way it goes around here. I’m trying to stick to the topic but all I keep seeing in my head is plates of spaghetti and meatballs and platters of cannoli and machine guns in violin cases. And zeppoles. Oh yea. Zeppoles rock the house. Do Germans have a dessert like that? Yea, you can keep your German chocolate cake. And Linzer tarts. And apple strudel. And black forest cake. Ohhh....black forest cake..... No. No, you will not convert me to the German side with dessert. Not when we have zeppoles.

What’s a zeppole, you ask? Well, it’s a clump of deep fried dough covered with powdered sugar. Sounds appetizing, doesn’t it? Well, it is. Really. You get them at street fairs. You know the second you walk into a street fair if they have a zeppole booth. Just wait for the smell of grease and oil mingled with a teeth-clenching sweetness. Follow that smell. Like Toucan Sam. Follow your nose. Wherever it goes......to the greasy doughs.....ok, I’m not gonna start rhyming here. Don’t worry.

So you find the zeppole guy. You order one. Well, you order a bunch of them at most places. You get like six at a time. In a white paper bag. The bottom of the bag turns dark as the grease just seeps through. The bag is heavy, like there are stone weights inside. Yea, you are gonna put these things in your stomach. You have to. You taste just one and it melts in your mouth and you can’t resist. It doesn’t matter that two minutes later you feel like someone dropped a rock in your belly, you keep eating. Two. Three. All six are gone. Your fingers are slimy with grease, you have confectioner’s sugar all over your shirt and you weigh 20 more pounds than you did a minute ago but damn, that was good. And when you go on a spinny ride right after you eat these and you start puking up zeppoles when you walk off the ride, remember to thank an Italian for that. (and i need to go on record here as saying that the only true zeppoles are the one i describe. no fruit, no cream, no custard or any of that shit. just grease and flour and sugar)

One year grandma was recruited to make zeppoles for the church fair. She in turn recruited her grandkids. And by recruit, I mean force us into slave labor. Ten of us in her hot kitchen. Fucking up the yeast so it didn’t rise. Grandma cursing at us in Italian. Something about go fuck yourself you stupid bastard. Rolling dough. Getting the sticky dough all over the place. The floor. The counter. The ceiling? Well yea, that’s what happens in a dough fight. Grandma invoking Jesus, Mary, Joseph and a couple of saints I didn’t recognize. Testa di Merda? Was she a saint? Then lugging ten huge cooking pots filled with this leaden dough down to the church, rolling the dough up into balls and throwing them into vats of boiling oil. Fucking A. Grease balls. That’s what you call us. That’s what we called zeppoles.

Grease, it’s what we do. Pizza. I’m not talking about that thick crusted crap or deep dish or anything with pineapples. I’m talking real pizza. Made by a guy who barely speaks English, a guy who probably could eat twenty zeppoles, go on a titl a whirl and not puke, a guy who can spin a circle of pizza dough the way a DJ spins a record. In the air, no less. The crust is thin and there is a layer of grease on this pizza and when you fold it in half and hold it above your mouth you let the red-tinted grease slide down the cheese and into your mouth. That is a fucking slice of pizza. Don’t ever let me see you patting that grease off with a napkin. I know people. People who make cement for a living. You ruin that perfect slice of pizza with your non-grease sensibilities and you might find yourself with a new pair of shoes, if you know what I mean.

Cause I know people. They wear pinstripe suits and carry violin cases. They run garbage disposal cartels and say things like “leave the gun, take the cannolis.” They don’t eat pussy desserts like Apple Strudel or Black Forest Cake. They don’t drink beer from steins or eat food that looks like misshapen penises. Come on, tell me bratwurst doesn’t border on pornographic. Italians eat deep fried squid and deep fried dough and drink gallons of wine right out of the jugs. They don’t wear lederhosen and dance the polka. They wear wifebeaters and sit in a saloon singing Jimmy Roselli songs while banging back shots of Sambuca. Italians are hardcore. Germans? Fucking lederhosen, man. Need I say more?

The winner here? Let’s see. Who helped their grandma cook the food they were going to feast on and who said fuck it and went to bed?

Italy 1, Germany 0 - M

Decendants - I Like Food
Fantomas - The Godfather Waltz
Rammstein - Engel
Rammstein - Du Hast
Business England 5 - Germany 1

Our music is angrier than Italian music, thus by Divine Intervention we will win. Like we did those World Wars.... wait..... shit.... my analogies suck. - T

Update: Michele was right. Germany is out. Italy moves on to play France in the Final while Germay will play Portugal for 3rd place. poo - T

Posted by Michele Christopher at 1:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (13) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

*sidenote * Since the USA has been defeated in World Cup and we are out, we at Faster Then The World have formed an alliance with another team in our league. We want to keep the World Cup stories going on here. Hey, we knew we weren't gonna get far. We are the USA. Miracle on Ice shit happens once every thirty years. We are not stupid. But an alliance has been formed. Brazil will take us there. BRAZIL! BRAZIL! BRAZIL! Oh hell. You guys know they are gonna win anyway. But from now on, Michele will be topless screaming about Sepultura and I will be eating BBQ Chicken laughing as our dark allies take this thing. Go Brazil!

*wait, it's another side note* I just want to say this is a great story turtle wrote. Also: BRAZIL! I mean...Sepultura. Max Cavalera. Half naked women. Sepultura. Brazil, fuck yea! -M

Buf for now, let's get back to World Cup USA.

Well that was it. Pasedena done. That was the match. It was over. Meh. I just wanted another beer and a ride home. We beat Columbia and we had moved on. We were going on. But to where?

What? We play in Palo Alto next? Oh yeah! We won! I need to be there! I need to see this! It's when? July 4? Oh my god! We have to be there! Against who? Who? Awwww shit...

Brazil v USA
2nd round
Palo Alto, Californina
July 4th, 1994

Have we ever gotten this far? I know we haven't since I was alive. I was used to us getting pretty much cleaned up. But, we moved on in this one. We made the 16! Pack your stuff cause we are going. We are gonna make this. Hitting the road at four in the morning. Enough beer and drugs to last us til six in the morning. Maybe. Did we? Idunno. We will cross that road when we come to it. Packing into a van. We are on our way. Van smells. There's still cans in here from three months ago. Christ. Doesn't anyone bother to clean this thing? Anyways. Let's go. This is July 4th. We were gonna get in to this show. We do this for America. And cause Brazil can suck me.

That's the way it works.

It's usually pretty bad at soccer matches, but now it was July 4th. This was gonna get ugly. You could feel it in your bones. They knew it and we knew it. This wasn't a day of a match. This was a day of telling us how Americans suck. Not only did we pop the group, we were playing Brazil. This just got serious. This might be rough. Get ready for some fucking abuse cause you are gonna hear it today.

Sun comes up. Lost in East Palo Alto. Man, I thought I grew up in a ghetto. Burned out schools and gun and liquor stores. I was just confused. Lost. We didn't know where the hell Stanford was at. We were lost. Just driving thru slow while looking for someone to get directions from. Like Chevy Chase in "Vacation," we heard many obscenities yelled at us.Hey man, just asking directions. You don't need to tell me you kill me if I look at you again in the eyes. This isn't jail dude. We really don't need to go there today. Driving out of there after figuring out the "East" part in EPA and finding the staduim.

Wow. This town changes as fast as Fresno does. Bad to good in like one minute. East is bad. West is good. Really fast. Burned out homes and gansters suddenly turned into Victorian houses and old ladies walking dogs. We still didn't know if we were in the right place. I looked out the window to see what I could see. Old ladies. Dogs. As we kept going, the old ladies were wearing less and less clothes. The also got a lot younger. They also became more tan. The dogs suddenly turned into beer in their hands. The leash was replaced by a bottle. Suddenly they were wearing thongs. And those thongs started having the Brazlian flag on their asses. And their breasts started hanging out. Way out.

We found it!

A knowing look was passed back and forth between us. This was it. Park the car. Let's go. Shut up and park this thing. This is gonna be good.

I put my foot on the ground and stepped out of the van. Streched. Lit a cigarette and was immediately hit up by two vendors. One with beer for sale. One with plastic American flags for sale. Hm. Tough decision.

I'll go ahead and say I love America, but dude, beer. Rolled right up to you in a little wagon covered in ice. Hell, all they have to do is piss it out for you and you won the lotto. Two for a dollar. The flags could wait. I'm loading up my pockets. The flag could be great, but hell man, I wanna be numb. And red, white and blue won't do that to me. Unless it's on a tab of LSD. Then it could, but that's another story. So I bought six. Not flags, beer. That was pretty cheap really. I mean jeez dude, considering I'll be paying five bucks a cup when I get in, I might as well load my barrels before I go in. I'm always gonna be an American, but I'm not always gonna be pissed and drunk yelling at Brazilians. Priorites, dude, priorities.

So that was it. Slamming down beer, going to the match that would make or break the USA. Smelling the dust already. One more turn. What the hell was going on up here? We hear the sound, but can't see anything. What the hell is going o................WHHHHHHOOOOOOOAAAAAAAA!!!!!

ALRIGHT!!!!

This is a Brazilian street party! Holy shit! This was big! No one was going in! None of them! No tailgate! Nothing! Just a street party with thousands! Huge! Vendors! Dancers! Bands! Jesus! These guys do this right! They took these streets over! They made it just made it a big party! A huge party!!

Thousands of dancers clogged the street. Half naked and sometime topless women dancing around with big feather head dress thingies. Ok. This is where I want to be. Brazil must be filled with beautiful women. This is cool. I like this. I'm not going in till the ball is god damn dropped. No. Don't ask me again. This is where I want to be. This is where the fun is. Let me know when we have fifteen minutes to go. Then I'll go in. But untill then...here dude, I'm staying right here. Right in the middle.

The funny thing was, they weren't nice to us. They actually kinda hated us. I know I'm not the nicest person. I'm not gonna fool you by saying I'm perfect, but I always wanted to have fun. Well, I'm actually a really nice guy, but that's besides the point. Chants of "USA GOODBYE TODAY!! USA GOODBYE TODAY!!" was pretty much all I heard. Sure, words were exchanged. But it seemed all they wanted to do was hang out with other Brazilians. This wasn't like Columbia. These guys just wanted to have fun, not talk to us and mock us. But to just hang around each other? Hm. Well this is no good. They wouldn't even sell me tacos while they pretended they didn't speak English.

Well fuck. I speak Spanglish, so they have to be able to understand that.

I was told by my friend that Portuguese is their official language.

The fuck is that?

Hm. I think they are ignoring me. Yeah. I'm smart like that. I can figure this stuff out.

No churros for the turtle. No bueno big guy.

Crap. These guys aren't mean. They are just rude. Just acting like we didn't exist. "USA GOODBYE TODAY!" Loud. And we weren't even inside yet? Really. The hell with this. These guys are dicks. Let's get out of here. Let's go inside.

Entering inside. You knew this was gonna get good. If you thought the face paint was bad in Pasedena? That wasn't shit. Everyone had it on. I didn't this time. I don't know why I didn't, but I just didn't. I was just a little too drunk? Maybe? Anyways. Walking in with Brazilians and Mexicans yelling in our faces. Yes, believe it on not, fans take up sides when it comes to soccer. They make allegiences to take people out till they eventually have to face each other. So we had no one on our side. This was kinda like a bad episode of "Survivor." We knew we were gonna be voted off the island but we had to try. Looking around. Seeing huge, and I mean huge, flags coming in to drape the crowd during the game. People wearing Alexi afros and goatees. And me. With no shirt on. Wondering if I should have done more.

Oh well. Sometimes you fuck up. Maybe I should've put some effort into this.

Ball dropped. Let's do this. I won't lie and say this was an exciting game. Brazil is not known for their, hm, offensive play. Kinda the reason the English Leagues are so much more fun to watch in World Cup. Those leagues play fast. But the teams over here have a different style. Slow the ball down. Pass a lot. Wait for that once chance shot. I'm not knocking it. It works for them. But it's just not as exciting. It 's just like keep away. Meh. It works for them

We had some good chances that day. A lot, really. But it wasn't in the cards today.

Brazil 1

USA 0

We were out. Dammit. Now I gotta walk out to the van. Crap. I gotta go thru that crowd again. Crap. Lighting a cigarette waiting for the shit to start. But wait. What's going on here? Something was different. The street party was going again. Going big time. Bands were playing and people were dancing. But it was different. They didn't hate us anymore. I was being handed beer by Brazilians? They were dancing with me and hugging me? What the hell was going here? A chant was started by the Brazilians. What were they saying? Why are they looking at us and giving us food? What was that? What are they saying?

"GOD BLESS THE USA! GOD BLESS THE USA!"

WHAT?????

Are you kidding here? Hugging me and telling me how awesome we were while fireworks were going up behind me as we celebrated Fourth of July drinking beer and eating food together while half naked girls crowded the streets dancing? What? I think I found heaven. My team was out. But I wasn't angry. This is when I looked at them. Stared. Hard.

We started a chant. The USA. We realized it was over. We realized it was time to have fun. We countered them with "BRAZIL! BRAZIL! BRAZIL!" They might have won the match, but there was no way in hell they were going to outdo us in thanking them for playing us. No fucking way in hell.

Really dude, it was kinda neato. I really can't describe how amazing the feeling was. No one was going home. This street was ours. The Brazilians and the Americans. This was our town. We took this over. Palo Alto was ours. Two teams coming out of a war and shaking hands over tacos and half naked women while fireworks blasted off. We chanting about how cool the other team was. We had to come back. We had to be louder. If we didn't win, hell, at least we could have fun.

We yelled "BRAZIL! BRAZIL! BRAZIL!" at the top of our lungs while dancing with them while they yelled "GOD BLESS THE USA! GOD BLESS THE USA!" while we all ate tacos and listened to music from Brazil while the cops stood around and just looked confused. That was fun. That was two nations shaking hands.

Those were the Brazilians.

They won't let you walk away angry. Never.

Cause there is always another person to hug in the crowd, another taco to eat at that stand, and another beer to drink from your pocket.

I like Brazilians.

They rule.

Buena Vista Social Club - Chan Chan*
Sepultura - Roots, Bloody Roots
Sepultura - Rise Above (Black Flag)
Fishbone Party at Ground Zero

*We know this is Cuban music. But you guys get the idea.

Posted by Turtle Jones at 6:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

This is World Cup time. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Some of you find no interest in this. Sometimes we don't either. It's just what happens. We are really not interested in seeing two teams from countries that have no vowels in their names play. I mean really. I don't care about Gkdrflp v Wsxbzl. It all sounds like someone is trying to make us say it so we would be sent back to the 5th dimension and Superman could get us out of his way. Like we were doing anything that bad in the first place. But, anyways, thanks for sticking around for this segment of the site guys. We try not to focus on the game here but to just let ourselves go. Hope you enjoy today's edition of World Cup.

Before what could possibly be the last game for the USA in World Cup 2006, I decided to pay tribute to the one thing that matters the most in any game. Oh, and yes, I still have more World Cup stories and they will continue even if our shit ass team can't get out of the group and in doing so makes us all look like fools as a Nation.

Sorry. Kinda went off there.

I still haven't even got to USA v Brazil on July 4th, 1994 story. Or the Mexican v USA with a bunch of sombreros on the pitch with Mexicans crying story.

Jesus, USA. Gimmie some time here to get these out. Get out of the fucking group at least. This only comes around once every four years. I'm not a typing machine, for christ's sake. Try not to lose in the morning, please?

Went off again there. Sorry.

Anyways, this is about something that everyone knows and craves when they go to a stadium. This is something that after you find your seat, you want, nah, you need. Something like the last line of dope or that last space on the ground to sleep or that last change in your pocket.

Ok, maybe I'm being a little over dramatic there. Sometimes I do that.

But this is about something bigger. Not about a game. About a need. Something huge. Something that no matter how much we all hated each other and went out of our way to mock each other, we still both needed. The only thing that bridged two nations together. Like a peace treaty waiting to be signed. It was just waiting for out signatures.

Hot dogs and beer! The greatest two things to ever grace a stadium! Sure I can only partake in half of that nowadays, but back then, everyone would bump into each other in line. Push someone out of the way. The buzz is wearing off and the tummy is a grumblin'. Kinda say a meek "Sorry" and then move right by. Not really meaning a damn thing you say til you could get that dog in your mouth. God, that sounds gay. But not really thinking till you could say..."Chili dog and a Bud, please." Then you could all look at each other and think, this isn't a peace treaty. This was like the Tet offensive in Vietnam. You bastards lied to us. There were no peppers on this chili dog. This war was still fucking on. Nothing was over till I got peppers. Nothing. Was. Over. Till I got peppers.

You think this was over? You needed more. This wasn't done by a long shot. You needed more and the battle was thick in the pit. Crap. Drink a little of the beer with one hand and unfold the hotdog paper with the other. Get ready for the final battle. Like fucking Normandy, this was the big part. Stand or fall. They are doing it. You had to do it. Time to fight. Welcome to one handed chili dog handling with a Bud cup in your mouth. Slurp back a little more beer and bite the plastic cup. Here we go.

The condiment truck!

Oh yeah. You needed jalepenos. You needed nacho cheese, You needed relish. You needed extra onions. You needed it all. But there was always a price to pay. No one is going to put that relish on for you. No one is going to strategically place those peppers on your dog. This is all you. And you were alone in your mission. You want them, you get them. Push people out of the way. Everyone wanted to do what you were doing. They all wanted in. But the fuck if they gonna hold your beer. This is like something they should have been teaching on "Sesame Street." How to hold a beer by your teeth while pushing angry people while still managing not spill any of the golden drink of the gods. I could see Bert doing it now. "Kids? Today we will learn how sometimes you need to be a little evil to get extra peppers. This is how you do it." And Ernie comes in with a hotdog in his hands, drunk off his ass, plastic cup in his his mouth muffling something about "Fuck you, move" or "I'm sorry. I didn't know that was your foot." Pushing Bert to the ground for extra cheese sauce.

Bert getting up to bitch about how his beer was spilled. Yelling about how Ernie ran him over without even bothering to say "Excuse me".

Teaching kids an important lesson.

Hot dogs are good.

And beer makes a man mean when he can't have the proper condiments. -T

I’m kinda glad World Cup only comes around every four years. Makes it much easier to get into it. I have this attention deficit thing going on with sports. It’s like I blew my load as a fan for the first 30 years or so of my life and now I’m all bored and distracted. Another Stanley Cup come and gone? Gee, wasn’t it just yesterday when the Islanders were a dynasty? Who is this Carolina team? What can I say, I got bored. I dumped sports. Hell, I haven’t even watched a Yankee game this season and, if you know me, that’s saying something.

But the World Cup, every four years. I can get excited. It comes and goes within a month’s time. I don’t have devote half my year to it. I don’t have to sit through a lifetime’s worth of meaningless games before we get to the good stuff. It’s all excitement, all action packed into one month. The NBA should take a lesson from this!

What would be even cooler about this tournament is if somehow they were able to take my favorite elements from other sports and combine them with soccer (football, whatever). Grand slams, slam dunks, end zone dances! Oh, who am I kidding. There’s only one thing I’m looking for here.

Old time hockey. Eddie Shore.

Yea, bench clearing brawls in World Cup. How cool would that be? Ever since they fucked with the rules in the NHL, the game has not been nearly as interesting. I miss the good old days when men were men and hockey players didn't wear helmets and if your team was playing the Flyers, you could expect at least one big, bloody fight. Ok, so I'm a barbarian. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just that I was raised to believe that a hockey game wasn't complete until someone got a game misconduct. If two or three or even four people got a misconduct, all the better. If gloves were dropped and the fight got so huge even the goalies were pummeling each other and the refs just kind of stood back and let it all happen? That's a hockey orgasm right there. Now imagine World Cup with something like that. I mean, these guys are wearing steel cleats. No padding. No protection. No helmets.

Fuck those pansy ass colored cards. What is this, Uno? Start settling scores the hockey way. Someone was tripped, shoved, manhandled? Fisticuffs! Yea! Let’s go! Fullbacks and wingers and strikers slamming into each other, arms flying, legs kicking like a Pantera concert broke out in the middle of the field. Ever been in a Pantera pit? Just sayin’. Add spiked cleats and athletic people to that mix and you’ve got yourself a.....what’s that word? Donnybrook? Brouhaha? BRAWL! Oh yea, here come the forwards and...what? What are they doing? My GOD! They are tearing down the goal....they are...hey! They have torn the netting off the cage and they are wrapping it around the goalie’s neck! This is out of order! You’re all out of order! Here comes Ogie Oglethorpe! Whistles being blown. Blood splattering. The sound of crunching bones and heads breaking. Punches thrown, maybe some vomit and lost teeth scattered on the pitch.

And the crowd goes wild! WILD! Listen to those chants! No more Ole! Ole! Ole! What are they saying? Potvin sucks? What? Is that an octopus on the field? Are they going into the stands.....?

And from here it devolves into a nasty mix of hooligans, police, flying beer cups and chants of Hat Trick! Hat Trick! And once they cleared the field of bodies and pieces of torn skin, they would resume the game with whatever players didn’t get thrown out and, just to keep the football purists happy, it would end in some pussy shootout.

What? You don’t think that would be exciting? Old time hockey meets English football? It’s the best of both worlds, kinda like hemaphroditic porn.

Hanson Brothers The Hockey Song
Vandals - Change the World With My Hockey Stick

Posted by Michele Christopher at 6:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Hey, did I mention this site now has an About Page? Ok, got that out of the way.

Yea, we've got World Cup Fever. I know a lot of you aren't really interested in some guys in shorts kicking a ball around, but we try to keep our WC posts more about the stories behind the games (or, im some cases, about sex, because when it comes down to it, everything is about sex) than the actual game itself. No one really wants to read a recap of a game they didn't care about to begin with, so we won't bore you with the details of the goals and cards and groupings and whatnot. Hell, I won't even go into the whole homoerotic group hugs that go on after each goooooal, or the time some player scored and his teammate got so excited he went down on him right there on the field. No shit. Really happened. That's football. Soccer. Whatever.

But you know how we work here. If we're gonna write about soccer football, we're gonna work in oh, the Grateful Dead, Columbian cocaine cartels and Jimmy Dean sausage. It's what we do. We try to make even a sport you hate kind of interesting to you. So in that respect Turtle has a story to tell (completely absent of any Little House references!), because he's been to a few of these World Cup games and, as always, he made an adventure out of it. -M

June 22, 1994 at Pasadena, CA
First Round: USA v. Columbia

What the hell are you all putting on? On your face? That stuff? What the hell is that? Zinc Oxide? I have to do it too? What's with the colors?

World Cup 1994!

Face covered in the colors of the American flag. Patriotism shown in the form of capitalism. Another stripe across my face. Feeling, well, kinda stupid, but doing it just the same. Applying zinc oxide in the colors of the USA all over my face. What the hell was I doing...sheesh...ok...put more on...sheesh..one more star on my cheek...a little more there too...sheesh....hand me a beer...jeez...i feel stupid...

We have to go where? Ok. Pasadena. How are we getting there? Do we even have tickets? Is that the Rose Bowl? Where the hell is Pasadena? Jesus. Let's just go.

Welcome to the turtle's first experience in watching World Cup finals. We had no tickets and no food. Twelve pack of beer and no ride out of there. So we were kinda fucked. Just a whim to have some fun. Big place. We knew we could get there. Hitchhiking's easy to get to a show. To GET to a show. But since we didn't have tits, getting home might be a problem. Not knowing how the hell we were going to get back. Hey dude, it's cool. We can do it. So we got picked up. That's what we did. It was easy. Anyone who picks up a couple of hitchhikers covered in face paint slamming back Natural Light with cigarettes hanging out their mouths gets what they deserve. I wouldn't have picked us up. We kinda looked like stumble offs from the Manson farm. Looking like we wanted to kill someone to make some weird political statement. Something about beer, face paint and Camel unfilters. Fuck if I know. I stopped caring years ago. But someone did. Someone stopped. Actually the van picked us was filled with people who all looked the same. All face paint. Well, I guess my uniqueness idea had totally been blown to shit with the sunscreen. Jesus. We all looked alike. All the same. But, I had a secret weapon. Something they didn't know about. But, we can talk about that later.

Drinking beer the entire way. Everyone wondering what would happen in the game. Who would win? Who would advance? This is the farthest USA has gotten in along time. Would anything go wrong? Was anyone hurt today? Anyone not playing?

A lot of questions going around while the only one on my mind was "Does anyone have an extra ticket?"

Oh yeah. No tickets. Kinda like a Dead show, we needed a miracle. Damn. I'm ashamed I even know that reference. I think I'm gonna go cry now. But you all damn well know you went to a Dead show parking lot to score drugs at least once in your life, so you can't bag me on that one. Cause you know you did it too. Don't lie. I did it too. Stinky hippies, patchouli oil and dope. That's a dead show. And we all did it to get high.

Driving to the match with a bunch of people who were a little older then me (notice who i didn't say a bunch of old fucks cause I'm their age now) slamming back cheap beer as they all got stoned and shoved back cold hot dogs. Couldn't wait for the tailgate I guess. Asking them if they had any extra tickets. Yeah yeah yeah. I need a miracle and shit. Making fun of me starts in 3...2....1...

Two extra tickets!

yayayayayayayayayayayaya!

Pulling off my shirt, I revealed the secret weapon. A huge "COLMBIA SUCKS OR HOWEVER THE FUCK YOU GUYS SPELL IT" written on my chest in black zinc oxidide.. Oh yeah, I was different back then. Well, not really. I still live for fun, but I went a little far on that one.

side note * If any of you are new here and don't know how World Cup works, it's like a war. Read the first post about it*

Let's go in. Oh yeah. We are going in. Two idiots dressed in shorts with face paint and halfway drunk. We should have been called the "turtle nation." Totally fired up and shot in the same second. That fucks your head up bad. Getting yelled at by Columbians while just walking by looking for a place to smoke a cigarette. Maybe you should put your shirt back on? Nah, dude. I hate Columbia. Why? I dunno. I just do. And this is still before we hit the gates.

Dude, you want to see out of control? This thing still had hours till it started. I still had beer and the tailgate was coming up. Slam your beers and get ready to make friends if you are out there. Talk fast. Pretend you can speak Spanish and get ready to laugh at some fucking wierd show on TV they are watching. You wanna eat? You better be able to talk. Rules of the tailgate. You gotta kiss some ass to get in on those chicken wings. It's like watching natural selection at work. Those who can't bullshit and make friends get no Jimmy Dean's Sausage Patties. And that's like death on the Galapagos Islands. No Jimmy Dean. No life.

Maybe I'm going a little far on that one. Jimmy Dean wasn't that good.

But anyways.

I wander around the parking lot looking for someone I can attach my parasitic teeth into and get some free food. Maybe beer! Someone. Anyone. Who looks cool.....the Columbians over there. They look cool. They are having fun. I want to be there. Now. I want to be there. Follow me. Maybe they have some Columbian version of Jimmy Dean. Or maybe they have Jimmy Dean but it's called something different. Jesus Desories. It's like Jimmy Dean sausage with a side of cocaine. And maybe a few beers. And maybe more cocaine. Whatever it was. It smelled good. I like like Columbians. They cook good smelling food type stuff, so they must be cool. These are my friends now. These are my friends now.

Oh yeah. USA fans?. They aren't too much fun. They don't know how to do this right. I wanna get high and all my stereotypes about Columbians are coming out in full throttle. Cocaine cartels. Cocaine cartels. Cocaine cartels. All Columbians have cocaine. I think it comes daily in the mail to them. Cocaine....cocaine.

These guys were big. Not only were they big, they were loud. Walking up to them, I kinda killed the idea of asking anyone for dope. I've already got lucky enough from getting a ticket. Why push it? Let's just get a free burger and call it a good day. These guys were the kind who you think, that might be a gun in their hand or a chainsaw. Or maybe I watched "Scarface" too much. Didn't matter. They drank a lot and ate alot of BBQ. Hey, that's cool in my book. Let's have some fun and get this going. Call me an asshole American all you want. As long as I can call you a Columbian cocaine cocksucker we can be friends. Just hand me a burger. I can be friends with anyone as long as they hand me a burger. Even the English.

See, you have to realize that this was the first, and so far the only time, that a British team has not been in the World Cup finals since they started to participate in the tournament. So they were kinda, well, pissed. I guess there's no other way to explain it. They were pissed. Their fans who had bought tickets six months before and flew to the USA? One word, dude. Pissed. So when one of them started yelling at the crowd about how bad Columbia and USA sucked while I was getting a hotdog, you know I had to say something. "Hey kid. Look around you. Do you see who you are surrounded by? Might not be a good idea to keep yelling that. This is getting a little ugly here kid. Cause they will stop you before you start. Just think about it before you tell us all we are pig bastards motherfuckers again cause here's your warning."

Hey, sorry England. You didn't make it but hell, we didn't get that far so who am I to say anything.

Walking downstairs. Tired from the heat, beer and frustration. Just wanting another beer, and a smoke. Then I heard it. I heard a cheer. The entire floor was jumping! People were screaming! Something happened! Something so loud it blew my ears out. See, this is back when I could hear. Now things are a lot more muffled. But this place went wild! What happened?

Slammed my beer and ran up to see what was going on. Pushed people out of the way to see. What was going on? Who scored? Are we out? Are we in? Do we advance?

We scored!

We are going to Palo Alto!

Fuck yeah!

They are going home!

We had won.

A Columbian player had shot on his own goal keeper. Trying to pass it back? I dunno. I really didn't see it. Hotdogs deserve a man's full attention. Hotdogs demand to be praised and worshiped and covered in mustard! Cause that's what they do! Worship the dog of of the gods!

Plus they are fucking five bucks a pop so might as well suck every meaty goodness out of them cause eating one of these means you are out of beer money for tonight. But damn, they are good.

Anyways. Whatever happened happened. Scored on his own team. Passed it back to the keeper as his eyes were focused somewhere else. The keeper had missed it.

That player had put us through. The Columbian. Simple mistake. He put us up in the ranks, but killed his own team. But, this was not good for him. You could see it in his eyes. He looked terrified. He had signed his own death warrent and lit his last cigarette. His team hated him. His country hated him. He was kinda in a bad situation.

When I saw the way his team looked at him at the end of the game I knew this was no good. He might have fucked up bad.

In 1994, defender Andrés Escobar scored an own goal in a World Cup match against the United States; shortly after the team returned to Columbia, Escobar was murdered. For his mistake.

That's World Cup.

Sometimes shit happens.

And sometimes it's all fucked up.

I told you this was serious.

This is World Cup. -T

Nashville Pussy - All Fucked Up
7 Seconds - Here's Your Warning
Steel Pole Bathtub - Train to Miami

note from M: Turtle's a pretty good storyteller, isn't he? You can just picture him sitting by a fireplace, telling stories to all the wide-eyed kids in his family who have gathered to hear his tales. Well, no. Scratch that. Don't want to frighten the kiddies or worse, turn them to a life of debauchery. More like sitting around with a bunch of people like you and I who stare at him incredulously half the time saying you did what? How are you still alive? I don't know about you but I enjoy the hell out of his stories and I just want to thank him for sharing them with me and all of you. He spends a lot of time on this stuff (including the underground stories) and sometimes, for various reasons, these things aren't always easy for him to write. But he does, because he likes to make people smile and laugh. It's what he does. And I think he's pretty good at it. -M

Posted by Turtle Jones at 10:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Since this is World Cup month we have to decided to focus on something a little different. USA is playing Italy today. So that means the typical thing. Turtle hides till it is over cause he can't watch, then either is happy or pissed the rest of the day while Michele types up tons of material just waiting to the end to call turtle. It's just the way it is and have come to terms with it. But, in the meantime, we thought we would do something fun. We have decided to do something Italian. Not like have sex with an Italian or anything like that, althought it's always on your shelled swimmer's mind, but talk about their cars.

Well, I don't know how much of the game I'm going to actually see either, because my son's baseball team is playing in their league's championship game today. Damn it all. Well yea, I'm happy they are in the game but I want to see USA play, too. Would it be rude if I brought one of those hand held tvs to the game? Hey, don't laugh. I once listened to a Yankees World Series game on my Walkman during an REM concert. And dude, the Yankees lost and it was still better than sitting through that. But that's all off topic. We're here to talk shit about Italians.

See, I can make fun of Italians because I am one. That’s the way it works, right? Good. Then let’s do this.

Ever date an Italian guy? I mean a real Italian guy, the kind who slicks his hair back and wears muscle shirts and an Italian horn on a gold chain around his neck, which chain sometimes gets caught in all that chest hair? The kind who says “fuggedaboutit” or talks like Rocky Balboa searching for (Yo) Adrienne? These guys are all slick and wily and there’s just something about them that says “Hey, trust me. No, don’t trust me. Don’t get in this car with me. Cause while I may tell you that you’re beautiful and I only have eyes for you, all I really want is to cop a feel of those titties and see where it takes us.” You get in the car anyhow, hoping against hope that it will be a good date, but it turns out the guy can’t hold a conversation above third grade level and his mind tends to wander even then. All style, no substance. Kinda like the Lamborghini.

What? I’m gonna bag on the Lamborghini? Damn straight. Ok, here’s the thing. I don’t really care for Italian guys. They aren’t the kind of guy that turns my head. I like mine with blonde hair and blue eyes and a vocabulary that stretches beyond the boundaries of one or two syllable words. And some tattoos. And not tattoos that say “Italian Stallion” or “ragazzo dei momma.” Same with cars. I don’t care for the Lamborghini. Too much....something. Just too much of everything maybe. I like my cars fast, yea. But I like them to look tough, too. Not like some automotive equivalent of a guido. The way the hood slopes down in the front makes the headlights look almost menacing, as if the car is saying “Hey, trust me. No, don’t trust me.” Really, if you look real hard at it, it looks like a car that just wants to get in your pants. Like you’d get behind the wheel and drive it and think meh, this car is a sloppy kisser who can’t fulfill my needs. Never mind that it looks all put together nice and is all sleek and shit, it’s just not what I’m looking for. I mean, look at the back end. Come on, is that necessary? It looks like a fucking jet pack or something, like the car is trying to make you think it can lift off and fly you away somewhere nice. When all it really wants to do is entrap you inside and feed off your soul. What? Have you never seen the Lamborghini Diablo?

Give me a good American sports car over this any day. Like a Mustang. A Mustang tells you what it is right from the start. It looks at you and says “Hey, I wanna be your friend. Let’s go for a ride, play some tunes, drive real fast and just have fun together. What happens after that, happens. But we’re gonna have some fun together.” It’s not trying to get up your shirt or down your pants. It’s not making evil eyes at you. And it doesn’t have more back hair than Magilla Gorilla.

What I’m trying to say here is..umm...go USA! Yea. - M

Oko. I'm gonna be the first to say I only know one Italian that talks like what she described above. Hey dude. I'm not from New York. I've never seen Saturday Night Fever. When that movie came out I was still figuring out what this outtie was on my skin. Why didn't they have them. Those girls over there. Why didn't they have them.

Show and tell was a little different for me. Oh yeah. I was a playa in third grade. Don't hate the player, man. Hate the game.

Hey, she said blond hair? Didn't she? Up there? Didn't she? Blue eyes? Tattoos? Michele? Are you talking about me? All you have to do is add in a rabid love of "24" and you got me nailed.

Anyways, I'm just gonna keep going til I figure this one out and think about getting Nachos for dinner. See. Right there. You can tell I'm from California. I'm not used to this 100% Italian shit. We are all mutts here.

We broke a frontier and fucked anyone and everyone. Hey dude. If it's walking and breathing, we could give a flying fuck about where the fuck their father or grandfather was from. Only if it has tits and a smile and spread its legs. But that's Califonia. How do you think the Bay Bridge was built? Sex. It was all built on sex. Just one wild sex farm building an entire state. We like sex. That's why I love California. And I'll sink with it when it falls into the seeeeeeaaaaaaaaa.

*See how I tossed in a punk rock reference there? I can do that. Cause I'm the mayor.

But I digress.

Jeez, Im all horny now thinking about Charles getting some on Little House while screaming "How can I cum! Laura's blind! How can I cum?!?!" Hey dude. My mind works like that. Frontier sex and blindness. Don't ask me were it comes from and don't ask me to write just after I woke up either or you will hear a little story about Mary getting in to make it a threesome. That's just the way it works.

Ok. Sorry about that. Let's get back on to the car.

That's it. Maserati 3500GT Spyder. That car meant you were rich as fuck. That car was success and stupidity all rolled into one "I make alot of money" joint and smoked in public. A car that you would see in LA and just think...producer, director, actor, or rap star. These cars meant you had cash coming out your ass. Those were the type of people who drove these things. These were the cars that attracted the snooty uphand citizens of society. Nothing made me hate these cars more. Arrogant assholes. These meant you had so much money, you could blow it on a car like this while I was shoplifting ding-dongs and cigarettes. Damn you. Nothing cou.....wait.....hold on.....wait!

Ted Nugent drove one!

The Nuge!I They must be cool!! He killed things with his bare hands!! His bare god damn hands! The Nuge!

Ok.

Then these cars must be cool. Cause hey dude. If Nuge would drive it. It is cool. Cause he is a cool guy. And cool guys drive cool cars.

Plus he kills things with his bare hands. -T

New Bomb Turks -Tattooed Apathetic Boys
Ted Nugent - Wango Tango
Youth Brigade - Sink With California

Posted by Michele Christopher at 8:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

The turtle is not happy about what happened yesterday. I'll go ahead and say it. We better get out of our fucking group. God dammit. One down isn't that big of a deal. But, meh. It doesn't make me happy. I know... It happens. But it's always kinda lame to wake up to your team getting smoked on the daily news. Purposely going back to sleep or not talking to anyone because you really don't wan't to know about what is happening in a game you can't see. Hey dude, I isolated and slept for this game. I napped for the USA! I did my god damn time. What the fuck happened there? Grrrrrrrrrr. Since I don't go to bars anymore, I can't really participate in the live shit. And you guys already know that I don't have cable. So grrrrrrrrr.....r.... *extra "r" cause this really pisses me off*

But there was something I saw in the highlights. Something that made me remember the older days of World Cup. Bodies on the ground and people who looked to be in indescribable pain. Like they just got their balls cut off. Like the pain was so bad, they needed a bullet to be put straight through their skull so they can die an honarable death. Something was really wrong with these guys. They were hurt. They were on the ground after a mean tackle. It seemed their life might end. You could see the anguish in their eyes. See their tears. Feel their pain.

Only one thing can save these pitiful mortals from shoving off their mortal coil. One thing. Only one thing. They needed it. And they needed it now.

Magic Spray!!

Fuck yeah!

This is stuff that made humans whole again. It brought life back into wounded warriors!!

Magic Spray! Gimmie some of that, god dammit!

If you don't know what I'm talking about, Magic Spray was a bottle of Magic Water that was brought out when a player was on the ground. As he sat and prayed that jesus would take him away for his injury and thinking he would never walk straight again, it was sprayed on by the team doctor. No. Not sprayed. Covered on. Just sprayed till it dripped off of his legs. The Magic Spray dripped in and dripped off. The Magic soaked into pores. The Magic was working. The player could stand! Magic Spray!

But you have to realize....Magic Spray is difficult to work with. Too much can kill you. You have to be careful with that stuff. Pure Magic. Uncut Magic. You have to be careful. Too much would turn his leg into a fucking toad or Velvetta Cheese or something weird like that. Those who worked with this amazing vial of power liquid should not be called "Team Doctors." With a spray this powerful they should be called Wizards! Keepers of the Spray! The Wizards who held the Magic Spray, which really kinda looked more like water....but we can discuss the details later.

"A man is hurt! A man is down! Call the Wizard and the Magic Spray! Summon the Wizard now!"

A little man with a cloak comes running out on the field clutching a little bottle full of something. Was that water? What was that?

No. It wasn't water. It was Magic. He had the Magic. He held it in his hands. His work will soon be done.

Hey! That sounds like a damn good name for a childrens book. hm..it does..."Call the Wizard and the Magic Spray!"

Meh.

Knowing me it would probably end up like some lesbian bondage book with alot of whips and alot of Whopper Jr's...but I'm getting off track here.

The Magic Spray! Everyone on the team loved it. It meant that after 84 or so gruelling god damn minutes, someone took a dive so the rest of the team could breathe. Thank god someone took one for the team. I'm seeing stars, the fucking Wizard is waiting at the sidelines and it was only a matter of time before this happened. Cause he must be really hurt. Really. Rel...heyyyyyy...it's the Wizard! Can we stop talking about this now? The Wizard is out, god dammit. Someone really must be hurt. Really. I am serious. He must be hurt. He has no other motivations. Really. He's hurt.

This was the time the players all could rest.They could all sit down and ask themselves why the fuck they got into this sport. Maybe that job at dad's accounting firm wasn't such a bad idea anymore. Hey dude. Don't knock it. Accounting groupies can suck the life out of your cock while doing your taxes at the same time. Fuck H & R Block. They are H & R Suckmeoff. Different firm. But just as sexy. Accountant groupies. Asking someone if you are using the right tax form while asking them to use not as much teeth. That's golden. Pure gold. Getting your taxes done that is. For free. And the blowjob. Taxes for free. I mentioned the bowjob right? Ok. Thought I did. The free blowjob? I mentioned that, right? Blowjob.

Anyways, Looking at a player in pain thinking "please god, let him pull this off for a few more seconds, I can't fucking breathe, please stay down till I can catch my breath, please...oh fuck...here comes the Team Wizard...gotta get up. Fuck"

The Magic Spray was on and all the players collectively sighed as they put their hands in the ground and stood up. Knuckles in the pitch as the pushed themelves up. The injured player looking at his knee. Wow. It's ok again! Smile. Stand up. Dance around. Shaking his fucking leg like nothing had ever happened. Smiling and dancing around. A little shake and he was good to go!

The Magic Spray worked again! All hail the Wizard and the Magic Spray ! All hail the Spray that came down like mana from heaven! All hail the Spray! Once again it had saved the day!

All the while, in the back ,the other players stood and asked themselves "why couldn't he have rolled around for a
few more minutes? Just a few fucking more seconds?"

Magic Spray is an evil mistress. You never know when you go too far with it and someone is always gonna be pissed you didn't do enough of it.

The power of the Magic Spray.

Like with everything in life.

With great power comes great responsibilty.

That was the Magic Spray. -T

Black Sabbath - The Wizard

Posted by Turtle Jones at 6:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

USA is playing their first game today - in about 40 minutes - against the Czech Republic and I thought we should at least mention it given that we've been doing all this World Cup stuff. Turtle isn't sticking around because he doesn't have ESPN2 and doesn't want to hear me going on about the game and I can't blame him (besides he already put in a lot of work today on his underground post, which is really funny if you haven't read it yet) , and I'm not really posting anything (live blogging of the game going on here) but I just wanted to say USA! USA! and umm...that's it.

Yea, I called in sick today to watch this. Well, I had a dentist appointment earlier today, but I came home to "recuperate" on the couch in front of the tv. Yea, that's the ticket.

USA! USA!

[We'll be back later this afternoon to nearly round out the 100 songs list]

Ok, I do want to say one thing. Alexi Lalas? Worst. Haircut. Ever. Dude went from looking like a wilder Sammy Hagar to looking like he was attacked by a band of gay frat boys with scissors while he was sleeping.

Gay Frat Boys With Scissors. That's the name of my next band.

Update:

My post game analysis: Well, fuck me.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

*I do want to let you all know that this is not a soccer site. We will be doing a few games, but our usual style will continue along with the addition of World Cup. It's only a month guys. Just deal with for a bit. We will be doing some cars tonight, but for this post is about us and this morning. We will be doing the "vroom vrooms" and the "1 2 3 gos" later tonight, but for now.....it's that ball like thing time.*

First game on TV this morning. World Cup. OK. Wake the fuck up turtle. Wake the fuck up. They can do it, you've done it before. Wake up god dammit. It's not that fucking early. Wake up. Find some food and just wait.

OK.

Lets just get something out of the way. I don't watch a lot of TV so I have no reason to get cable. Yeah yeah yeah.You can call me pompous or whatever, but I just don't really watch a lot of it. So why pay for it? I'm not bagging anyone who has cable or Tivo or whatever the hell else there is, but when the only shows you watch are "24" and "Little House on the Prairie", why bother with cable? I got my stereo and my dog and that's pretty much all I need.

As long as Jack Bauer kills someone and Mary goes blind, I can live without paying for cable.

But sometimes it bites me in the ass. Like today. My ass still hurts from this one. Like a straight man in a bondage bar. I might have fucked up.

I needed to see a game.

World Cup that is.The bondage stuff can wait. Hey dude, it's still Saturday. I still got plenty of time to be tied up. This will only be on for 90 minutes. And "Big Style Bob" is always gonna be there with his whip. "24" is over for the season and Mary's always gonna be blind. But I needed to see World Cup. I needed it like a girl on her period needs a pizza. Craving it. But what can I do? I already missed the first two games and no one is gonna help me out until next week with the other games. Fuck. ABC. Shit. ok. Fuck. What do I got. England v Paraguay? That early in the morning? England Parguay? Really? No dude, really?

Shit. Ok. I'll do it. Shit thats early. I forgot about this crap. This early morning shit. But i'll do it. Shit that's early.

So I drag my ass out of bed and eat some cold pizza from the night before. Turn the TV on and watch this go.Something about cancer and berries. OK. I'm gonna take this as a sign it's not on yet. Spitting out some shit that was caught in my teeth from whatever I ate the night before wondering what the hell it was. Was the fuck was that in my teeth? Brown or yellow. Fuck. I need to stop buying food when I'm half awake. Ta hell was this? Oh yeah, the pizza. And I'm eating it again.

Why do I eat this crap? Why doWWWWWWWHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAA!!!!!!!!

HERE WE FUCKING GO!!!!!!!

BALL DROPPED!!!!!

Everything I was thinking I was.... tired, hungry, groggy, being naked, disappeared when I heard the crowd chant. Well, not being naked. That's just common knowlegde .Hey dude. If you are gonna get me up this early, I'm gonna be naked. I leave the house almost naked everyday so I'm sure as shit not gonna put any clothes on this early on a Saturday. Plus it's kinda funny to watch people getting hurt while scratching your balls and eating day old pizza.

Yeah, I'm sadistic like that.

Thoughts of "Look how bad they are playing" and "Fuck, this is brutal" go even better when you are naked eating cold pizza. Call me sick but it makes me giggle to see these guys playing so hard, sweating blood, getting hurt while I'm too groggy to get up to take a piss and would rather just sit here for 90 minutes than get up to go to the bathroom.Super bladder. I need a little "S" above my cock. Super Bladder. That sounds funny. It can save the world. Super Bladder.

So I won't lie. It has been four years. I had forgotten about what happens there. How it is played out. Long gone are the days of throwing shit all over the field like paper and all that kinda of crap. Well, at least in world cup. I still remember seeing ditches in Mexico to stop fans from storming the fied. It was like a moat to keep people off the pitch. Those days are gone.But still the old things. The chanting and all that. 'Specially with England. Jesus. Those fuckers can sing. Well, not really singing, but chanting the fuck out of everything. What the fuck are they saying? I don't even know what they are saying. This is frustrating. What the fuck? The Queen is green? Hell. Maybe they don't even know. I sure as hell don't.

So the first Group B match is now over. England 1 Paraguay 0. What's funny is that the only goal scored was a corner from Beckham that went off of some Paraguay guy's head into the goal. That was bad. This was something that got you killed in '94 if you played for Colombia. But they gave the credit to Beckham. During the whole match the annoucers called him so great for that shot. It was just a mistake. Why did they keep doing that for him? He didn't make the shot. Why?

Oh yeah. I forgot

He is sponsored by Adidas.

Adidas owns the world

-T

Posted by Turtle Jones at 4:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

World Cup kicks off today. Sure all the other sites are talking about how Germany this and fucking that. Michele and the turtle will focus on the different parts of the game today. The important parts of the game. Small things that you wouldn't really think matter, but the parts that make this game move. Things that make you drool and wonder why you have never felt your heart beat so fast while you weren't sober. Not drugs or sex or shows or car wrecks......

Vibrators, thongs and pinball!!!!

Welcome to World Cup. F.T.T.W. style......

Let's get this started right.....

I told you I would make the World Cup interesting to even those who don’t follow the sport and I am here now to fulfill that promise. How? Sex. Yea, that’s right. Sex and soccer. Err...football.

Listen, I don’t make this shit up for your entertainment. I don’t have to. It’s already out there. Witness this line of thongs:

World Cup thongs, ladies. Comes in Germany, Brazil and Italy. So be careful who you bed tonight, because if you put on one of these babies and you pick up some Brit in a bar, the scene when you start stripping for him could get real ugly. Hey, I don’t mean to put a damper on the sexuality here, but this is World Cup we are talking about. Most football fans would turn away a sure lay if the chick was wearing the wrong colors. It’s like a Crips/Blood thing, dude. No Crip worth his gang signs is gonna fuck a Blood chick, and no Brit is going to get into bed with a woman wearing a Brazilian flag on her pussy. Hey, if he’s drunk enough he might dry hump you and then go to confession in the morning. I’m just saying, buy the thongs at your own risk.

Anyhow, it’s not really the thongs that I want to focus on here. I found what is obviously ultimate way to bring sex and soccer together. I introduce to you, the Victory Vibe.

Oh yea, ladies. This one’s for you. Well for you too, guys, because this can work on so many levels.

Let’s take a look at the specs here. It’s got four different heads, an insertable length of 3. 5 inches, takes 1AA battery and hey, it’s waterproof. The 1AA battery makes me think this thing might be great in theory, but not so great in practice. I kinda prefer something that takes a nuclear reactor to power. 1AA battery? I’m sure my finger can work harder than that in less time.

But I digress. We are supposed to be talking about World Cup here. Ok guys, I found a way for you to get your girl to watch the games with you. Simply buy this Victory Vibe. And then tell her that every time your team scores or the other team takes a penalty, she gets to turn the Victory Vibe on. But only like ten seconds each time. See, this will keep her interested in the game. She’ll be cheering for goals and for the whistle to sound in no time. Sure, she won’t really be paying attention the game, per se, but dude, you get to watch the game and get to watch her have an orgasm. Eventually. Unless it’s a scoreless tie with no penalties. Then you’re screwed. Or not.

And ladies, if your guy is watching too much World Cup and you want to tear him away from the tv, it’s pretty damn simple. Take the Victory Vibe, go to the bedroom and have fun with yourself. Just remember to yell out GOAAAAAAAAAAAL! It may not bring him running, but it will probably confuse the fuck out of him. -M

I damn well know none of you are gonna read this part of the site. And I damn well know I'm in the backseat tonight. And I damn well know none of you are focused on me. Hell, my cock was hard the whole time she wrote hers, so I understand. Believe me. I understand.

Girls and vibrators make me melt so I'm barely focused as I write. Something about the thought of a girl with a World Cup vibrator just does something to me. Like bees and honey. I have been melted. Kinda shuts me down. Cum and soccer and a girl I love. Oh yeah, like you could type after that. But, I must press on, mein readers, and continue to type. For this is what is what helps the Michele smile and the turtle laugh.

But dude. Chicks and vibrators. That's a hard act to follow.

So instead of telling a cool story, I'm gonna talk about something else.... Not vibrators. I have enough of them. Don't ask. Instead.... I'm going to talk about pinball!!! Specifically, one machine....

World Cup Soccer!! Yeah it had a dumb dog mascot who had a dumb name. STRIKER! The dog that was so happy it fucking made me cry. For god's sake, if you are gonna have a fucking mascot you might as well make it look mean. A fucking happy dog. Jesus. Oh that's intimidating as fuck. No really. It is. I swear.

Yeah, it was a dumb mascot. Fucking happy dog that fucking belonged in a Hannah Barbera cartoon. But it was a cool game. You could trap the ball, stare at that fucking dog's eyes and hit it. Penalty shots and all that shit. Wait for the keeper to move then hit it. It was a cool game and mostly it was more about cool memories. You could nail the shit in there from the corner while a little goal keeper moved back and forth. Roll around and pretend like you really won the cup when all you were really doing was losing 50 cents.

It was always kinda sad to see this game in the end. When it was broken down. This was a part of your life. Something you saw live and now it was made into a cheap part of a forgotten past that was dying. Sad day when you saw these. Too much. Too fucking fast. It pushed too much and went too far.

Old bars would buy these things and the owners never knew what it did in the past. Didn't know what it meant. Something to just pass the time as a few lowly patrons looked and kept thinking "We could have won that year.."

The bartenders just accepted it as broken and forgotten. Put a beer on it and brush the cigarette ashes away. This was a game that was over. It knew it. The bartender knew it. The world knew it. It was over.

Great game that was forgotten after World Cup ended. Much like day old bread. Forgotten. Thrown away.

Enough about a stupid pinball machine.

Let's get back to Michele and vibrators! - T

What? Am I supposed to say something here? Sorry, I'm too busy contemplating what this erotic energy drink is made from.

The Who - Pinball Wizard
Buzzcocks - Orgasm Addict

Posted by Michele Christopher at 7:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It begins today.

Today's matches:

12:00pm - Group A - Match #1
Germany vs. Costa Rica
3:00pm - Group A - Match #2
Poland vs. Ecuador

We'll be around later on to write about it. Hey, it's only a month. Stick with us. Even if you don't like soccer, we promise our posts will entertain you. We told you shit was gonna hit you fast and hard and here it comes. Wipe the sweat of your brow and just wait. Five more hours to go.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 6:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Hey, we warned you. For the next month this is punk rock, fast cars and world cup. It's only a month. Deal. There's more random Slayer for you below, too.

World Cup.

Yeah we are back again. We can't help but get excited. This is the thing we think about every four years. This is what it all comes down to.

World Cup.

World Cup...in three days...World Cup...in three days.....This is the time to call up your friend with cable.You know, the one who fucked you off and left you at a show. The one you swore you would never talk to again. Yeah. That one. Time to ask him for your last favor. "Can I come over?" Get ready to sleep on a couch and watch the moon pass you by. Smoke your last cigarette and wonder why this hasn't started yet. Different time zones and different countries do weird things to you. Like being on way too much methamphetamine. Fuck. I'm not able to function enough to toast bread. I wonder how they are doing? All I have to do is lay down in a shitty house with a shitty TV and watch, but these fuckers have to run for 90 minutes?

This is late night. Not late night. I'm sorry. This is early morning. Real early morning. Sure you can catch the games on ESPN at noon, but where's the fun? You need to see this live. Fuck work and fuck everything else. You are gonna smell of frustration when this thing ends. And don't ask me what that means cause I don't even know. Drag your ass through the three hours and live the next day with racoon eyes begging for the sun to go down so you could see the next game. The heat on your head builds up as you wonder why you never drank the blood of some Scientologist and could live forever. Cause this is it.

This is World Cup.

Fun, anger, frustration and hotdogs!

This was what was cool.

Oh, I forgot naked Brazilian chicks. They are kinda neato too.

By the time this thing is over, you will hate the mascot, hate Germany, know ever god damned town in Germany and will be sick to fucking death of seeing lederhosen on TV with some annoucer saying "It's the new fashion!" Trust me. I know. I still have a fucking sombrero and a new way to say "I surrender!" from the last few times. Sometimes I sleep at night hearing the official songs. By the end of this one, our site will probably stop reviewing punk albums and start doing polka cause Lawrence Welk was already cool to begin with so this will probably push it over the edge..

This is World Cup. Hold your balls and keep your head low, cause this shit is gonna kick. And when it does, there's no stopping it.

Three days.

It's coming. -T

Three more days til World Cup starts and I’m starting to feel feisty. Oh, I still don’t really know much about it except that the chances of the USA winning are like 80-1 if your beer mug is half full and 100-1 if your beer mug is half empty. But, hey, stranger things have happened. Do you believe in miracles? Yea, you know what I’m talking about. Chants of USA! USA! rising from the stadium, the coaches in tears, the country in the grip of football fever, everyone going crazy as Tim Howard faces the camera as he looks for his mom, draped in an American flag...oh, wait. You can’t do that anymore. I think it’s forbidden under the “Arrogant American Pride” rule of international sports. §123.66.

So anyhow, in my zeal to get as worked up as possible about a sport competition I know little about (hey, I already admitted I was in this just for the nation hating possibilities), I did some research (does a GIS for “Chris Albright naked” count as research) I discovered you can buy 2006 World Cup Playmobil figures. Cool.

So I check out the American player. Ok, could that uniform get any gayer? Is that a freaking sailor suit? I checked this figure against the uniform American players will be wearing and, dude, that’s not it. So what gives? What’s with the stupid ascot-type thing that makes this dude look like he’s about to go hunting for glory holes at the seaport?

Well, it’s obvious what’s going on here. Playmobil. A German company. You see where I’m going with this? It’s all about the rivalry. Here you have what amounts to your first (ok, maybe your only) World Cup Conspiracy Theory. The Germans are trying to make us look soft. Oh, look at the cute girly man uniforms the ‘Mericans are wearing. Look at the pretty tie. I bet they kick like my grandma! Then everyone will laugh at us before we even take the field and it will just be a disaster. The self esteem of the American players will be deflated and they will, indeed, end up kicking like some German grandmas. Even worse, they will kick like American grandmas. Cause I think German grandmothers are built like Godzilla. And I’m sure Godzilla can put out a mean kick.

Ok, check out the copy with the Playmobil figure.

World Cup Soccer 2006 is just around the corner! Have a figurine to remember this great sport by that comes only once every 4 years! USA is ready to take the World Cup trophy!

Whoa! USA is ready to take the trophy!! Alright! Someone out there in the land of ad copy thinks we stand a chance!

And then I read the copy on all the other, less sailor looking, figures. Germany is ready to take the World Cup trophy! France is ready to take the World Cup trophy! Dude, that is some lazy copy writing there. You could at least be a bit honest, like Mexico is ready to kick everyone’s ass! America is ready to realize once again that very few people in their country care about the World Cup! Brazil is ready to show off their naked women! England is ready to riot and pillage!

They should make figures for fans. Brazilian women with waxed legs and bikini tops. British men with painted faces, holding pieces of torn stadium seating in their hands. American kids with apathetic faces and blank stares, video game controllers in hand. Yea, they will kick your ass at football. EA Sports style. And can I just say that I can blow any of you away on World Cup Carnival for the Commodore 64? That’s right. I’m fucking hardcore, baby.

I’ve done enough inane rambling for today. I’m going to spend the next three days getting schooled by the turtle in the ways of football and World Cup soccer so the next time I write about it and I say something like “Fucking Mexicans take too many penalties” I will sound as if I know what I’m talking about.

Oh hell, I’m buying that gay sailor Playmobil guy anyhow to add to my action figure collection. Boba Fett needed a pansy ass to kick, anyhow.

And now, some more Slayer for this great national holiday.

Slayer Exile<
Slayer No Remorse (with Atari Teenage Riot)<
Slayer Dead Skin Mask
Slayer Skeletons of Society

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It's been four years and a thousand tears, but it's back. Back to kick you in the ass and frustrate the living fuck out of you. This is where it all comes down. World Cup time, baby. It starts in a week. This is when teams try to make up for losses in goals while the fans try to make up for losses in wars. This is nationality on the line. This is war.

This is World Cup.

Wanna play?

Here we go!!

For those of you who don't know, this is when average punk rock/muscle car writers go a little crazy. This is when you get to look confused at our site and wonder what the fuck we are talking about when we say "GGGGGOOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLL"

Hey guys, this only happens once every four years. This is the time where the UK tells Americans to fuck off, the French tell the UK to fuck off, America tells Mexico to fuck off and Brazil just sits and laughs. This is World Cup, baby. And we are gonna be writing about it. Hold on guys, cause things could get bumpy..

The muscle car and album reviews will still continue as well as the Underground and the Top 100 punk songs.

But we thought we might just warn you.

It's World Cup time. -M/T

What the hell do I know about soccer? Oh, I'm sorry. FOOTBALL. Honestly, I don't know much except that every four years I pretend to have this great interest in FOOTBALL and I go all World Cup crazy. That is, until America gets its collective ass handed to it and I go back to watching baseball like a good American.

I do know enough about football to carry on a decent conversation. Or get one started. Whenever someone mentions the sport, I just say, in no particular order: Pele! Hooligans! Maradona! And depending on who you are talking to, that last one might get you a smack in the head, especially if you follow it up with the phrase "Hand of God!" Which I often do because, hey, if you're gonna get yourself all excited about a sports tournament which your team really has no chance of winning, you might as well get some good, sporting fun out of it by pissing some people off.

See, I think the World Cup is nothing more than a good excuse for nation hating. It's no longer politically correct to just bag on other countries for no good reason. So we use football as an excuse to say things like "Mexico couldn't play their way out of a fucking pinata!" or "England sucks!" Ok, maybe we say that one anyhow. No offense, Brits. It's just the way it is. Kinda like a Mods/Rockers thing, you know? Friendly rivalry. Yea, friendly.

I mean, look at all the countries we get to make up chants about. Trinidad and Tobego! Ghana! Iran! Oh, fuck yea. We're gonna go Ayatollah on your ass, Iran! See? See how easy that is? Think of it as misplaced national pride. Where else are you gonna shout USA! USA! USA! these days without someone thinking Karl Rove gave you eight bucks and a candy bar to say that? See, World Cup is for everyone. It works out great for people who measure their patriotism by bumper stickers because they can drape themselves in a flag and just call it football frenzy. And it also works out for people who have been kinda down on the state of the union since, oh, November 2004, because they can wave a flag and shout America, fuck yea! without feeling like they are betraying their ideals. It's all about the soccer ball. Uh, sorry. The football.

So I'm looking forward to World Cup 2006. I think I still have a Pele shirt from that Giants Stadium gig in 1977. I'm brushing up on my 'let's mock the cockney accent' phrases. I've been practicing saying the word 'hooligan' several times a day (hey, it's a fun word). I have sharpened my "hand of god" conversation starter so that I can ignite a heated argument in under five seconds. I've got a bunch of UK punk songs about football loaded up and ready to go.

See, it doesn't take much to feel part of the action. Say it with me. Pele! Hooligans! Maradona! ENGLAND SUCKS!

Bring it on. -M

World Cup time. Smell the dust and just keep walking.You don't know what is gonna happen but the screams tell you that whatever it is, is gonna be big. Something like you have never seen. Just keep walking. Dust will fly as you move towards the staduim. Let it get deep in your nose before you walk in. Savor the moment. Ignore those assholes over there. Their team hasn't even hit the pitch yet, god dammit. It was too early to start chanting about how the other country could kiss your ass. Screams of why I suck so bad can wait till after this thing starts. Got my sunscreen and got my food. Fuck anyone else cause we are gonna take this fucking game today. I got my hotdog in hand and I can take the abuse. Hey, I can take abuse from anyone like no fucking other man, but a whole country yelling at me? That's a little much.

Jesus

That's asking alot from me.

Savor this moment. Cause this isn't a game. This is fucking war. This is where all the divisions hit the line. Where you bring the players back from other teams from around the world. Huddle them together and ask them where their loyaties are. Are they with you or not. Cause that bus is still god damn running and there is always time to get back on. This is a tournament where friends, loyaties and trust all get put to the test.

Fuck the Superbowl. Thats one damn game out of the year with two teams. This is the world fighting. And only the best are here.

Welcome to different time zones. Get used to it fast cause you are gonna be sweating blood for 90 minutes and no one cares if you get hurt. You get back up and you play, dammit. You keep this fucking train going till it fucking blows up.

You stopped playing for a team when your foot hit that god damn pitch. You weren't on a team anymore. This was a country you were playing for. And if that truck comes on to pull you off that grass cause you can't stand, you better be god damn dead.

This is where you know everyone hates each other for being from a different country , but won't say anything but "you suck."

What?

Why?

"You just do."

Oh yeah. World Cup is war. Don't fucking let yourself believe anything else. This is fucking war.

By the time this thing is over, countries will have cried at the collective loss of their team. Cause when their team loses, it's kinda like they lost. As a country. The feeling of it's gone. Fuck. We can't be in fucking Euro. Fuck. Four more years till will are back. A country sighs when they lose. National pride is on the line and that brings out the worst in people. Hell, even in me. I never thought i'd ever be screaming "Fuck Mexico!" but I sure as shit did at an after hours bar last time round.

Late night in a smoke filled bar. Shit loads of people staring at a TV at 3 in the morning. Cheap English bar screaming in part to keep awake, and in part to cheer their team on. The doors were locked. You had to walk in the back. And for three fucking hours we drank and cursed at each other. Us with flags on and them with sombreros. Hating each other before the ball hit the pitch, then having a good time while it was going.

It's kinda funny. We are all talk til the ball is kicked. Then it's all friendly like. Everyone is just trying to get through this. Just watching and waiting and wondering what's gonna happen next.

We didn't fucking start this and if it had to happen, at least we would smile. A beer was cracked and the ball was dropped. This is when you stand or fall. This was the game. It was on. Two countries fighting for what they wanted. And us just watching at 3 in the morning at an underground bar that couldn't sell beer but let you bring it in. The bartender taking my abuse. "You guys need to stop yelling at other!" Me replying "You need to get a real fucking accent and a decent team cause your fucking next you stupid limey motherfucker."

Oh yeah. War was on.

The sombrero on the pitch at the end of the game brought a smile to my face. The Mexicans at the bar were crying. Like a battle we both had to fight, they lost. We didn't want to do it but we did. Two teams. Two countries. One battle.

Some one had to walk away covered in blood and someone had to die.

Mexico - 0

USA -1

I just smiled. We beat you. So who the fuck is next?

Thats World Cup

Savor the moment. -T

The Business - Maradona
Bouncing Souls - Ole

Thansk to Scott and DK for coming through with some songs for this series. Hey, this Bouncing Souls song is a lot of fun. The Business song is just mean, but good. Check them out.

Ok, look for Ole! to appear over there in the sidebar under my top tracks of the week list. I can't stop listening to it.

Continue reading "Punk Rock, Fast Cars and........World Cup?" »

Posted by Michele Christopher at 7:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It