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!
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.
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
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