Thursday, April 26, 2012

WM 2002--Quarterfinals

WM 2002

이봐요, my syndicate brothers,  

The “Elite Eight” phase is upon us. Looks like Korea is destined to be the “Great Yellow Hope”. Turkey and Senegal are through against all-odds and facing one another! I’m certain everyone will be interested in hearing my detailed breakdown of Metsu’s 4-5-1 Sweeper Modification and how this will counter Kerimoglu’s first touch, effectively neutralizing the lateral ability of Sukur and Penbe………..oh fuck it. I know what you want and am prepared to deliver. It’s “Fatherland vs. Motherland” and you are understandably a tiny bit curious how I might reconcile my duel citizenship, the 50-50 conflict of my genes, the two languages in which I dream, the country in which I live against the county from which I’m from. You want me to ruminate on my own identity. Fine. Fuck every last one of you voyeuristic motherfuckers! I’m but a confused boy. None of this is your goddamn business. I’ll indulge you in the utilitarian hopes of getting a few bets LL

Obviously, I’m not a German. I may speak German and look like a German, but I prefer to live in United States where I can afford a car, some spacious square-footage that makes living more comfortable, and a cable service that broadcasts crappy movies. Everything that Europe has to offer is negated by the fact that it is simply too cramped. No one there has enough space to hear themselves think….and they can’t even take a drive to clear their heads. Petrol prices preclude that. L Deutschland would be the ideal place to live were it not for the fact that someone always barges in on you while you’re thinking. Too little space + the shackles of non-mobility = prison time. On the other hand, I understand how we essentially make prisons for ourselves and how much my beloved Fatherland truly has to offer.

Who really needs crappy movies? Who cares if you can drive from Point A to Point B? A typical night in even a provincial Podunk German town affords one more entertainment options than the South will ever catch up to. You can literally go to dozens of concerts, attend a whole spate of plays, take your pick of open-air festivals, and travel (if you have the money) to Wine Festivals in infinite directions. I love my Fatherland. Unavoidable imperfections can be erased by the fun-loving people that populate it….provided you let those people get within a few meters of you. I write these words especially for those who remain in the Fatherland. Please flourish for me. I’ll do my best on this side of the pond. Bloom and cheer…cheer for the Fatherland. Cheer for us all.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Wow. We’ll begin the digestion process by saying that the person who wrote this was a spoiled boy. He couldn’t yet grasp the concept of dimensions. Europe felt cramped to him because he only thought in two dimensions. The intuition of protruding skyscrapers pushing the third dimension to its limit would not breach his frame. We presently live in the century of astrophysics. Relativity compelled four dimensions. String Theory requires eleven separate dimensions. Membrane theory insists upon the conceptions of thousands. Functional Analysis forces us to think about infinite dimensions. I see nothing wrong with any of these constructs. The more we become accustomed to the cognition of the infinite, the better prepared we are for life on this sphere. At any given moment there are an infinite amount of choices you can make. Presumably there are an infinite number of dimensions within which an infinite number of alternate choices were made. In some higher dimension there is a Vicey who decided to bet on the States. There exists a Vicey who made the diametrically opposite choices and thus would not elect to offer thoughts on his pre-pubescent meanderings. Somewhere beyond our light horizon, there is a Vicey who never even adopted the name Vicey. I aver that this is a particularly poor universe. That Peter Weis may have a family, a good-paying job, two nice cars, and a loving dog. However, he’s far too wrapped up in himself to be your friend. Doesn’t that suck?

Let us say goodbye to those eight teams that now occupy a “space without the crowd.”


Who could possibly give a shit about this country?? It’s not as if this Latin American country ever contributed to peaceful tourism in the manner that Costa Rica did. Costa Rica attracts 1.5 million tourists a year with their “no cartel mandate” I’m sorry but the Central American countries are the way to go.

Editor’s retroactive notes:
Costa Rica has seen its murder rate triple since 2002. The stated reason is drug cartels, though I wonder how much they have to do with it. In any event, I implore all to support ‘hot’ president Lauren Chinchilla. I also implore all to do what they can to end the drug war. Life sucks and people need something to get through it. Let’s just let it go already.


The “Peninsular Parasites” are no more. The “Imbecilic Islanders” took them out. The end begins today, and ends today as well. J


Speaking of Scandinavian Schizoids, I’m glad we’ll never have to lay eyes on the Blue & Gold again. To hell with Larsson and crew. The use of too many “s” characters in the English alphabet violates sensibilities in a way that makes us feel as if we shall all end up Viking bait. Work on that, and building your Socialist Utopia where no one has to work to hard before they’re 30. I look forward to that future. J Best of luck. Just get out of my football tournament.


Oh dearest Eires, the pipes the pipes are calling us. From glen to glen, and through the middle of next week. For then I’ll learn to forgive you and forget you. Oh won’t you say a little prayer for me? Won’t you say a little prayer for me? Well, fuck you then. I don’t need your prayers. Some emerald green conceptions of life where I might retire to a sleepy country village and live life under an assumed name while raising hogs would be cool. Can I get that prayer? The pipes are calling me….

Editor’s retroactive notes:

The pipes continue to call. Who wouldn’t want a quiet life in the Irish countryside? A few jamborees on the radio transmit but a minor inconvenience. As Douglas Adams once wrote, “Boy I’d like to have a farm, keep some sheep.” What the hell is wrong with that? Who hasn’t thought that? Keep some sheep indeed.


Viva Mexico! Not this time. No leathery-faced trolls will be waving tri-colors underneath L.A. Overpasses tonight. President Vicente Fox proudly asserts his liquor tolerance. Perhaps he should save some swill for Aguirre, Virdrio, and Hernandez, who could not possibly of performed poorer were they sloshed on Monday. There’s not enough herb south of the border to make this humiliating KO humorous. Knocked off by the U.S.?!? Enjoy your evening meal Hombres: a six-pack of Corona and a shit sandwich!


Flemish and Walloon may finally unite and find concurrence on the undeniable maxim that their team plays like a bunch of mentally retarded headless chickens on Meth. Dutch and French don’t mix. I’m a hybrid of Northern and Southern Europe, and look how irreversibly fucked up I am! This team showcased more communication breakdowns that you’re likely to have out on a date with someone afflicted by Down syndrome. At least the Russians would have given us a show..along with some solid Nuclear Silo jokes.


The biggest Tokyo upset since Tyson-Douglas! The most unforgivable flop since the N64 Sequel to “The Legend of the Mystical Ninja”! Why oh why must we cry?   Shame..remorse…thoughts of assisted suicide by decapitation…desire to curl up with a stuffed Hello Kitty while squeezing oddly oversized blue tear drops our of my Western ducts. THE PATH WAS SET! THE TURKS WERE NO BETTER THAN YOU! THE FINAL FANTASYVICTORY MUSIC WAS CUED UP! “Blue Samaraui” loses its status as a fierce moniker. Henceforth it shall forever be associated with a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a poorly thought-out attempt to re-work the lyrics of Tom Waits’s “Blue Valentine.”

Editor’s retroactive notes:

For a full nine years, it simply would not get much better for Jap Enthusiasts. Spiraling debt. Plunging birth rates. An uncontrollable currency. A second “lost decade”. Nuclear fallout. Chinese taunting. The embarrassing bed-time “P.M. Meditation” known as “Abe, Fukoda, Aso, Hatoyama, Kan, Foda” (Trust me.  Falling into a deep and peaceful sleep counting Japanese Prime Ministers proves more successful each year. This government is more dysfunctional than Namba’s physics class) Just when it appeared that that all four islands would capsize into the sea, and all we were to be left with were some dated “Silent Library” Clips on Youtube and a few useless emo hipsters babbling about the sociological significance of the original Zelda game, the women stepped up and came through. Give it up for the Japanese women, who will certainly never give it up to you. I will likely never earn enough money to ever eat sushi, play Playstation, or drive a non-archaic Toyota ever again. Sigh. At least those broads made me enough money to move up from “Medium Quality Ramen” and purchase “Top Ramen” again for a week or so. Nowhere near enough to afford a Japanese woman, but so what? Life can never be as symmetrically ironic as a broke romantic wishes. L


Game over, Mario. No lives remaining. The Princess is in another castle and you’ve no chance of rescuing her. Head over to the deli and pick up some prosciutto. I’ve no sympathy for these felicitous floppers. Go back to your country of perpetual sunshine, blissful laziness, gorgeous women, ever-flowing wine and….er…where was I? Oh right. I was about to shave my head with a cheese grater and beg to join a Tibetan monastery. LL Some say youth is wasted on the young. Others claim life is wasted on the living. I say Italy is wasted on the Italians. What the fuck are we doing invading Afghanistan and looking towards Iraq? Can’t our superior military capability buy us some decent real estate?

Well. I’m glad that we’re through with that section. Let’s see what savory specials we’ve got on the board today:


England vs. Brazil


To quote the master computer from ‘Tron’: “End of Line”. We’ve reached the termination point of the queen’s subjects. The only queen advancing here is the one in carnival drag. I concede that the English surprised me last round, but a side with an injured Joe Cole, Owen Hargreaves, and Martin Keown are headed nowhere but a chartered jet flight. Cafu and Gilberto Silva will stomp this crew just like the Broadway musical. Trust not the English, for they are a bunch of wags. “End of Line”.

THE LINE: Brazil  +1 Goals

Editor’s retroactive notes:
RESULT: Brazil 2, England 1. Sven selected a fine lineup and St. George stormed out of the gate with an electrifying Michael Owen Goal in the 23rd minute. Rivaldo leveled it up deep into first half injury time and the prevailing sense that these two evenly matched sides would play 120 minutes reigned. Shortly into the second-half a young horse-faced kid who had spent most of the season warming the Paris St. Germaine bench struck a 40- meter laser that sailed past the outstretched hands of Arsenal keeper David Seaman. Ronaldino’s coming out was official. Reduced to ten men, the Brazilians showed no sign of letting the lethargic Limeys back into the match. Sven Goran Eriksson being Sven Goran Eriksson, he made no major tactical changes and waited far too long to make some lackluster substitutions. So difficult to fathom that it took another SIX YEARS to ax that bumbling idiot. Ronaldiho wastes away in Port Allegro, far past his prime and never likely to make the National Squad again. Your bookie allots 3-1 odds that the Columbus Crew will offer him an oversized contract in hopes of drumming up enthusiasm within two years.   

Germany vs. USA


Nothing special about this match. Ho hum. Just two ordinary Nation-Sates squaring off on a routine Saturday night. I’m told that these countries have people living within their borders and that these people in turn speak domestic languages. I seem to be remiss in any endeavor to write something further. Thanks to the Marshall Plan, these two are essentially the same country anyway. Yawn. I discern no reason why I should expend any energy in picking one or the other.

Wait for it……

Wait for it……

Wait for it……

The fuck is wrong with you? Not interested in any of the other matches?

Wait for it…..

You know my cat did something peculiar the other day. He climbed in an open 40-pound bag of kitty liter and took a shit. I’d be happy to spin more yarns about my pet’s digestive eccentricities. All you have to do is ask. J

Wait for it….

The Phillies have a decent team this year. I think this will be the year that Brandon Duckworth kid breaks out. Ricky Ledee also looks solid.

Wait for it….

Wait for it…

I know that everyone’s anxious to hear my views on the revised EU Common Agricultural Policy. The French turnip quotas are especially fascinating.

Wait for it…

Coverage of this game will begin at 3:30 a.m. Central Daylight Time. Before committing yourself to this appointment, all of those of you in the States should seriously consider the competing programming offered simultaneously by our other fine broadcast outlets. For example, at least twelve separate stations will be selling various trinkets, 9/11 coins, Commemorative NASCAR plates, Girls gone Wild DVDs and Diana dolls. For those of you after the elusive washboard abs, a number of quality infomercials will enlighten you as to how can obtain them by sitting on your fat ass and hooking pulsating massagers up to your beer gut. “Nick at Nite” will feature some episodes from the third season of “Coach” (undoubtedly the strongest season) and the second season of “Major Dad” (also undeniably the peak of this short lived gift from the heavens). Are you prepared to miss that? Tuning into this match means you’ll have to postpone your 423rd viewing of “Conan the Destroyer”, 241st viewing of “Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome”, your 875th viewing of “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off”, your 13,983rd viewing of “Halloween III: Season of the Witch” AND your 345,678thth viewing of the 45th Scooby Doo Episode (It’s a good one. Old Man Smith turns out to be the Swamp Monster. Did not see that one coming).

If you fail to switch over to the History Channel, you run the risk of not knowing something about Hitler’s favorite Tuesday afternoon vegetarian meal! Next time you’re out at the bar and your mates start talking about the spellbinding information conveyed during C-Span 2’s academic panel discussion on Southeastern Appellate Court Jurisdictional Reach in Property Claims Cases 1871-1875, you’ll be left out of the conversation! You’ll never know the incredibly riveting true resolution to the Turner Child Custody Case of 1987, because you weren’t watching “He took her Baby and She wanted It Back” on the Lifetime Movie Network! How will you live with yourself without knowing when precisely Jesus will show up? “Sometime in the near future after the checks are cashed” or “Very soon indeed after you give me more money”. YOU WON’T KNOW. YOU WON’T KNOW!!

Alright, Sweetie. Hope you enjoyed that. I’m going to go ahead and copulate now. Time for the Money Shot!    

GLORIOUS VATERLAND vs. Country of Convenience


Achhhh Ja. Whew. Glad I got that off my chest….and onto yours. Sorry for all the pussyfooting around, but I surely couldn’t just give you such an important pick without a bit of foreplay. Pre-mature delegation affects bookies of all ages and this momentous match is no fat chick.

Editor’s retroactive notes:
According to my legal team, I must now issue a sincere apology to all Women of Girth (WOGs) for all of the pain inflicted by my proclivity towards instinctively mean and callously insensitive shock humor during my youth. I myself possess no genuine malice towards women of the more rotund persuasion. In fact…er…some of my best friends are fat chicks. Look, the bottom line is I’ve honestly loved more chubby chicas than the amount of any readers of this combined. Leave me the fuck alone and stop taking it personally. Dry your tears and put down that pint of Haagen-Dazs. I said put it down! NO..NO. BAD GIRL! STOP IT!

Here’s the deal: Mein Name ist Peter Josef Weis und ich bin ursprünglich und zuerst ein aufrechter Deutscher! As much as I’d love to pretend that I agonized over this decision, vacillating between the two countries and pacing all over the computer lab until I was compelled to unleash a soliloquy on matters of the conflicted soul before breaking down and starting to sob uncontrollably, it took about 0.002313 atomic seconds after the possibly of this pairing came up before I started having a craving for Schnitzel and Spätzle. Deutschland is where I attended my first football match. Germany is where I started following the sport. The Fatherland is where I scored my first own goal (actually it was in Rome, but close enough). My dearest Americans, I find it too arduous to back a country I only recently learned has a male team. J I, like most everyone else around the globe, simply assumed you would disguise the women, teach them how to grasp their groin during free kicks and pack them off to the World Cup. We had no clue you intended to shipping some actual swinging dicks and that you would let them hang low.

Let’s dive into detail about why you might want to watch Jack van Impe anyway: We’ve got the rising star of this tournament, a sprightly little Pollack by the name of Miroslav Klose. So precipitous has been his rise that he might even start in lieu of Bierhof. Fullback Christian Ziege will hassle McBride all night long, not even allowing him to get so much as a whiff of goal. Should he lapse, we’ve got the best keeper in the world: Karlsruhe’s own Oliver Kahn. As the Poland match demonstrated, your back four is softer than Snuggles the Fabric Softener Bear’s Junk. Agoos, Saneh and Pope are bad options. Berhalter and Mastroeni and Lhamosa. You’ll be forced to play only three defenders. We shall, prod puncture, and penetrate. Alright. Enough of the autoerotic euphemisms. Here’s your line:

THE LINE: Deutschland  +2 Goals

Editor’s retroactive notes:
RESULT: Germany 1, USA 0. Arena gave Berhalter the nod and started four defenders. The bulky backfield of Uncle Sam gave us quite a scare. This was a tense match, about as exciting as a coffee enema. Klose started, but managed only one shot. After Ballack scored shortly before the half, it was all America. Donovan released three vicious strikes that pushed the limits of Kahn’s brilliance. Claudio Reyna found John O’Brien in space, resulting in a cracker that I’m still not certain how Kahn saved. Of course one cannot discuss this game without mentioning the blatant takedown of Clint Mathis by Torsten Frings in the box. Yes, U.S. fans. You should have been awarded a penalty. Thus began the distinctly American tradition of griping that the officials give them no respect. Dems the breaks, Yanks. I present an alternative view: The Refs can’t SAVE a game FOR you. You were outclassed. The headline in Die Bild Zeitung the following morn read “Kahn beats America”. Nothing truer has been printed in die Bild since.   

Spain vs. South Korea


Back to the R.O.W. Hate to break it to you suddenly engaged Americans, but there remains an entire planet out there. This one can’t get here soon enough, in large part because I’ll finally be able exhale knowing that U.S. no longer threatens to destroy my father’s will to live. The hearts of Asia face a high octane Spanish Squad that has defied all conventional laws of football gravity.

How humungous a mismatch is this? Spain has scored ten goals to Korea’s five. Spain boasts names such as Raul, Cierro, and Luis Enrique. The Koreans don’t even have a player from a respectable league. On paper we observe nobodies versus a bunch of behemoths…..on paper is also how I wipe my ass.

Believe in the power of the fantastical spirit that shepherded the weak home side through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. Dutch Maestro Gud Hiddink and his Red Devils have an entire subcontinent behind them. Spain must be exhausted after playing 120 minutes against the Irish and will be without Raul. Don’t miss this one as it will be one for the ages. Heroes will be crowned.  

THE LINE: South Korea  +1 Goals

Editor’s retroactive notes:
RESULT: South Korea 1, Spain 0 5:3 PSO. Hmmm…whatever happened to the word “humongous”? Seems as if no one has utilized it in over ten years. Probably for the best. Underdogs play like superheroes on this stage. “Samsung Spider Hands” Keeper Lee Woon Jae made 17 saves and the inferior little munchkins forced the Spanish into their second consecutive 120-minute game, during which the gassed club completely tanked. Anything can happen when it comes down to penalties. The goat in this instance was Joaquin. Ji-Sung Park sealed the victory with a kiss, and all the entire southern half Korean Peninsula proceeded to go ballistic. Wonder how many babies were conceived that sultry Sunday eve.

Turkey vs. Senegal


Can you feel the excitement? One of these teams will make it to placement rounds for the first time! We’ll all be treated to some hot Cinderella on Cinderella action! The tenacious Turkmen would appear to have the upper hand, though it’s impossible to discount a team with Papa Malik Diop at the helm. Should anyone tell you that they anticipated this quarterfinal bracket, you should immediately labeled them a pathological liar and proceed to crush their skull with whatever blunt object you find handy.

My heart says Indomitable Lions, while my head reminds me that I have no idea what I’m talking about and should probably go live under a tree for a year without speaking to anyone. Damn, you head! You’ve been nothing but cognitive chaos every since I came to the realization as a young lad that I existed. That was a dark day indeed. One cannot commeasure this match with a line. Therefore, we have ourselves a pick.
THE LINE: Pick em’


Editor’s retroactive notes:
RESULT: Turkey 1, Senegal 0. Match 60 is the first match I don’t even remember watching. What I do remember, thanks to a helpful bit of neural jogging brought upon by re-reading this passage. Who’s ready to get existential? I vividly recall the moment I had my first Descartes moment. I seven years old and riding home from school in Rome on the FM-7 bus after switching at Termini. I had missed the shuttle home from school but thankfully had the entire Rome public transport system memorized. How fucked up is it that a kid has a major metropolitan public transportation grid memorized before he even knows he exists? I shall show you. Glancing at some old Wop Woman who had difficulty toting her shopping bags sit down with a sigh, I was suddenly consumed by thoughts of how all that I had experienced was but a life. This life was nothing more than a scattered collection of thoughts that would eventually come to an end. The thoughts would extinguish and not endure in any way. One day my brain would shut down and there would be nothing more to think about. A nervous rot arose from the pit of my stomach until I became nauseated. Yeah….it’s pretty much been all downhill since then. Prior to the realization that I existed, the hobby from which I derived the most pleasure was grabbing a rake, stick, or indeed any phallic object and strolling out into the yard/courtyard/street and loudly proclaiming my thoughts to no one in particular. I would shout at the moon, a tree, a crack in the pavement, or a stray leaf. It didn’t matter. Hmmm…twenty two years later I still find myself trying to recapture the same bliss. Talking to no one. Well, at least I know how I’ll grow old. JJ Time for a drink.