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.”
Paraguay 
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.
Denmark 
The “Peninsular Parasites” are no more. The “Imbecilic
Islanders” took them out. The end begins today, and ends today as well. J
Sweden 
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.
Ireland 
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.
Mexico 
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!
Belgium 
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.
Japan 
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
Italy 
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:
Saturday
England vs. Brazil
vs. 
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
vs. 
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
vs.
vs.
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.
Sunday
Spain vs. South Korea
vs. 
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
vs. 
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’
GENTLEMEN,
ENTER YOUR WAGERS
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.
