French-y Fun
I’m not a fan of soccer. But I am a fan of French misery. It was the prospect of that entire nation of Frogs thrown into a collective state of depression that convinced me to Tivo the race and watch the World Cup final in real time yesterday.
I don’t know much about the rules or ways of the game but I knew who the enemy was and I had a great time rooting for the Italians to whoop up on those arrogant architects of cheese-burps and false pride. I’m not a tribal-ist. I have very few prejudices and ethnic hang-ups, but I revel in a bad day for the French.
To my untrained eye it looked like the Franco-snobs were out hustling the connoisseurs of all things meatball for most of the game. It was touch and go as commentators discussed the bad calls that had led to a French goal.
Perhaps I had delayed the gratification of a good race just to be laughed at by those stinky people at the other end of the Chunnel. But then things began to break in the way of all things holy when some dude who is a legend of French soccer pulled a Bill Romanowski and displayed a level of bad sportsmanship that appeared to have actually shocked some of the inebriated Toadies in attendance.
After Mr. Wonderful was tossed out of the game for head butting a rival in the solar plexus it was a downhill spiral that culminated in Italy beating the French on penalty kicks. I don’t care about soccer, but I leapt from the couch and howled with joy as the pride of the French peoples fell in defeat. It was a cheap thrill, but a thrill none the less.
A bad day for the French is always a good day for me.
I don’t know much about the rules or ways of the game but I knew who the enemy was and I had a great time rooting for the Italians to whoop up on those arrogant architects of cheese-burps and false pride. I’m not a tribal-ist. I have very few prejudices and ethnic hang-ups, but I revel in a bad day for the French.
To my untrained eye it looked like the Franco-snobs were out hustling the connoisseurs of all things meatball for most of the game. It was touch and go as commentators discussed the bad calls that had led to a French goal.
Perhaps I had delayed the gratification of a good race just to be laughed at by those stinky people at the other end of the Chunnel. But then things began to break in the way of all things holy when some dude who is a legend of French soccer pulled a Bill Romanowski and displayed a level of bad sportsmanship that appeared to have actually shocked some of the inebriated Toadies in attendance.
After Mr. Wonderful was tossed out of the game for head butting a rival in the solar plexus it was a downhill spiral that culminated in Italy beating the French on penalty kicks. I don’t care about soccer, but I leapt from the couch and howled with joy as the pride of the French peoples fell in defeat. It was a cheap thrill, but a thrill none the less.
A bad day for the French is always a good day for me.
posted by ericvon at 12:22 PM
<< Home