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Jozy Altidore scored in his first English Premiership game. But, aside from the impeccably timed run, lovely first touch, and precision shot, what does this goal mean in the postcolonial struggle against/for oppression? Let’s speculate/elucidate/complicate.
Continue reading “Jozy Altidore – Le Lacanian Stade du Hull City” »
…”Ain’t Nothin’ to Fuck Wit” by Wu-Tang Clan
Desperate times call for desperate measures. Junito has lost interest in soccer. And can you blame him? With 24 hour cable tv, American football, basketball, hockey, and brooms all about these United States of America, it’s so easy to get distracted. That, my friends, is why I am taking Junito back to the motherland for a spell. I will have little internet access, so no frequent posts or even tweets. But trust assured that Junito’s new surroundings should inspire soccerlove. Hasta luego.
To be continued?
So I got this idea. Instead of writing brilliant and clever posts concerning the sport of soccer, I will read other brilliant and clever posts on said sport. Then, using a device I call a “lynk”, I will post a “lynk” to these posts which you can follow for your own reading enjoyment. I call this concept a “lynx den.” Alternatively, in informal conversations with friends and family, you can refer to it as a “lynx lair.”
The always amazing Studs Up has the perfect solution to the John Terry scandal. And the inspiration comes from Eddie Murphy’s own late night sojourns in Southern California. (Studs Up) Continue reading “No quick motions – Hands to the Sky. Now!” »
So, yeah, Junito. My little Junito. My precious Junito. I had dreams for him, goals, all attainable with a bit of huevo and a lot of esperanza. But sometimes the universe conspires to dismantle our carefully crafted plans.
So we conquered the Soccer Ninja together. Junito scored his first goals. But Junito has betrayed me in the most horrific way imaginable. And, worse yet, so has my hermano.
So, the Catalonian princess has stolen my brother from me. Yes, my little brother has moved to Barcelona. He lives about five minutes from the beach, shares a house with this Catalan speaking vixen, and…well, she’s super sweet, cares for him, and I should be happy. In fact, she’s not even a big Barcelona fan. Her dad? Yeah, he has blanquillo schadenfraude, watching Madrid games in the hopes of seeing them lose. In fact, he watches more Madrid games than me – I admire his dedication.
But. Umpf. Continue reading “Junito: Sons Kill Their Dad One Day, Everyday” »
Loyal reader, Speaker of le Spanish, and tweeter extraordinaire “Sean Rubio” has won the highly competitive Futfanatico-Design-My-Header-For-Free contest. Congrats! Using the magic of javascript, his header is rotating with the Maracanazo. Did you see it? Click refresh. Now click on the ads. Now click refresh Still not working? Click refresh. Now click on the ads. Still not working? Continue reading “Ms. Meow Lives to Meow Another Day!” »
London was the kind of town you could live in your whole life and never call home. London smiles at you like a mother but only loves you like a mistress. You only got into trouble when you confused the two, and you couldn’t help but confuse the two.
So at this redhead’s insistence I’d followed her ex(?) husband, this Glasgow Shipping magnate, from Merseyside to West London to the Piccadilly stop. Given his acquaintances and enemies, I’d deduced he may be in shipping, but not of the legal variety. But who was I to pass judgment? What bugged me was my client’s own motives. She sent a check a week that didn’t bounce, but what was in it for her? I didn’t see jealousy. This was one of those aristocratic marriages of convenience – she went from daddy’s checkbook to the next available bank account. Only a slight difference in age.
So what was I to do? Well, spy on my own client, that’s what. But first I had to nose around the old Highbury haunts and see an old friend.
First, for the sake of sanity, I gathered my thoughts and recalled how I got to where I was. I had followed the Scot and his lanky boys, one of’ em “Vandy”, to a bar in Merseyside which ended in a brawl with some clowns. I recall a big Blondie doing most of the damage. The Scot also had a young dame at his arm in a stunning red dress. Continue reading “Recap: Arsenal v. United – The Big Sleep” »