More importantly, I have documented a few memorable hipster quotes relating to the footy interwebs. Of course, names, dates, and locations are not revealed to protect the innocent. Enjoy!

“Yeah, I’m just glad his tumblr is getting more views. I’ve been following it since, like 2009.”

“Messi will break the guy’s record, but could he do it while studying medicine? That’s the  question.”

“I liked Napoli when they were in Serie C1, but they lost that spark in Serie B.”

“Better team to never win anything of import: the 2006 Villareal team that lost to Arsenal in the CL semifinals on a saved Riquelme penalty kick, or every single Arsenal team since?”

“Cristiano Ronaldo. Cristiano Ronaldo?”

“He’s delving into some weird literary bullshit for a soccer blog. Too much Finnegan, not enough wake.”

“You like Marcelo Bielsa? How original.”

“I felt the song selection for the podcast opening sequence screamed ‘trying too hard.’”

“Manchester United….Manchester City. The Europa league has lost all credibility.”

“Me? Follow the Bundesliga? Maybe two years ago.”

“How can you not love Stoke???!!! OMG we’re not having this conversation! SMH.”

“Cristiano Ronaldo. Cristiano Ronaldo.”

“Naw man, I didn’t catch the game. I’ve kinda been getting into cricket.”

“The constant 404 errors are part of the charm. ”

“Dude, where’d you find an azulgrana colored fedora? Rockin!”

“I miss the undiscovered cave feel of the MLS games at football stadia.”

“I liked Messi pre-growth hormone at Newell’s. Now he’ s tastelessly 1st World.”

“If you just give the Singapore First Division the devotion of a Sigur Ros album, you’ll never go back to the EPL.”

“I prefer his stuff at blogspot. I lost interest after the wordpress upgrade.”

“I want to like Borussia Dortmund, but I heard a rumor that the club doesn’t pay their graphic design summer interns.”

“Cristiano Ronaldo. Cristiano. Ronaldo.”

Get Elliott’s eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, for your iPad, iPhone, and iPod Touch by clicking here.

And my name is Arsene Wenger.

Seriously, though, trophies are for the weak and titles for the vain. Everybody knows that the true measure of any club’s success is its daily checkbook. Do you have to float some worthless shares in Singapore to be able to afford a teenage Eastern European central defender? Oh. Too bad. Is some Middle Eastern oligarch trying to work some backdoor sponsorships to get around Financial Fair Play? Ah. Poor baby. We all know that the Gunners are the greatest team of the last decade. The “Invincibles era” was their last hiccup of non-profitability, but the club soon straightened out their finances.

Which is why they must and will sell Robin Van Persie to Barcelona.

Like a pint of Guinness on a rainy day, transfer rumors make us warm & fuzzy inside. Yet, for us experienced bloggers, we know that true transfers operate like hurricanes – ominous silence before the storm. David Villa is injured. Barcelona could use a striker. Robin Van Persie is a striker. Henry blossomed at Barcelona after an extended trial run with the Gunners. The clock is ticking on Van Persie’s contract. The cards add up too nicely. And…..nobody has said anything. Silence is the telltale sign. Then comes the Wenger claims of “not for sale”, then comes the briefcases of cash.

But I am breaking that silence. And I am starting this soccer transfer rumor. And unlike ESPN, I will credit my sources. Me (pats on back). Based on uncorroborated reports from the award-winning Futfanatico, Van Persie to Barcelona is a done deal. In fact, the deal is so done that there’s no point in other outlets reporting it. It’s like saying that the sun will rise or the Earth will rotate or Lady Gaga will get drunk and embarrass herself in public. Fait accompli.

I remember a time when Brian and Fredo and I were somewhat surprised at the British Press getting duped by a fake footballer. We were so innocent then. Now, I assume all players mentioned in the British Press are fake, especially when they have preposterous names like “David Silva” or “Robinho”, or come from obviously invented countries like “Japan.” Where do they come up with this crap?

But only a cold and stark reality stands behind the Van Persie to Barcelona trade. I feel sorry for Gunners and disgust for Cules. As for me, I’ll just batter down the hatches and get ready for a wave of hurricane-level traffic. I expect the Daily Mail to pick up this story at any moment……

Digital Image Impressions by the wildly talented Erik Ebeling. Check out his own website Erik Ebeling Art. He also did the original illustrations for “An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish”, available on the Kindle for $5.99. Check out a free preview here. The UK version is available here.

(Associated & Fabricated Press) – Today, we regret to report the death of over 200 adorable puppies. And a less than adorable nun and bus driver. At eight o’clock at night, the Save-a-Pup bus, full of 200 recently rescued puppies, rambled down the road on its way to a warm & welcoming puppy shelter. Little did the driver realize that rather than heading towards Brownsville, Texas, he and the puppies were on track for their own grisly deaths. Taylor Sampson, a volunteer bus driver with Save-a-Pup for over five years, was going the speed limit on a country road when he noticed, despite poor lighting, that several stray cattle had escaped from a fence and wandered onto the road. He flashed his lights, honked his horn, and then, not seeing any traffic, switched to the other lane to avoid hitting any cattle.

Sadly, due to the lack of streetlights, he did not see Sister Johanna Merkers on her motorcycle. The Sister had just returned from 10 years of missionary work in India bathing lepers and lepers’ close associates (including friends, immediate relatives, and not so immediate relatives). Exhausted from the ten years of service and half-day flight back to South Texas, she must have forgotten to turn on her front lights and did not hear the bus honk or see its flashing lights.

The bus smacked into her head on, sending the nun to her immediate death and the bus flipped onto its side. It spun several times. The puppies, confused and startled, yet still adorable (perhaps even more so due to the fact that their yelps of distress sound cute to human ears, oddly), were tossed about the inside of the bus cabin. Logically, one could presume that several cute puppy bones were broken. However, a veterinary-coronary report is impossible. The bodies are charred beyond recognition, along with the bus driver’s.

After the bus stopped twirling, the engine began to leak a lot of gas. By a lot of gas, I mean an oil tanker worth of gas. Not literally. Figuratively. Hyperbole-ly. Gas. Everywhere. Lots of it. The car’s engine, terribly damaged from hitting head-on a nun in a motorcycle, intermittently turned on and off. The bus driver, half-conscious from the blow of the collision, could smell the gas and immediately realized the danger. If any sparks from the stuttering engine touched one drop of gas, he and the puppies would be toast.

The immediate impact had separated the bus driver’s right shoulder. He lay on his side, still buckled to the driver’s seat. The air bag had inflated, but only blocked his path to salvation. Pain shot up and down his right arm. The fumes made his head spin like a carousel. Taylor could taste his own blood in his mouth. The puppies shrieked in terror. Some moaned in pain. Others lay still, shocked or dead by the impact. He knew that he had to reach the ignition and turn off the engine. He had to turn that key.

He winced and attempted to move his right arm. A thousand needles stabbed him in his back. A hundred knives stabbed him in the right shoulder. He lacked feeling in his right arm. The engine sputtered. It clicked. He felt gasoline by the left side of his face. A pool was forming. It felt cool as water yet smelled terrible. He took several deep breaths. There was still no smoke. Some hope remained. He spat out blood, bit his tongue, and tried to move his right arm one more time. This time ten thousand needle stabbed him in the back. His right arm was useless.

The shrieks of the puppies made his head twirl. He felt his own heart beat. Among the adorable but injured canine groans, he could make out one dog’s voice, a miniature schnauzer. Taylor had several years experience as a driver for Save-a-Pup. He knew to keep an emotional distance from the puppies. He knew that he could not save them all. He knew that he could not, and should not, play favorites with the rescue puppies. But that miniature schnauzer had gotten to him. From the first time he saw her, he was smitten. Her trimmed hair, her bushy schnauzer beard, the way she wagged her cute little tail – he tried to ignore her, but he couldn’t. Hearing her low schnauzer moan inspired him for one last effort.

He had to turn that key. He took a deep breath. He gritted his teeth. He said a prayer. He closed his eyes and braced for an unimaginable quantity of pain. He would count to three and then try to move his arm and turn that key, pain be damned. One…..two…….

And then the engine sputtered, sending a spark down to the pool of gasoline beside his ear.

In other news, on the same planet but a different continent, professional soccer clubs in Europe played a series of games. Some teams won. Some teams lost. Some teams tied.

Kaka conducts the greatest Q & A session in the history of soccer (Dirty Tackle)

Iranian football has its own regional rivalries. Don’t you just detest those snobs from Tehran? (In Bed with Maradona)

Is it legal for the English FA to criminalize third party ownership of players’ playing rights? (Footy Blog)

Also, in terms of footy finance, a bank in Dubai has set up a soccer-related Hedge Fund. I hear they are betting heavily on Carlos Tevez being moody and Roberto Mancini overreacting. The no-apology odds are 2:1. (TWMES)

Two weeks ago, a select few shared some very nice Peel-good moments (Sport is a TV Show)

Manchester City should be wary of past quick starters who faded near the end of the EPL (ESPN)

Time to point and laugh. Chelsea’s dreams of a move away from Stamford Bridge were shot down despite heavy lobbying (200%)

On the field, the Blues have been attempting new pressing-tactics as implemented by Villas-Boas (Zonal Marking) However, to press you have to push up the back line, and Arsenal feasted on the positionally challenged outside backs and lead-footed Terry (Zonal Marking)

English soccer is posed to borrow a page from the NFL and adopt the “Rooney Rule” – a rule designed to give minority candidates a fair shake in hiring decisions (Soccer Politics)

I also reflected upon race and discourse – daring to ask if how we speak about race really reflects a complex reality (Run of Play)

In marketing news, the NY Cosmos marketing team decided a few weeks ago to fire their current CEO. Nobody knows exactly what he was doing, but he probably diluted the Cosmos brand just by “existing” and actually thinking they may want to have a “team.” (Unprofessional Foul)

Mario Balotelli is waving a tsunami of confidence – to the point that he is openly flaunting the FIFA snood ban and wears a custom Super Mario snood at training (WAATP)

Nutmeg Radio penned a beautiful Arsenal-Arsene lament which dares to ask – what happens when the world keeps spinning yet your philosopher king keeps his feet firmly planted in place? (Run of Play)

Not all is well in South Africa. Local poor were forcibly relocated to shack towns to make way for World Cup tourists. The World Cup came and went. But the poor? (KCKRS)

AC Milan has gone from the Christmas Tree formation of Carlos to the Pine Cones of Allegri. (Catch-22)

Berbatov has gotten a run of games with United, but there’s one problem – it’s put in jeopardy his unemployment compensation application. (Fisted Away)

Elliott’s soccer eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available for only $5.99 on the Kindle, Nook, and at Goodreads. Check out a free preview here.

We at the Frank-Lampard Appreciation Society knew that releasing his diary, the uncut version a, would ruffle some feathers. Nevertheless, we remain firmly committed to shedding light on the player’s life, thoughts, and ruminations during this darkest of winters at the twilight of his career. This historical document will continue to be released, unedited, for the sake of the world’s heritage.

SEPTEMBER 29, 2011

Yesterday was bittersweet. I smiled. I cried. I was exhausted. The manager told me the morning of the game that I was going to start against Valencia (no relation to David), and I was excited. I put on one of my classic performances where I control the game with as little leg movement as possible – a metronome if you will- and I scored my first goal of the season from open play!

However, then the manager got fickle. He subbed me out with seven minutes left. As if I couldn’t have walked another seven minutes! Did he not hear the traveling fans’ applause for my goal? Now, I realize I don’t gallop with the ball like I used to, but class and pedigree are eternal in a thorough-bred. And the worst part is that Kalou, the little runt with the big mouth who came on for me, struck the ball with his hand like a volleyball. Valencia scored on the penalty kick. And we only got a draw.

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON OCTOBER 1, 2011

I must admit I thought of you while I was in Spain. The joy, the sadness, the anger – it all got pent up. I do ever enjoy so much writing in you. You really are my dearest friend. I shall make sure you come with me on my next travels, so that we shan’t be apart for so long.

OCTOBER 15, 2011

Another one of those days. Today I started, played the full 90 minutes, and really feel that the manager is starting to trust me. I make mistakes. He makes mistakes. We all make mistakes. I can forgive him for not starting me in the past so long as he keeps starting me in the present and also the future (which is important). I think he’s finally began to realize that my exceptional leadership qualities continue to shine even when my legs tire. Nobody on this team, not Mikel, not Ramires, not Mata, not Droba, can point to a teammate and tell them to run like me. With my years of experience and the lessons my footballer father taught me, I know where my mates should run before they even know, and I’m not afraid to let them know. So, I didn’t score today, but we won. And my finger pointing played a big part I’d like to think.

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON OCTOBER 20, 2011

I know I said that I wouldn’t ever trust that blabber Kalou again, but I mistakenly mentioned you to him. And, of course, within days, Terry and Drogba were making fun of me. Terry brought a pink and heart shaped diary into the locker room and asked me to sign it after training. I tried to fight back the tears, but when he threw it at my face and then Drogba pulled down my shorts, and then every body laughed, I just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry and cry.

OCTOBER 29, 2011

Yesterday was another bittersweet day. It’s an odd thing. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started thinking more about my legacy, but also my younger years. When I was a lad, I used to love to go to museums and stare at statues. I idolized them. I wanted to be them. I’d stare and stare and always promised myself – someday I”ll stand around, hardly move, be looked at, and be really really heavy. Here I am, close to the pinnacle of my childhood dream, yet now my legacy worries me. We lost to Arsenal.

Of course, I scored a goal. But as the game wore on, my mates really stopped listening to my instructions. I pointed at Cole at least five times and told him not to get dribbled around by Walcott. And what did he do? He got dribbled around. I pointed at Terry and told him not to trip when trying to receive a hospital ball, and what did he do? Yep. I don’t know if they couldn’t hear me because of the noise at the Bridge, but I clearly pointed at them. I was also standing center circle, so they couldn’t have missed me.

As I sit in my study at my loft, I’d like to think that I can pen the last chapter of my career as simply as I write these very words. Yet a tear runs down my cheek. I’ve never much cared for twist endings, especially when my ex-wife made me see The Notebook and it turned out that old ugly hag was crazy the whole time. I hope my time at Chelsea doesn’t end like that.

Speaking of the eBook, Robert of theTwoUnfortunates wrote a positive review that you can check out here. Terry Duffelen, blogger, podder & Socrates co-founder, also had some kind words to say about the eBook at Goodreads. And thus far the ratings have been squarely in the 4-5 range. Not too shabby. I’m still riding on a wave of confidence and my Vampire-High school-Law firm legal thriller/comedy series will be available from Doubleday in May of 2013.

But seriously, I promise to stop proudly boasting about the eBook until at least the new year. Scout’s honor. Books are like kids – once you have more than one, they all start to look the same & you eventually forget their names. Now, the links.

We’ll start with me. Two of my all-time favorite sites, Sport is a TV Show and FistedAway, presented some prime posting opportunities. First, I waxed on why you really hate Manchester City. My conclusion is that your simple envy and jealousy blind you to the truth – the Sheikh is desperate to buy your attention and affection. Given him neither. (SIATVS)

In case you didn’t see it, Arsenal FC actually won a game this past weekend. As the world’s leading Gunner-satirist who, while a Manchester United fan, has immense respect for Wenger & his sporting project, I penned a few words at Nick & Rob’s fine site. And, as per usual, a wave of Gunner-trolls took personal offense.I would just like to clarify that when I wryly poke fun at the intangible sporting entity which occupies your free time, it is only in lieu of punching you in the face. Please, get angry. Pretend that I have punched you in the face. (Fisted Away)

In terms of legitimate news, victims of the Hillsborough tragedy will finally get to see all the documents produced during the resulting investigation. David Conn squarely puts the blame on local governments & businesses who in the immediate aftermath tried to point fingers instead of looking in the mirror. (Guardian) Writing from a distance both spatially and temporally, Richard Whittall, young Canadian soccer writer extraordinaire, beautifully articulates what “Hillsborough” as a concept means to different people. (Footy Blog)

And, just to keep the kabal atmosphere going, James Tyler of Unprofessional Foul made his debut at ESPN. JT, not to be confused with Justin Timberlake when off the dance floor, summed up the prevailing sentiment that the United-Liverpool game kinda stunk. Both managers started off with defensive lineups, and even the helter-skelter of the last ten minute was more hurricane than rip-roaring EPL tide. (ESPN)

Also, I’ve been tearing into the Digital Edition Issue Two of the Blizzard. It’s available in PDF, ePub, and Mobi on a pay-what-you-want basis. In reality, it should have a price tag of at least $5 to $10 per issue. I really enjoyed Jonathan Wilson’s recap of the recent Copa America, which included some cool soccer Spanish terms like “enganche” and “garra.” (The Blizzard)

We satirists have struggled to properly mock Tevez for his recent childish antics. Maybe we’re gassed, or maybe the audience has ran out of empathy and the knives are too sharp. Regardless, Chris Toy’s images of Tevez t-shirts are hysterical, especially the third. Thanks for showing us the way, Chris! (Studs-Up)

TV rights. They are kinda important. In fact, maybe more so than foreign ownership. For a thorough and meticulous probe into the world of finances and football, there’s no better place. Even if this “Ramble” is a bit too close to FIFA for comfort.(Swiss Ramble)

Lastly, Charlie Davies has filed a lawsuit against a K street nightclub and Red Bull for throwing a party and serving alcohol to the drunk driver the night of his fateful crash. I side with C.D. and am absolutely outraged that these establishments are allowed to serve alcohol in blatant violation of the 18th Amendment of the Constitution and the Volstead Act. I only hope that current President Woodrow Wilson launches a full executive inquiry into this flagrant disregard for the rule of law. (Washington Post)

So, without further ado, our interview with Jean Baudrillard.

Editor: Bau-dawg, if I may be so frank, your seminal works on critical theory and the media have not been very popular stateside. Thus, a brief intro for our audience. Basically, you have focused on how technology affects communication, with the basic premise that meaning cannot be separated from how words interrelate. Thus, based on this theory, how do you think Chad Ochocino found out about Arsenal FC? Twitter? Cable TV? Tumblr?

JB: Well, first we must clarify the nature of meaning and, sadly, the answer is negative (chuckles to himself). Meaning is the casting away of other meanings, the discarding of other possibilities. When I say “dog,” I am also saying “not cat.” When you say “Chad Ochocinco,” you are also saying “not Chad CuatroUno.” When this celebrity says “Arsenal,” he is also saying “Not Chelsea.”

Editor: And when he focuses on the EPL, he’s also saying “MLS stinks.” I get your point. However, you’ve also posited that an object’s meaning cannot be separated from images of that object, re-creations of that object, and depictions of that object. You posited a theory of a web of meaning, so that I can’t experience my own knowing of Michael Jordan without also experiencing my knowledge of his face gracing cereal boxes. So, Baudrilla-rilla-zilla, ain’t no one illa, do you think that the EPL balls-on marketing campaign has influenced these celebrities? Did that Henry Nike commercial with the cute dog get all caught up in their web of meaning? Or do they all just have the same anglo publicist?

JB: from the onset, I am skeptical of this endeavor you seek to inquire into. It seems as though you desire to explore the minutiae of the subject beyond the signifier of its meaning, yet this search will only lead you to a delusional path of hyperreality. In the 21st century, with the twitter and Facebook and GooglePlus, we have placed the little under the collective magnifying glass so that it now appears bigger than it is or should be.

Editor: Yet your own post-structural brethren would criticize you for ignoring power relationships. As someone who believes in transparency and human solidarity, I find the world’s ability to see and empathize with local suffering as a plus, so we’ll just have to disagree on that Baudie-poo. But, just kinda ignoring that last part about what you said, isn’t it kinda weird that Michael Moore likes Arsenal even though European soccer is a product of a global capitalist mega-sytem which arguably contributes to human trafficking in Africa? It’s like, dude, you should be making a documentary on this, not buying season tickets. Your thoughts?

JB: Well, as you are aware, my focus has always been on “consumption” in our society, not so much “production.” Thus,  I share your curiosity at Mr. Moore and Mr. OchoCinco’s desire to consume the Arsenal, or at least exchange signs of linkage. In attempting to explain this, we must always remember that there is no innate need, but rather our society constructs needs for objects and then imposes this construction upon our consciousness.

Editor: Sorta like snoods? Speaking of which, Arsenal has recently lost Samir Nasri to Manchester City. The Blues are perhaps the sports team epitome of “symbolic” and “sign” value player purchases – they often buy good players from rivals only to sit them on the bench. The players have “symbolic” value because they are relatively good players, and also have “sign” value because they bring prestige to the club. Conversely, Arsenal under Wenger focuses more on Moneyball “functional” and “exchange” purchases. Do you think Michael Moore or Chad Ochocino can even tell the difference between Theirry Henry and Nicklas Bendtner? Or does a bargain bin used pair of underpants look like a solid “symbolic” purchase to them?

JB: There will always exist a tension between sign value and symbolic value, yet even I have my doubts as to whether Mr. Moore, Mr. Ochocino, or Mr. Z has knowledge or seen Arsenal’s new signing Gervinho before this year. However, I must admit, even my Marxist theory cannot escape the web of meaning. That is to say, Arsenal consumes these players and also adds symbolic value to them. Otherwise, Denilson would probably be mopping a floor somewhere.

Editor: Little Baud Wow, I’d also like to take a moment and ask about Arsenal FC and your term “the end of history.” Basically, you assert that contemporary society has so widely utilized the notion of “progress” that progress is now inevitable and thus meaningless. Since the end of the Cold War, you have sharply criticized the lack of a “Utopian dream” in popular thought, media, and philosophy as evidence that we live in a schizophrenic world where we love the world as is because we have rejected progress while accepting no progress as progress. Does this theory also accurately describe why Arsenal hasn’t won anything for six years?

JB: Yes.

Editor: Billy Bau-den, we have one last question, from a reader. Nick, of London, wants to know…

When post-structuralists write correspondence, do they refer to their school of thought in initials as P.S.? And, if so, have they ever written a letter and ended it with a P.S., similar to postscript, thereby causing confusion?

JB:Well, as my theory clearly states, meaning comes from interrelatedness. So, no, I have not seen P.S. at the end of a letter and been confused – I normally can tell from the letter if they meant to write a postscript as well. They also usually write more after putting P.S. for a postscript.

This is obviously a work of satire. JB passed away several years ago and may he rest in hyperreal peace.

I write you on behalf of humanity. We all know why you signed Mikel Arteta – not to compete for trophies, but rather to crush his boyhood dream of playing for Barcelona. In fact, Arteta played youth football for the club, but left for PSG because he couldn’t break into the starting eleven. But let’s not let the past obscure the present.

Everybody is on to your little game of “kidnap and ransom Catalan youth academy players.” We know that your scouts snoop around the city parks near La Masia, standing by the slides and monkey bars and offering chocolate to promising young players. On at least five occasions, your operatives offered a nine year old Andres Iniesta a Hershey’s kiss. On at least two occasions, one twelve year old Xavi Hernandez was offered Snickers’ bars.

These boys were strong enough to say no. But now you prey on poor Mikel Arteta.

For the sake of humanity, please do not shackle him. If you do not immediately release him on a free transfer to Barcelona, then they will be forced to dress him in an FC Barcelona jersey at all national team gatherings. The players will also take a break from auditioning for the Catalan Asociat du Tumbling and plea to petty journalists for his release.

Of course, FC Barcelona will not meet your preposterous ransom demand of fifteen million pounds. It is against Catalonian state policy to negotiate with terrorists. In your hands you hold the dream of a boy. Please free him, so that he may fly like a beautiful dove into Cesc Fabregas and Lionel Messi’s waiting arms.

Sincerely,

The Universe.

However, these criticisms overlook a simple truth behind transfer rumors: people gobble them up. In troves. Why? I speculated that the transfer rumor succeeds because of human beings’ optimism – all fans want to hear about a big signing by their beloved club. Like an unopened gift, within the box of poorly timed press releases lurks the occasional fantastic find. Also, the dubious proof lends itself to intrigue of its own making – who are these almost mythical behind-the-scenes actors who truly control our clubs’ destiny? Anticipation. Unexpected surprises. Intrigue. These draw the public eye to transfer rumors.

The Cesc-to-Barca transfer has no such defense. Why? Because it is a transfer reality. A plodding transfer reality worse than any rumor.

It didn’t have to be this way- so ugly, so exposed. Roughly 15 months ago, triumphant homecoming headlines could have carried Cesc to Catalunya. Barcelona had just lost to Mourinho’s Inter in the Champions League and barely nicked Real Madrid to La Liga. They looked quasi-vulnerable, at least by their standards. Conversely, the Gunners did not win a title. Whispers turned to words turned to shouts. Could Fabregas be Barcelona’s answer? Was he a want-away star on a team lacking supporting talent?. We will never know, because that that moment in time, Arsenal held firm to their star prize.

Since then, some stuff has happened. Spanish teammates forced Cesc into a Barcelona t-shirt after the World Cup. The Gunners actually competed quite well until late February, and managed to beat Barcelona in one leg of their Champions League draw. And Barcelona quasi-comfortably pipped Madrid to the La Liga crown. They also thrashed Manchester United in the Champions League final. In sum, every conceivable positive spin headline for this transfer has been tossed out the window. Months ago. Yet the show went on, to our disgust, like a low budget straight-to-video edition of Halloween XXVI.

Why the disgust? Why the aversion to reality? Simply put, entertainment must contain at least a hint of unreality to keep interest. Cesc-to-Barca was as plain as Grandma’s jam. Barcelona spent big bucks on David Villa and Dani Alves. They also bought back Pique from United. Arsenal, under Arsene Wenger, loves to sell talent at a profit. They did sell Henry to Barcelona after all. Thus, unlike other fantastic transfer rumors, the Cesc-to-Barca reality made too much sense. Like a poorly written detective novel where the reader realizes the killer’s identity at the halfway point, we’ve watched this deal unfold with the anticipation of a route canal.

And that’s another major criticism: the rhythm of this transfer reality. A great transfer rumor will materialize instantly, the product of pixie dust and an unverified source. The Cesc deal has drawn out over a year for an all too practical and not preposterous-enough reason: money. Yet, to our disgust, the difference in asking and offering price was small by European club soccer standards. Neither side budged an inch as they wasted possibly hundreds of thousands of dollars on jet airfare to negotiate in person, hoping to pinch a million.

Of course, not only the neutrals are aghast. My sincerest apologies to Arsenal nation. Arsene Wenger’s remarks about “cemeteries” and “feeder club” mask over a sad 21st century fact: a financially prudent club will struggle to win titles against over-leveraged or oil rich adversaries. And I wouldn’t hold my breath on UEFA’s financial fair play sorting things out anytime soon. Still, at least Ramsey and Wilshere have gained a year of experience.

And, of course, truth is relative. Real Madrid pursued Cristiano Ronaldo over two summers. However, unlike the oddly penny-pinching Cules, Perez took out a loan and paid a record for CRon. The first summer was painful, but  the second time around, the deal was consummated with speed and cash, like a respectable drug deal. At least Arsenal got several productive years out of Cesc, unlike Samir Nasri – whose pending transfer to City is a ‘transfer reality” disgusting for other reasons.

So there you have it – transfer rumors excite the senses with fantasy, but the reality of the Cesc-to-Barca deal slowly ground the fun out of life. At least it’s over. Cesc le vie.