So I don't have time to be baited today, but BFF has hung a fucking juicy rare onglet with frites and spinach and a dessert of profiteroles* in my trap, so I'll just have to take a few minutes to kick his fucking whiny wAhhhpocalyptic ass and be his fucking monkey. Dick.
I ordinarily take care to be gentle when I'm going all crotchety on BFF, because I do, in fact love him, and I do not, in fact, wish to be hurtful. No time for nice; this rant is going to be all foot and spittle. Okay, and a cute little monkey costume. Whaddafuckever.
-Yes, DCU could very easily be worse with a perfectly good, but untested and unknown player in the fucking central midfield, you fucking spaz. Have you fucking noticed how many times in the 36 minutes of fucking Brankotime we've enjoyed so far just how many fucking times fucking Branko has played the absolutely right fucking ball to space that one of his hydroencephalic moron teammates hasn't bothered to sensibly occupy? Yeah, you have, BFF, because we fucking talked about it. So'd Bromark. Dick.
-This has nothing to do with BFF's fundamental and mind-boggling strategic and tactical retardation, but Fucking Curt Fucking Onalfo threw unspecified persons under the bus on Party Boy's injury, claiming he didn't know about it until halftime.
-It was Pablo Hernandez who blew the open header. It was also Pablo Hernandez who put the winning header on Andy Najar's little midget head, and Pablo Hernandez who was, justifiably, MOTM. For the record, it was also Jaime Moreno, Santino Quaranta, Andy Najar, and Jordan Graye (twice) who blew eminently scorable chances ignominiously, and that's just the ones I remember right now. So using that to label Hernandez, who's now had something like 110 pretty decent minutes, with midget shit, is fucking abominably disingenuous. Dick.
-It's July. BFF just finally grokked, last night--I watched it happen, it was a visible, scientifically verifiable grokking--that Curt Onalfo was hired to manage MLS' proudest and greatest franchise on the strength of his 8-year record of abject suck at the fucking Kansas City Wizards. And now, BFF has the balls to tell us, to tell me, that we should fire Curt Onalfo five minutes ago? Fuck you, you fucking fuck. For taking that long to figure it out, BFF and we should suffer with the inept Arenabagging cocksucker for the rest of the season. BFF for his sins, and us for not fucking duct-taping his keyboard into silence.
-To BFF's credit: I thought I understood why Brankotime was limited to 18 minutes on Thursday. I do not understand why it was limited to 18 minutes on Sunday, and I do not understand why he's not starting over Steven King (Cujo!). BFF correctly identifies this as an issue, then leaps off the fucking Eiffel Tower with conclusions about the reasons behind it. We don't know. And we won't, especially not if Goff's not doing his fucking job. Dick.**
-Am I happy about losing to the fucking Gals? Of course not. The last two (eagerly awaited) home games have been fucking torture, graced at the finish with hot fucking barbed needles into my fucking testicles. I fucking hate the Gals, and I fucking hate those lime-green retard barista cockgobblers from Seattle, and I'm super over-the-top, auto da fe pissed off at Jordan Fucking Graye for personally causing all three of the fucking goals I've watched at home in the last two games (honorable mentions to Steven King, Troy Perkins, and Julius James), and losing to fucking Sigi Schmid and Bruce Motherfucking Traitor Cocksucker Arena in my own house within the space of four days has made me well nigh insane. But shut the fucking fuck up and stop being such a fucking simpering Girl, BFF.
-BFF also neglected--I'm guessing deliberately and baitfully, but I'll cheerfuly accept his proffered alternative, if he's not willing to step up and manfully admit that he was fishing--to tell you, gentle readers, that McTavish, whom BFF denies hating with the flaming white-hot passion of a million million exploding suns (BFF claims it's just raining). cleared an awful, awful mistake, a certain goal, off the line in what, the second minute? This is a reasonably talented team with a pig-ignorant coach, a criminal front office, scouting issues (Cristian Castillo?), and a possible training/fitness problem (see the number and severity of injuries, which could also easily owe to bad luck, and Pontius last night--seriously? We left him in for 44 minutes of broken foot?). Most of the players don't actually suck.
Good stuff about last night: Eddie Pope. Awesome. Hanging with BFF and screaming the same spittle-flecked stuff I always scream at him about how he's a fucking idiot when it comes to tactics, mostly because, like me, he played for the Trojans and unlike me, was neither paying attention nor watching tactics rush down the field at him in the wrong direction? Nothing better.
In other news, happy birthday to my surrogate father, BFF's and Elric's and Bromark's dad, who has been an awesome, towering figure in my life, a man I have always been every bit as afraid of disappointing as my own daft father. Even if his oldest son is a dick.***
Chillax, BFF. You probably said Benny Olsen flunked his DCU audition his senior year at Yoova.
*My actual dinner on Saturday night, and damn, was it good.
**Yes, both BFF and Goff.
***Yes, both BFF's dad and mine.
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