Thursday, February 17, 2011

Yes. Yes, I Did, In Fact, Know That Our Area Has A Professional Soccer Team And Blah Blah Blah

So it's actually been a pretty restful offseason, as long as I don't consider real life to be part of the offseason. While I have not been in the most bloggerly of humours, I really would've been, at least on this topic (and think for a moment about the topics I've passed up over the last two months), had anything actually noteworthy happened since the club's shocking announcement that, well, shucks, we guess Benny's our first choice after all, since no one else is fucking stupid enough to coach this team and while even Benny's not that stupid, he's that blindly and dumbly loyal to the shirt. Which of course I can understand, suffering from some bit of that my ownself.

Time comes, though, and things are heating up a bit, and it won't be long before BFF is saying one thing one week and pounding the other hole the next and whistling past our chosen graveyard in between, so I reckon it's time for me to jump in and start saying things about things, because even though we're not at all competitive about this Unitedblogging, that's a total lie and we are, which is sad for him since even though he's a deep thinker and smarter than me about almost all things, this isn't one of them.1

So they happen, things do, and of course Charlie Davies is one of them. It seems really not very long ago that we stood in the rain in RFK for a national team game, waving printed number nines in the ninth minute of a CONCACAF qualifier against Costa Rica, a couple of days after he was near-fatally fucked up in an auto accident on the GW Parkway. But it was 16 months ago, and Charlie's back, having done poorly in his quest to get playing time with the reserves at his French club. Now, Charlie was an exciting guy back before he had some nontrivial portion of his body smashed up, really fast and prone to both impressive breakouts and boneheaded failure to launch, but on balance, we looked forward then to his run in the World Cup, which never happened. They tell us now, the meretricious pricks who put on this show, that Charlie looks great for a guy who got broken in several spots, none of them good, and who left part of his innards out there on the road by the Lady Bird gardens. I suppose it's all plausible.

Will Charlie Davies save this club from the fate of the last 3 (THREE!!!!!!) years and get us to the playoffs and beyond, which is after all what we expect, being without question the greatest football team, the most storied professional club in North American futbol with not even a shadow of competition for that august title?

Beats the crap out of me. It's hard for me to believe that the club will again be the lowest-scoring side in MLS, at least, and I guess that's progress. Will I enjoy watching Charlie in my club's colors? Sure, totally, although the scars may be a little creepy, and I reserve the right to scorn him if he fails to give Loud Side the love adoration tribute in the form of being our fucking monkey, that we deserve. I welcome Charlie in a way that I do not welcome another forward who signed for us months ago, Josh Motherfucking Wolff, or the non-10 10 we signed right around the same time, CreepyEvil Midget Dax Ginger Daywalker McCarty, both of whom will pollute my team's laundry this season and cause me to actually appreciate the formerly discommodated2 and still unforgiven Tino Quaranta.

But Charlie is quite literally yesterday's news and I'm just getting around to it, in accord with my policy of giving you yesterday's news tomorrow. Today's news, and I recognize that I have no business giving you today's news today, is that...well, first, let me revisit another important North American futbol concept:

Alex Prus is a loosely woven cloth sack of dysenteric monkey shit.

Sorry for the digression. These things happen when I review my archives. So today's news is that the team waived Julius James who, I found during said review of my archives, I have variously referred to as "ambitiously filthy," a "fucking hero," and (on the very night he was that hero), a player for whom "I will not shed a tear." I'll miss him, and I actually think I can maybe spare one small tear. Don't get me wrong--I think he's slow and his best skill is that he's magnificently fucking dirty without getting caught as much as the equally filth-soaked Dejan Jakovic--but you get points for viciously and criminally clobbering players I hate without getting caught, for entertaining me by actually bearhugging guys from behind on set pieces (again, without getting caught), for fighting to your dying breath on one fucking leg and scoring what would've been a winning goal in a playoff-implications game if fucking Fred weren't such a fucking useless jackass, for your two goals in my team's shirt being as memorable as his two goals in my team's shirt.

Lots of points, as it turns out, though before today I really wouldn't have thought so, not having had occasion to boil the man's United career down so starkly.

Furthermore: Kurt Morsink is a fucking useless, no-account, loudmouth punk, a punkass bitch to end all punkass bitchery, and I hope he's next, because he'll make me feel how I should feel when a player's waived, and believe me, my summation of fucking Kurt Morsink's United career will not be a kind one.

But I digress. I will miss you, Julius James. You were far better than our last number 2.3 I wish you the best of luck when you get picked up by fucking Kansas City or the lime-green retard barista cockgobblers, or whoever the fuck has a worse defense than we do--and they are out there, oh yes they are.

1Yeah, Grizz, that breathless graf was for you, as are they all. Did you have to ask?
2And don't think I can't restore that any fucking time it pleases me to do so.
3No. Seriously? He has a motherfucking Wikipedia page? Don't they have notability criteria or something? Jeebus.