Why I Hate My Futbol Team Even Though It Just Went Up 2-1

I would have, by now, been demanding the firing of the last two DC United coaches. In fact, I did, long before now, at points where the team didn't suck nearly as bad as this one does. And you might well accuse me of hero worship for this. "Look at that dumbass Landru," you say to yourself right about now. "He's so blinded by love for Saint Benny the Lionhearted that he can't bring himself to call for the dumb fuck's head."

To coin a meme: Sadly, no. 

I'm not bothering to demand the dumb fuck's firing, because it's pointless. There's no way the cheap cocksuckers who own this team are going to buy out Saint Benny, as hapless as he is.

It's hard to hate on Benny Olsen, true enough. Heart of a lion, tears of a clown, and all that. And there's certainly something to the notion that the cheap cocksuckers Thohir and Levien aren't giving him much to work with. But that's not all of it, and Benny's not working with what he has. He has a fucking retard in a chess helmet in central defense, and he traded his best central defender to Jason Kreis for semen on a cracker the other week because...I"m not sure why. Because McDonald looked at him funny in practice or something. It takes a genius at stupidity to think that Daniel Woolard is a better central defender than Brandon McDonald. It takes a genius at stupidity not to notice that Dwayne DeRosario is aging and counterproductive, and that even before the age really started to show this season, his arrogance and attitude doomed him to useless. It takes a genius at stupidity to bench the best goalkeeper in the league upon his return from a winning Gold Cup team, to play a fucking retard like Joe Willis--which almost cost them three points, as Willis let in a goal that I think would've been almost physically impossible for Bill Hamid to let in.

Sure, they made the playoffs last year on...what, adrenaline? Other teams' suck? Not on Benny's management skills, that's for fucking sure. I've addressed this for a long time now; see here, and scroll down past the two futbol posts I've made this year, and start reading. Or just read samples:

(11/4/2012) The last is, as always, uncomfortable for me, because he's a fucking saint. Benny Olsen is a terrible fucking man manager, just absolutely fuckawful. The team fielded 10 men for almost 25 minutes. Benny had two subs left. He didn't use them.

(10/20/2012) It makes no sense to backpass and then restart the advance at a pace that lets the other team catch up and repack the defense (and let's not even discuss the countless episodes of inept backpassing followed by stupid turnovers and goooooollllls). None. I screamed at Tommy Soehn about it, I screamed at Curt Onalfo about it, and it's only fair that I say this: Goddammit, Saint Benny, you stupid motherfucker, stop fucking coaching them to backpass and then build slow. What the fucking fuck is wrong with you, other than that you learned this fucking repulsive horseshit from Soehn and Onalfo? Didn't Saint Piotr learn you better? Can't you fucking stand there, far closer to this abomination in the sight of the futbol gods than I am, and fucking learn from this? Wake the fucking fuck up, dood. I really, really want to believe that you're not still, after two fucking seasons, in way the fuck over your incredibly short head. I really do. Do please provide countering evidence. Soon.

(8/12/2012) Part of the thing here, and it's a part we're loathe to admit, is that Benny is a really, really fuckawful in-game coach, and a poor tactical manager. Can this improve? Maybe. Given time, he'll improve more in a year or two than Tommy Soehn or Curt Onalfo will for the rest of their lives.Will he get time? Will he deserve it? Beats the fuck out of me.

(5/28/2012) Fuck You, Chester, Pennsylvania, and Fuck You, PP&L Park. It'll be fucking cold day in Hell when I spend money in your city, or your stadium, ever again.

Oh, wait. That last one's not about Benny. But I stand by it anyway.

So as I've typed this, DCU actually managed to score a clincher and win the game 3-1. Our friends on Comcast, including the formerly discommendated but no longer uniformed and maybe forgiven, I can't remember, Santino Quaranta (but not sainted Terps coach Sasho Cirovski, who's been studio-commenting for CSN and appears to have either smartened up or taken a timely vacation--and look, at I typed that, my teevee flashed up an utterly bullshit commercial about how excited I should be about the giant clusterfuck rape that's going to be Maryland football this season, yay!), are just creaming themselves over this first home victory since...Jeebus...1492 or something. 

You know what? Fuck this, I'm tiring myself out. Have bunnies instead.

Yes. Yes, they will.

Stump Bunnies

Yes, that is seriously Shakira with a bunny.

Yes, that is seriously some naked broad I don't know, with a bunny.

Gaymo bunnies are still my favorite.

Yeah. I feel better now, don't you?

Suburbia

It's 5:45 PM on a weeknight in outer MoCo, and there are severe storms approaching fast. It's a favorite time for me, and I stepped onto the deck for a smoke before the storm. Lookee what I found.

Yes, the doe in the middle is taking a dump in my yard.

Unconcerned by the likes of me, the little savages continue to strip my landlord's trees.

Trippy.

How I Confused My Literate Blogfriend. Or Not.

I have some. Literate blogfriends, I mean. Jim is way the fuck smarter than me, at least in his oeuvre and some nontrivial number of others, so I mostly just look at his pictures and skim over the stuff with the alphabets because it just gives me sads.

I discovered this thing today called the Flesch-Kinkaid Readability Index. It's pretty cool and utterly fucking meaningless. It calculates, in theory, the grade level at which you write, and the ease of readability of a given passage of text. I found it in some story about how congresscritters speak, on average, at a 10th-grade level, which was meant to be an insult. I shoved some work-related writing samples into this online calculator thing and discovered that I write at a 12th-grade level with a readability index of 41 (the lower the index, the more dense and incomprehensible the writing). A sample of recent Minions posts yielded scores of 10/50 (the Moog post), 12/47 (the hockey coaching post), 12/45 (the Mothers Day rant) and, stunningly, 10/54 (the Bam-Bam post, which earned me a cookie from Jim, and thanks for that, Jim). Jim's most recent prose post (other recent work has consisted of pictures and quotations), about Mittens' gay-hatin' garnered a 14/32. This makes Jim measurably smarter than me, so STFU, QED.

Yeah, it's a toy, and a pretty stupid one, at that. A Slate article I read about it called it "reductionist," and that's pretty spot on. Actually, I think it was a Weigel piece, so it probably couldn't decide whether it scored an infinity/infinity or a 6/smartass. But I had fun reductionizing myself.

So anyway, I lit into Himself, lovingly and a little bit, because the day had reached the point where I was no longer fit to do the things people pay me to do, and the peasants would've thought ill of me if I'd had the sedan chair brought around as early as 4:45. A little cruise led me to a brief mention of DCU midfielder Branko Boskovic, beloved by Himself because he's from one of those Balkan places, and Himself is also a 'Vic/'Vich, great-grandma from Buda and great-grandpa from Pest, or some such trifle, and he's all prejumidiced and suchlike. He claimed it's because he likes tens.

And I ranted, in the comments therein, about Tennism. You can poke over there for the rant, if you care, or not. Jim did, and I'm suspecting he regrets it, which is a shame because he's never done anything bad to me.

A ten is an center attacking midfielder, a playmaker who can also score. We're talking about footy here, by the way. Famous tens include Johan Cruyff, Zinedine Zidane, and others I'm too lazy to remember, but knock yourselves out in the comments. Less famous tens--who are pretty significant here because they significantly contributed to BFF's and my conversion to Tennism (by playing for DC United), would be Marco Etcheverry and Christian Gomez (first tour of duty, pre-obesity). Less famous tens who made us wish for Marco Etcheverry and Christian Gomez, mostly because they weren't tens or were sucky or washed-up tens, would be Marcello Gallardo, the Ginger Fucking Midget (who may well have been shorter than Gallardo, who was nicknamed El Muneco--The Doll), Freddy Adu, Matias Donnet, Rod Dyachenko, Justin Mapp, Justin Moose, Santino Quaranta, Jamil Walker, Rodney Wallace, and Christian Gomez II (The Fattening). Some of those guys had value as footy players, but they all sure sucked balls as center attacking midfielders.

We really, really want Branko to be a ten. That's because he could be, although he prefers to play out left, because his right foot sucks every bit as much as the noodle dangling from the end of the late and lamented Marc Burch's right leg. And even though he's slower than Databoy trying to eat asparagus, and not a whole lot more enthusiastic about the team's preferred pace (to Branko's credit, he's shown more energy in the last two games, which he has started). It's also because we really like Dwayne DeRosario, who is probably more of a natural ten, and Hamdi Salihi, who is also probably something of a natural ten, up top.

Of course, in BFF's case, he also wants Branko to be a ten because of the fucking Balkan connection. But that's neither here nor there.

By the way, the other half of his ancestry is German, so he's not all bad. And he can't help that wrong side of Pennsylvania thing, so it's unfair to mock him for it, even though it is pretty tragifunny.

A point, a point, there was a point...right, how I confused Jim. I didn't. That was a lie. He pretended to be confused, and placed his cultural origins in...uhm...well, exactly the same generational spot as me and BFF, which really isn't very surprising at all, now, is it?

But the whole thing left me troubled and vaguely confused, and not because of Jim, because of the demons in my own shadows. Leaving only one place to turn:

These bunnies stripped Mary Ann and left her in the creek.

This bunny is enjoying itself just a little too much.

You can't fool me. This bunny is a motherfucking space alien.

 

These bunnies are creeping me the fuck out, but I'm guessing Sasha digs them.

Okay, I was wrong. These bunnies are creeping me the fuck out.

 Fucking rubes. You fall for the bunny trick every fucking time.
 

Dallas 0-0 DCU (Updated With Bunnies)

Not much to say, but I notice that, as of this moment, the usual suspects among my friends have said nothing about last night's match (which is not unusual or bad, given that it's about 7 AM Sunday as I type this). I'm sure they'll get around to it, and they'll do better than I, because I've little to say, and even less that's nice.

The game was dull and listless and had nothing to recommend it. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the little itty bitty crowd in a park that was recently enough one of MLS' crown jewels, although a small crowd to watch mediocre football in Texas heat is unsurprising. Maybe it was that neither team is very good, and really, it's quite stunning how little of a fuck Dallas gave at home against a lackluster opponent. Like BFF said last week, four points on this road trip is really quite stunning.

Whether or not Schellas Hyndman could leverage anything against it, our defense was ungood, relying on dire fouls and last-minute heroics by a now-consistently besieged Bull Hamid. Woolard's play was particularly reprehensible, and he could easily have seen two yellows (as could the loathsome Daniel Hernandez). And all credit for the draw, really, goes to some Dallas speed merchant named Chavez who broke through and couldn't put a ball into an essentially open net from 16 or 17 yards in between fits of diving, whining, and inflicting or taking egregious fouls (the referee was hallucinating badly--I think he ate some of the brown acid, despite all the warnings--but not to any particular effect).

Look, I know it was hot, sultry, difficult. Dallas are not pushovers. Our strikers were Tracey Chapman and a guy who's clearly less and less thrilled to be here, the latter subbed out quite early for Fred's last American roadshow appearance. Dallas did a good job of denying DeRosario the ball, Brek Shea is a scary player and will be well nigh unstoppable once he grows into less of a whinging pussy, and while there were guys in 13 and 14 shirts running around on the field, Pontius and Najar were nonexistent. Although the guy in the 13 shirt had to be Pontius, judging from the fact that he glooped into Turnover Junction every time he had an opportunity to shoot.

Lazy and indifferent is a perfectly fine way for me to go through life, but I'm not a professional soccer team.

Update: We have bunnies living in the back yard next door, but they like the food selection better in our yard, since we just let clover and other stuff that's not grass grow without impediment--I suspect the neighbors in our relatively well-manicured neighborhood hate us, but fuck 'em. In a past life and a past neighborhood, I actually had a several-doors-down neighbor who threatened to assault me over dandelions. If your yard is your pride, good on you. If you're worried about agricultural warfare, fuck you, build a wall, poison the Bay, what the fuckever. Anyway...bunnies (the third one is in shade, almost directly behind the bunny on the left--hard to see):

Esta Futbol Sabado Gigantico!

Huge futbol day, with DCU seeing if it can lose to Houston by slightly less at home than it did in an embarrassment of a game at Reliant earlier in the season. The good news here is that Houston seems to have shot its wad in that game. The bad news is that Daniel Woolard and Chris Korb still play for us.

The bigger futbol thing is tonight's Gold Cup final in the Rose Bowl between the US and Mexico. Everjingo newsies are desperate to find hope for the good guys here, but this awesome discussion over at Fullback, in which I offer to sacrifice a cute furry bunny for national glory, is more telling. We're gonna get cheesed. Cheesed, I tell you.

Of course, bunny sacrifice can be dangerous in its own right.

Not the bunny I plan to sacrifice.

A better choice, perhaps. Besides, the woman looks vaguely Mexican.

On Navelgazing

I love my friends. Honest, I really do. I'm not as horrible a person as I'd really like to be. But some days, I would like to be. It's neither politic nor kind to post one's horrible thoughts on one's friends' own blogs. Especially when I'm one. You are one, aren't you? But thoughts are had. Even for those I love best and most. Oh yes they are.

Hackneyed, true. Possibly even copyrighted, though I'll claim fair use--after all, they're just laying around on the Toobz. All that, none of it good. But expressive nonetheless.

And seriously. I love my friends.

Personal data: home after a week there. Here until I go there. Which is the day after Sweet Baby Jesus day. Un-fucking-real. I'd really like to tell you what I'm doing there. But I can't, because a certain part of the government would hunt down every one of you and grope the fucking Sweet Baby Jesus out of you. And you wouldn't like it. Even if you're into that sort of thing. Believe me, you're not that into it. Trust me on this. Because, as we noted, I love my friends. But to their navels, I say:

Peace out.

On The Plight of the Neutral Observer in a War Zone

1. BPWTF? Since I'm not sure I'm at liberty to reveal the connection, I won't. Let's just say it's pretty deeply rooted.

2. Conrad. Conrad is soused and lives in Turkey. He's from the same minion gene pool as Purple and Whispers.

3. Conrad's brother Conrad Graham (the blog formerly known as I Don't Care If You Don't Like Me). Way the fuck less soused than he used to be, and lives in Philadelphia. Also from the same minion gene pool as Purple and Whispers. Cute as a fucking bug, and far less annoying.

4. Kitten Wars. Smart money's on the cracker. The intellectual doesn't have the stomach for a long war.

5. Speaking of which, don't you people ever learn?

The Golden Swiss Bunnies of the Apocalypse. Surrender and get really fat thighs.

No, this bunny's going to kick your ass. Seriously. Appropos of nothing, I found this bunny at a publication called New Lesbian Times. I do not know what that means.

Clorg supporters.

Hello Dweeze.

Seriously, dogs just suck.

If Rose McGowan as an armed amputee isn't the hottest fucking bunny ever, I don't know what is.

Obama supporters.

Nothing is safe from performance art.

Dilettantes.

Peace in Our Time

War is over. Happy Christmas. War is over, now. Hello Hitler and Hello Kitty Rave Whore have done their jobs and can go back in their little boxes now.

We now return to regularly scheduled programming.

The Bunnies Have Spoken

The Governor of Whoresmurfing is no more. Let us return now to the forest and cavort.

Elliott Spitzer Deathwatch

Just another day in bunnydise.

Other Peoples' Feelthy Parts

Oh dear. Oh, dearie dearie me.

What a dumbfuck.

On a considerably less well-documented note: oh dear (h/t: Sasha).

Lawks, even (yet another h/t to Sasha, and yes, I know I violated the no-Malkin rule, but it's too good to pass up).

There's only one place to turn, in troubled times such as these.

Ketchup

Busy week.

These not-bunnies are sleeping after eating Landru's blogging time this week.

But the world refuses to sit still as I don't blog it, so I'll catch up a bit here.

John Edwards (the Presidential candidate, not the other douche): What a spineless fucking piece of shit. Granted, he eventually expressed something vaguely resembling support for Amanda Marcotte and ShakesSis, who he had hired to reach out to the netroots. But he waited 36-48 hours after the faux explosion around them (caused entirely by noisemaking right-wing fucktards), before acting. Sasha points out (privately) that Edwards is either a complete pussy, or merely an ineffectual one. To the extent that it was possible that I'd support Edwards in the primary any more, it ain't now. That a so-called progressive candidate could find himself at odds with the "sentiment" of various posts by unshakeable feminists is not exactly what anyone would call progressive. And the outrage over girls saying "fuck" is sheer hypocrisy. I'm not a big fan of either blog (ShakesSis is linked here, because I occasionally mosey over and get a dose of whatever they're peddling), but this shit is way over the top.

Anna Anna Anna Anna Anna Nicole: I don't want to laugh at this tawdry tart's misfortune. It's hard for me to sit here and write that she was dumb, or something; she parlayed those tits and that ass into megawealth. On the other hand, I just heard the first "choked on her own vomit" story of the ensuing media frenzy. While Anna Nicole Smith was and is pretty much irrelevant to me, I must simply remind you that you can't dust for vomit.

Looney Astronaut: Sasha and I were discussing how this week's news alone should be outstanding fodder for TreyStoneParkerMatt, but sadly, they're not producing new episodes of South Park at the moment. Hopefully a wacky astronaut chick driving hundreds of miles in diapers to fuck up a workplace rival (and remember, Wacky Astronaut Chick says she wasn't involved with Studly Astronaut Boy) will remain topical until they start cranking some new stuff. And if there was no fucking involved, Victim Chick must leave quite a mess in the ladies' or around the coffee machine, to be provoking that much hatin'. This story is, by the way, the funniest. Thing. EVAR.

The Super Bowl: I think I done said all I'm gonna, in the game-night posts. The Cum Cannon just couldn't sling enough spooge to get the job done, and that's sad. From a high comedy perspective, the game rated about an A minus; the rain was a hoot, bashing the Cumslinger is a hoot, and it just doesn't get any better than 5-6 turnovers before halftime in the Super Bowl. The commercials this year neither heightened nor diminished the thing's comedy potential, although it was a pretty lackluster set of commercials. And Prince with a shadow demon penis? Priceless.

Futbol: Of course, blackDogred has addressed this thoroughly and essentially without fault. The U.S. mens' national team played a friendly against Mexico the other night, and it was massively entertaining. Unfortunately, I've gotten to the same point with USMNT that I've gotten to with the Terps; I dislike almost as many of the USMNT players as I do Maryland basktballers. While this is sad, it doesn't keep me from spewing bile when our boys play the Mexicans, who are aging, melancholy, unsportsmanlike pussies. The good news is that I can forget about this a few weeks into DCU's upcoming season and focus on hating Bruce Arena (who was in the booth with Eric Wynalda for the Mexico game, and THAT, friends, was pure comedy gold).

And in closing:

Greg says, "Fuck you, Michelle, Gun Counter Gomer, and Dan Riehl!"

Gained In Translation

My friend Blondie from Texas commented after yesterday's post about never expecting to see bunny pics on this site. Because I am such a keen observer of womens' wants and needs, I have successfully translated Blondie's comment thusly: "Please post more bunny pictures. Bunnies make me hot."

Here you go, Blondie:

The pink bunnies are named Ann. The yellow bunnies are named Michelle. The purple bunny is named Liberal Faggot AntiChrist. There's a-gonna be a lynchin'.

These bunnies are cruising for tail. Ann and Michelle say, "You're next, gaymos."

These bunnies look like America. Ann and Michelle hate that. Especially Michelle. She's third from the right, on the bottom row. Note her white ears.

These bunnies look like rats.

These bunnies have been eaten by a cat.

These bunnies make it burn when I pee. Quite a lot, actually.

These bunnies are called the Lonestar Bunnies, which would make them Blondie's neighbors. I'd be deeply concerned about that, if I was Blondie.

These bunnies are going to fuck you up. Seriously.

Remember, kids. Don't look for the shoutout. The shoutout looks for you. It worked for Blondie, right?

U-Turns In The Night

This is a big picture of a fluffy bunny. If you are my beloved friends Germbabe or Sparkles, look at the big picture of the fluffy bunny and do not, under any circumstances, scroll down.

This here? Is not a big picture of a fluffy bunny. It is a picture of J.J. Redick.

Can you guess what J.J. did not long before this picture was taken? That's right, he committed a crime. No, no, not the poetry or the crying or the .025-percent lifetime NCAA tournament shooting percentage, although all of those certainly qualify. J.J. hung a U-turn in the night. An illegal U-turn. Right in front of a police drunk driving checkpoint.

Thank you, J.J. This was a sad bunny sort of day, until you hit the news. And there's only one thing left to say.



Except, of course, it's not.