Upper Ninety

Did I just spend four straight hours watching South Africa play Mexico followed immediately by Uruguay vs. France in consecutive televised soccer matches from half way around the world? Not only did I, but they were both recorded on my DVR, which means I spent all day purposely avoiding situations where I might learn the outcomes, adding no small amount of inconvenience and stress to my day. Lunch at the Hooters was even more awkward than usual, and I didn't even try the Hot Dog Trick.

When I did get home to watch, I found very quickly that the outcome of each game was really really really important to me. The children went unfed. The dogs I think might have trapped and murdered either a monster raccoon or some kind of small bear in the back yard. I can only go by the pitch and ferocity of the animal screams I neglected to check on. I was too busy falling in love with the inscrutably unpronounceable Siphiwe Tshabalala or being hypnotized by the flowing blonde locks of Diego Forlán. Really, that's how you say it, with that extra "la" on the end: Tshabalala. It's like doo-wop lyrics. That or some kind of exotic blood disease transmitted by tse-tse flies that makes your eyeballs implode. "I'm sorry son, it looks like you've got Tshabalala." Best news ever.

It's World Cup time. It's World Cup time. It's World Cup time. Whee!

What do I know about any of those four countries? South Africa is one of those countries so fucked up, it's got its seasons backwards, rendering it already unnatural and suspicious. But I did finally see District 9, so I feel like I know the place pretty well. I feel like I'd do OK there so long as wasn't a shrimp-looking alien. Plus I hear if you're not nice to them, they will wrap you in a tire and set it on fire. Add to that the fact they were playing Mexico and, well, not so hard to figure out all I needed to know to be invested in that one.

France is... well, it's France. They were dressed all in béchamel white. And you can always count on a certain percentage of their players to refuse to kick the ball, merely regard it with disdain, spit on a sidewalk (not easy to do on an all-grass field) and walk away, all the while impassively dangling a hand-rolled cigarette from their lower lips. And Uruguay is universally regarded as the Country That Makes It Hard To Remember Which One Is Paraguay. So I was rooting for a tie. Wish granted!

So far so good? No. So far so AWESOME. It lasts a month, which seems like a long time, but considering a) the NBA playoffs inexplicably last roughly 14 months by comparison and b) it's a quadrennial event, a month isn't really all that long. It will be no time at all when I will go back to being insufferable about the normal slate of things I am insufferable about. In the meantime, I welcome your scorn with regard with my effeminate/unAmerican/Eurotrash tendencies. Get them in while you can. I plan on being all the way back to my butch, re-educated, white-trash, xenophobic, provincialist self just in time for American football season.


TOMORROW: USA vs. England. 10:30 am Pacific/1:30 pm Not Pacific. I'm not kidding when I tell you if it weren't on a Saturday, I was going to take a vacation day. I am unwell. I am comfortable with this, however. Try to cure me and I will cut you.