Despite the fact that Beckham and his spice rack have gone Hollywood, here in God's favorite nation we haven't yet been able to bring ourselves to drink the soccer kool-aid. It's fine for the kids, but we generally feel it's something one should outgrow, like acne, teletubbies and excessive masturbation.
Yet elsewhere on the planet, rabid hooligans brawl in the stands at sporting events they've mistakenly called football, watching swarthy men prance about in shorts as they kick a cute little ball hither and yon. Or is that hither and yawn? We just don't get it.
So in an effort to promote soccer awareness, we here at COWA have dispatched our ruthless band of underground eavesdroppers to transcribe various tense encounters on the pitch.
Again, you're welcome.
PLAYER 1: Giddy-yap, buckaroo!
PLAYER 2: Stop that! We agreed not to play "horsie" outside of the locker room!
P1: That's it...buck like a bronco.
P2: I feel our relationship's an an impasse.
P1: You know what I like.
P2: You seem to take delight in humiliating me.
P1: Nothing like a sweaty Arabian between your thighs.
P2: I can't believe you're riding me bareback in a stadium full of drunken chavs.
P1: A little less lip and a little more "yee-haw," Seabiscuit.
P2: All right, just this once. But tomorrow we're going to couples counseling.
P1: Whatev. Now gallop back to the stable, my excitable stallion. I'm about to feed you my oats.
PLAYER 1: Whoopsie-daisy!
PLAYER 2: Hey! Stop that!
P1: Guess who?
P2: I'd say you're Ronaldo, by the size of things.
P2: Hmmm. Do you own an antique shop in Minsk?
P1: Strike two. I'm disappointed.
P2: Don't tell me. Were you in the chorus of Starlight Express?
P1: Heavens, no.
P2: Yes you were. You played the steam engine's caboose.
P1: It wasn't me. I hate Andrew Lloyd Weber. He steals from Puccini.
P2: Well give me a hint, I'm getting vertigo up here.
P1: Very well, here's your hint: there's a romantic bistro in Lugansk.
P1: With a filthy alleyway behind it.
P2: Ivan! Is that you?
P1: Yes, you saucy coquette! It is I!
PLAYER 1: Hey! Drop the chalupa!
PLAYER 2: Pardon me. I'll just be a minute.
P1: I'm trying to kick this cute little ball over there. Do you mind?
P2: I see that. But I noticed that with all the hopping and mincing you've been doing, your tamale's all out of whack.
P1: Oh, thanks.
P2: Why aren't you wearing a cup? Don't you remember what Madame Souzatskaya said at ballet class?
P1: She said "plié, g*ddammit, plié!"
P2: Yes, and right after that she said Nureyev had his scrotum kicked off during a performance of Giselle because he wasn't wearing any protection.
P1: But check out my jazz hands.
P2: Fierce. I think that just about does it. Kick away!
PLAYER 1: Man. Nice technique.
PLAYER 2: Mog mm wumph.
P1: Reminds me of a late night stroll I took along the piers in Singapore.
P2: Glork nomgupf mmmm.
P1: He was a longshoreman who collected Lalique figurines.
P2: hurgle mumf arg.
P1: I gave him my number, he never called.
P2: omm nom glomp.
P1: Oh man...I'm about to kick one into the net.
P1: Easy, Ronaldo. Watch the teeth.
PLAYER 1: Aaaaaarrggh!
PLAYER 2: Eeek!
P1: Stop tap dancing on the pitch! This is a football match, not your high school production of "Anything Goes."
P2: I thought I saw a mouse.
P1: Oh. Carry on then. I thought you were doing a time-step. Every time I see someone tap dancing I feel an uncontrollable urge to tackle them.
P2: You're such a silly goose.
P1: It all goes back to a traumatic experience in my youth when a touring company of "Dames at Sea" performed in my hometown in Botswana.
P2: How odd.
P1: The show confused the local elders. One thing led to another and a fragile truce between warring tribes was quickly abandoned.
P2: You naughty negro. I shall spank you now.
P1: Stop that!
Beckham sez: "subscribe to this blog's feed or Posh will pursue a television career."
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