World Cup Edition

Jesus God…white people and dreads = cardinal sin.

New ambition in life: FIFA hairdresser – no one enters the tournament unless their hair is pre-approved (sponsored by Head & Shoulders, responsible for the tantalizing commercials starring my faves Messi and Joe Hart). I literally haven’t worked out since the World Cup started. It’s just been binge drinking and pacemakers for this little panda. That and ‘drunk sandwiches’ so I don’t go to work hungover the next day. It only kinda seems hypocritical that I’m sitting on my fat ass with a pint in my right hand yelling at the screen for these players to run faster…but…haters gon’ hate (they get paid millions of €€€/£££ to run fast and I’m still a broke bitch so whatever). June hasn’t been a good month for me. I’ve been trying to save to make a life change (gotta get outta deez mean streetz), and instead, my budget has been redirected to brewskies at the swimming pool—I’m sorry, bar—so I can scream obscenities and let my freak flag fly with the rest of the replica-jersey clad clan. I’ve also changed nationality several times, sometimes for survival (grossly outnumbered by Dutch fans at Yardhouse), sometimes because my beloved La Roja got knocked out in the first four minutes. Costume change = another couple pesos down the rabbit hole of poverty. For an Asian, I have ZERO financial know-how (clearly), and I’m running out of time before my sexy-reckless-youth excuse expires. Exit strategy: find a white guy with a small family and an open mind to fulfill role of sugardaddy (plenty of dudes playin’ in the World Cup…just sayin’…ohyeathey’reallmarriedtobodaciousbabes) and bankroll my transformation from broke to ballin’. Other musings, side effects from the World Cup:

  1. Post Spain exit: I HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO LIVE FOR.
  2. I feel fat.
  3. I should be sitting in a lawn chair next to Michael Ballack and Taylor Twellman (don’t care much for Alexi Lalas) on ESPN’s World Cup Tonight Last Call, talking like I’ve ever had the stamina to chase after a ball for 90 minutes (Us Viets…not exactly the most athletic—last Olympic contingent to come out of Vietnam numbered, like, 4).
  4. Someone stole my idea of pretending to be handicapped in order to mob the field and starfish Tim Howard.
  5. I want to start a support group for the youngblood WC players who cried after their team lost.
  6. I need to call Ann Coulter’s publicist; I too can smoke peyote for a week straight and fart out a xenophobic and bigoted article about a simple game just for the sake of being like the Heidi & Spencer of politics.

Sorry there was absolutely no point to this post. I bleed nonsensical things in the name of the beautiful game…and Olivier Giroud’s immaculate locks.

(compliments of Men’s Hair Forum, obvi)

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