I was about to watch this taped match today, when a chance Internet encounter told me that there are horny singles in my area ready for sex RIGHT NOW! Well, it's married women I crave, so I kept surfing, and then, BAM! Another random Internet encounter hit me right in the face: “Chelsea Beat Everton In Nine Goal Thriller.”


Knowing the BBC, I was all, “Great. We lost 9-0.” My only option for the rest of the day was to either play with my dog and kitten, or check out hot singles in my area available for sex. Twenty minutes later, with my credit card maxed out, I was still waiting around for the sex. Then I looked at the dog humping a pair of shoes, and the kitten slapping around an invisible angel, and with a sigh, decided to watch a match of which I already knew the outcome.


I flicked on the TV, pressed “Programs Recorded”, clicked “Everton-Chelsea”, and pressed “Play.”

“You have selected Everton-Chelsea for Viewing. Are You Sure?”

click “Yes.”

“Really? You Want To Watch That?”


TV was so much easier in the 80s, but I finally coaxed the match from the Teevo (?) and sat down to see how it unfolded. The dog came up to me and lay down. The kitten trotted over with its purr on overdrive. The dog looked up at me: “Can you make him go to the other room?” The commentator said, “Oh, and what a start for Chelsea! Up one-nil at Goodison and we've hardly started!”


The kitten batted the dog's ear. The dog raised an eyebrow at me. “I tried to lock him out, but you were all, 'Ooh, kitty, kitty, kitty? Where are you? Kitty, kitty, kitty?”


On the TV, Tim Howard tried to dive in three directions at once, with neither and the other achieving ball-saving status. The commentator roared, “And now it's two-nil to Chelsea!”


The kitten stood and reached up at the TV screen with the tips of his paws. He tried to swat a couple of players in blue. The dog snorted, turned his head, and spread out on the carpet with a final, subdued, huff. I chucked a shoe at the kitten, who leaped up ten feet, and then scrambled, in the air, into the other room. “Oh, and Everton have answered!” Mirrales ran around, forehead throbbing from the ball smack, but the ball was in the net just the same and halftime spread over my TV screen with alcohol adverts.


Halftime, and KNOW THIS:


Chelsea had about two offside goals allowed, and we had a bunch of onside attacks whistled dead and an onside goal disallowed. This was to even out our one break in 73 years that we received last week on a non-offside call. Did the commentators know it? HOLY BEJEESIS, did they ever! Every bad call against us had them reminding the world, “Well, Everton had that offside goal last week, so things have a way of evening out...”


In our bastard history of cheating refs, coward refs, spiteful refs, and mentally retarded refs stealing games from us, this one freaking call last week evens it all out?


John Terry was ugly in his prime. Now, with age, his face is struggling to stay as handsome as a WWII veteran's scrotum. He made a sagging header to start the second half that drooped into Tim Howard's hands and offered me an excuse to compare his face to a ball sack. Jose Mourino strutted up and down the touchline, pilfered sandwiches in his hobo pockets. Yes, hobo! Look at that son of a bitch! Everton have his team on the ropes, and Mourino's youth is on the railroad tracks. Speaking of cocks, this match was turning into a gory rooster fight with feathers flying, faces jawing, bones snapping, and goals scoring.


Naismith, get in there, goal! Eto'o, goal! And then the fairies with their Putin dust clattered back in a handful of goals that caused my dog to look at the TV screen askance, before flopping back down onto the carpet while making subtle growling sounds. From the bedroom came a loud purring sound, and I found the kitten with a mouse by the monitor. My credit card was in his paw and he was clicking the mouse. And clicking. I hope our defence can soon start clicking.



 




When your team sucks, the full time whistle is like a relief-giving anti-acid. When your team is great, the full time whistle is a signal to party. When your team is Everton, the full time whistle is like a punch in the throat.


This game started out like a day at the beach for Everton. At the beginning it was all beach balls, sun, and fun, but by the end, it was darkness, whispered what ifs, and quiet sobbing in the night.


Kevin Mirrales and Stephen Naismith were the two diodes that fired all the works today. Pienaar left after 8 minutes with a (choose one)


  • Sprained Ankle

  • Broken Back

  • Displaced Meniscus

  • Ruptured Disc

  • Torn Rotary Cuff

  • Ruptured Achilles

  • Missing Spine


Ossie came on for him, and the old gray man sent a thrill through the old lady with a deft through pass to Mirrales that came up just short of setting off the fireworks. For the rest of the first half, Everton did as they pleased, and before savvy fans could dread the dreaded goal against the run of play, Gareth Barry, floating alone in outer space, orbited a ball over both Lukaku and Coleman. Coleman, running fast behind Romulou, popped it into the net with his head and the Toffees were up, 1-0.


This really set Arsenal off. In fact, you would have thought they deserted the pitch when Lukaku robbed an Arsenal player of the ball, and wheeled upfield with it. Dribbling like a Disney donkey, he threaded the ball like seamstress onto the just offside boot of Naismith, who fired home for 2-0 and the three points. Well...


In the second half, Arsenal just sent a trojan horse onto the pitch and then their bus left. Everton, overjoyed at this capitulation began working on delightful training ground moves that awed the spectators, and left the commentators nothing more to talk about except what the world would be like if talking giraffes ruled.


Finally, worn out from all their horseplay, Everton packed up and left for holiday. Then, the trap door in the wooden horse opened up. Arsenal, like a thief with bulging eyes looking around to make sure the people really had left their home deserted, took a couple of test runs into the Everton end that went unchallenged. Then they checked the bedrooms...nobody. Then they checked the six-yard box. Nobody. They sent in a test cross to make sure, and Ramsey put it past Howard. “Hey,” someone whispered. “The fridge is bloody full!”


By the time the homeowners remembered they'd forgotten to lock the house and rushed back home, it was too late. Their house was full of Arsenal monkeys. They were swinging from chandeliers, wearing Distin's underwear on their head, clawing stuffing from the sofas, and for good measure, at the 90th minute they flung a bit of equalizing dung into Everton's net as Distin and Jagielka stood aside, scratching their heads.


After that, Everton did little more than file an insurance report, speak with the police, and then, when the final whistle blew, Arsenal started shrieking like a bunch of monkeys, and Everton walked around looking like they had just been punched in the throat. There was nothing left to do but get the luggage out of the cars and start searching for the missing four points.







 



What a day for David Moyes! Before his golden falsetto had stopped singing at the end of the Manchester United-Swansea match, he changed over to watch Everton against Leicester, who are back in the Premiership after finally leaving the one place they truly belong. 


Everton strutted into Leicester's stadium with the swagger only Champions of Fifth Place can boast. They scanned the crowd menacingly, and more than a few of the Everton Eleven pawed at the pitch and muttered, “Yeah, that's right, bitches. Fifth place!”


When a circus opens, there is a parade of fire eaters eating fire, sword swallowers swallowing swords, and bearded ladies growing more fur. Today was no different, as the showcase league of the world kicked off. Headers of the ball bounced it around in the air, dribblers dribbled, and substitutes, wearing their vests of shame, sat around not making eye contact with people, except the gaffers, who were busy not making eye contact with the substitutes. However, despite all that action, it was the referees with their deft use of the cans of Silly String that really brought the crowd to life.


With all of this festivity going on, it would be a shame not to have a goal on display, and in the 19th minute, Everton's Aiden McGeady stole the spotlight from the aerosol cans. He took a low, wicked corner that was deflected to Leighten Baines, who was loitering about 15 yards out in front of the box. Baines ran onto the ball and fired a shot that deflected out to Distin just outside the left corner of the goal box.


Distin wound up for a shot, and the goalie crawled out toward him and raised up with his hands in the air, like an old, lost desert prospector begging for water. What he got was a smack in the face from the ball. No water, old timer! The face ricochet came back to McGeady, who measured twice and cut once, the ball hitting underneath the right hand crossbar-goalpost, and rolled dazzlingly around the inside top of the net before succumbing to gravity.


Everton quickly followed up that goal with another, but this one was produced at the other end after a bit of clown-like defending. Leicester had a corner. Everton set up for it in their panic mode, which worked out perfectly when the ball came to Distin in front of the net, and he sent it all the way up the pitch, fifteen yards, and into the body of a spelling nightmare named “Ulloa” but pronounced with J's instead of L's. Tim Howard began swearing, but with good reason, for he was watching the end of his clean sheet whiz past him straight into the net.


Everton would do just enough to regain the lead at halftime. Baines chased a ball down the left hand side to the touchline, and sent a pass out to Lukukau, who slipped and fell as he kicked it. The ball limped over to Naismith at the top of the box, and he was ruthless as he one-timed it underneath the top crossbar. The ball boinged around the inside of the net for half an hour before the goalie could finally get his hands on it and send it back up the field with a dainty kick. Everton had a 2-1 lead and it was halftime.


This must have been the halftime talk from Martinez: “Well lads, 2-1 should be good enough to beat these pricks, eh? Oh, and Barklay looks like he's out for zee next 5 months. Now, spend the next ten minutes with your eyes closed and envision not defending.”


Well, Jagielka must have envisioned his arse off, because he played as though he were captaining the England squad, instead of Everton. The rest of the team, for their part, loped around pondering what they would do if Baines tried to make them all listen to the Cranberries again on the bus ride home.


In fact, they played like dogs trying to walk with socks on their paws, as Leicester ate huge, greedy gulps of grass in wide open spaces for the rest of the match, and having ripped open Everton's soft underbelly, could easily have cracked the match wide open if they...well, weren't Leicester, the Champions of Twenty First Place.


If Jagielka looked dazed on the pitch, he certainly became so, after he leaned his head into Sub Chris Wood's boot in an effort to ascertain what would happen if he did so. A harsh boot to the face was the answer, and a well deserved reward for his lackadaisical play. Then, in minute 86, Wood used his boots one more, but this time on the ball, as the unmarked player clenched his jawline and sent a shot straight at and by Tim Howard, who had used up all his saves against Belgium, back in June. 


What a day for David Moyes! He karate-kicked his TV off, punched the air, and his golden falsetto sang out again: “Are you watching you fat Scouse bastards...?” He then ran around his living room giving the double Vs to the blank TV screen, before settling down and pulling out his iPhone to watch the blank screen and wait for messages from his agent to light it up. And wait...




























 



I guarantee you'll love this quick little page turner,
If mistakes could fly, You'd be a Superhero - Flash Fiction ... If you don't, Amazon will give you your money back. If you do love it, (Leave a review!)

 




Holy Crap, that came out HUGE! Whatever, I'll see you back in August for our FOURTH year!







  



 

 



 


 


 



 


 

  




 



 

 






 




 





 




 



 

  



 




 




 

  






 





 



 

 




 



 




 






 


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