Those Who Understand Need No Explanation...

            FA CUP SEMI-FINAL, LIVERPOOL






I don't blame God when babies die. I don't rail against Him when a shooter runs wild on a 

campus. I don't shake my fist at God when earthquakes terrorize fragile cities like an invisible 

Godzilla. Loved ones have been taken from me, and so will they ever, and I too, will join them, 

perhaps before my time. I blame God for nothing, because it is all part of the plan. I know that if 

the good lived forever, and evil smothered itself to death in its own vile before it could ever 

spread, I know that it would mean we are living in heaven. I know that here, on earth, evil exists 

to separate the bad from the good. Evil reigns because Satan rules the earth. I learned it all in 

Sunday School when I was a child. When we get to heaven there will be no more evil, but in the 

meantime, hey, there will be sorrow, sadness, anguished tears, and no justice for the good. 

There will only be wickedness, sin, and death. Okay, I get that, but THIS?


In order to get inside Wembley, Everton had to pass a crippled beggar outside who pleaded, “It's 

freezing, and I'm starving to death. Just a farthing or a crumb would help...” Everton gave the 

wretched soul a steak dinner, twenty dollars, a lottery ticket, two pints and a tea with biscuits, 

and then passed by to attend to their business. Dalglish chucked his wheel chair aside, tore off 

his hood, snickered, and ran around the back to prepare his club for the match.


Everton began the match just a bit unsteady. For a moment, they forgot that they were the 

superior team. They forgot that they had the sexy streak going, they forgot that they sat above 

their overspending, befuddled neighbors in the standings. They forgot that they were the better 

team. However, that only lasted a few minutes, if that, and soon Everton were treating the red 

team as though they were a black team of cats. In fact, Everton were showing signs that this was 

not your father's Everton, but your grandfather's. Liverpool were acting like they wanted to shit a 

brick, and then they did. In the 24th minute, Everton, still applying pressure, caused Dumb and 

Dumber to watch the ball with their mouths agape. Did the ball hold the secret for world peace? 

Dunno. Was the ball about to tell the pair how to achieve time travel? Dunno. Did the ball hold 

sacred scarab beetles that would allow mankind to live forever? “Argh, no more talk!” Jamie 

Carragher roared, as the demons leaped from his head and into the little rolling white ball. 

Sweating now, and speaking in tongues, Jamie kicked at the demons in the ball. Alas, it was

 just a little white ball. The swine were only in Jamie's head. The kicked ball smacked Tim 

Cahill, and flew into the path of Jelovic. He didn't take a touch, a moment, a beat, or ask silly 

questions. He just kicked the stupid ball into the kopites net. Wembly erupted, and even the 

kopite goalie didn't seem too upset, because just a few days ago he was a Starbuck's 

“Barrista.”


Liverpool responded by throwing the hapless andy carroll at Everton the way fleeing stage coach 

drivers used to toss boxes of women's undies from the stage coaches to slow down pursuing 

Indians. It worked for a bit: Carroll got the proper hat trick of misses. Missed open net with a 

header, with left foot, with his right foot, but indeed, Everton began to lose their momentum. 

However, halftime arrived with Everton just gaining the upper hand again. One began to wonder 

what the scoreline would be had the wingmen, Osman and Gueye, decided to take part in the 

match. Indeed, Baines was missing Pienaar, and this match was missing Drenthe. The match was 

proving to be too large for Gueye. It would be interesting to see if the second half contained 

adjustments that David Moyes was up to making.


Halftime. Everton were poised to break this match open. Who would make the adjustments needed for a date in the final?


Sometimes I think that we humans beat each other up so horribly, while God and Satan engage in 

“Gentlemens Agreements” over their quibbles. How else to explain Distin gifting a goal to a filthy 

swine like Suerez in the 62 minute? When Silvain poofed a gentle pass toward Howard onto the 

racing hoof of swinerez who knocked it passed Howard, the match turned from probable Toffee's 

romp, into a finger-gripping-hand dagger fight. As the match progressed, the managers' 

acumen was called upon as much as the players' stamina, and Moyes blinked first. 

He brought the overmatched Guye off for Coleman, brought Maro up behind Jelavic, and dropped 

Cahill deeper into the midfield where he could go from invisible, to completely invisible. The 

move made no sense, unless you heard Satan's clever voice saying, “Fair is fair...”


Before God could agree, Carroll skidded a free kick off his own horrible head, past Howard and 

into the net, and black flies burst forth from the skies over Wembley. Three-eyed laughter and 

strange music trailed behind the flies and into the skies. I curled up, and with my tongue and 

will, tried to control the sick that surged toward the back of my teeth. My flesh prickled, and the 

hair quivered on the nape of my neck. Then Dalglish raised his fists toward the London sky and 

the tidal wave of sick burst from its dam, through my lips, and splatted my TV screen. My eyes 

began bleeding, and I wiped my mouth and eyes with my sleeve. When I recovered, I raised my 

fist toward heaven, and without a though as to why,  I thanked God for making me a Blue.




 





FA CUP SEMI FINAL, WEMBLEY, OPPONENTS--LIVERPOOL...WHAT TO LOOK FOR 

 "You'll never walk alonnnee!"




"CUNTS ARE GO!" 

                                        


                                              Are you ready for some football? 






                    READY...

                                                 

                                                                                           AIM... 











 




 




 




 






 




 





 






                                                     Fire. 





Sunday was a celebration of Jesus's Resurrection, and Today was about a resurrection of a 

different kind. A rising unexpected, and possibly uncontainable. A resurrection that is ready to 

give Wembley a double-fisted rocking in the weeks to come. The dogs of War are snarling, 

straining at the leash, and there is only one thing standing in our way to the final, and that is a 

little red fire hydrant. After a match such as this one, where I am caught out sober, by 

circumstances not the fault of my own, similes and metaphors rain down on me like...well, never 

mind, plenty of time for that, later.


When Moose, off the LASH site, posted our starting lineup for this match, there was a remarkable 

lack of replies as we all pondered what we had just seen. Finally, a timid lad set finger to 

keyboard and asked, “Is that for real?”

“Yes.”

“McFadden?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”


That was fine with me, I decided. I have a lot of projects to catch up on before going to work at 

the petrol station and verbally jousting with the Hostess Driver who is convinced that I am a 

retard, and I am convinced that he is quite old. I will catch the results later, and get busy for now. 

But I tuned in to the stream. There really is no help for us Evertonians. And then Everton got 

busy. Well, not right away. There was plenty of sky, and ball in sky, and long, lonely volleys from 

forwards back to their own goalkeepers. In fact, this match was like a lazy spring afternoon with two old dogs lazing on front porches in different neighborhoods, and once in a while one of 

them would bark, “Hey!”

(Long Pause) “What?”

(Long Pause) “Nothing.”

(Long Pause) “Okay.”

And then it was halftime.


Oh, I can't say I was glued to the screen for the first half. I got up, made some toast and bacon. I 

let the dog out. I returned to the screen. Put a pot of water on for coffee. Returned to the screen. 

I ate my breakfast and then began mixing baking soda with rock cocaine and took some huge, 

greedy riffs off the pungent clouds, scratched myself a few times and returned to the computer 

for the second half.


The swirling patterns of colour on the screen began transfixing my mind. It looked like blue and 

white weather patterns descending upon the Sunderland part of Goodison. Soon, little 'taking the 

piss' droplets began to fall. I went to the stove and turned up the flame and returned to the 

screen. Everton were at these fools! Maguye, Osman, Pienaar, McFadden...ha ha, as if, Neville 

doing step-overs again. And then I returned to the kitchen, and when I came back, exhaling 

smoke, I saw another little ball, but this one was on the pitch, not on my sheet of tin foil. A 

deflected Osman rocket rolled to Maguye who ran onto it from the left corner of a white line. He 

shot a dragon chasing trail into the top corner of the net. I sipped coffee, I needed caffeine. This 

was good. If Everton can make this hold up—Osman scored from the same spot into the same 

spot. I re-examined the contents in the foil on the kitchen counter. Who did I buy this from? I 

came back to the screen and Drenthe was in the match. He was sniffing the air, trying to find out 

where the smoke was coming from. I exhaled again. “It's coming from YOU, my man,” I told the 

black man on the screen. And then Drenthe began cooking up his own little somethin' somethin' 

down the middle, weaving like I do in traffic, down the left side and passed way over to Maguye 

on the right. Maguye passed to Pienaar in the middle at the edge of the area. Pienaar did not 

move. He looked at a spot beyond the goalkeeper, cocked his foot back, and kicked the ball. It 

sailed to it's chosen destiny, somehow surprising the keeper. That piss-taking downpour 

exploded from the skies.


Next, Moyes looked to his subs bench and spied Victor. Victor looked back at him and arched his 

eyebrows. “You remember my name yet?”

“Vic, get in there.”

“Hmm, hmmm, mmm, I'm humming a song, I can't hear you.”

“Victor!”

“La la la, ooh, look at the bird in row C.”

Moyes rolled his eyes and exhaled. “African Mandigo Warrior Whose Name Means NOT A SUB 

in African, Get out there!”

Victor got up, and if my lip reading is what it used to be he told his fellow subs, “Later, bitches.”


Minutes later, Pienaar went skidding through about fifty Sunderland players at the right hand 

corner flag, ducked inside and found African Mandigo...Victor. Victors eyes became saucers when 

the ball came to him, and he stuck his tongue out, swung his leg and pegged the ball about a 

foot straight up in the air. Victor's momentum carried him around 360-degrees and his leg hit 

the ball again before it could touch the ground. This time the ball smacked some poor fool in 

black and red and ding-donged the net for the fourth goal. Vic unleashed his deadly and 

disarming smile, the sun came out, and “Tell me ma” blared from the sun system. In the 

background, on my stereo, Jim Morrison was singing, “Meet me at the back of the Blue Bus, Blue 

bus...” I headed back to the stove. Be right with you, Jimmy my man.” 



 

     KNOCKED   OUT   AND   LOADED


       EVERTON 0--ARSENAL--1-- 21 MARCH 2012 



High flying Arsenal swooped into Goodison Park tonight for the final spot in the Champion's 

League, and saw only one thing in their way; a blue smudge. Everton, for their part, took the 

pitch with seven things blocking their path: Stoke, Fulham, West Brom, Norwich, Aston Villa, 

Blackburn, and QPR.


With Sunderland on the horizon, it was amazing that Moyes had the audacity to field a squad of 

first-teamers, but there they were at kickoff, our best eleven, and so the match began. With 

Goodison Park rocking, it was no surprise that Everton took complete control of the match for 

the first minute and fort-seven seconds. Then, the football match turned into a chess match, 

with Everton only moving one space at a time. Arsenal turned over the chessboard and began 

playing LOLZ football, and only needed five turns; or six-minutes, forty-seven seconds before 

declaring, “Checkmate.” This occurred when Arsenal took a corner and some joker with the 

unflattering name of “Verminillian” on his back rose above the Everton pawns surrounding him 

and rolled the ball off the back of his head into the net.


If you are a whoring, pimp-cheating-cheapskate with a love of booze and drugs, you will 

understand how the rest of the match unfolded. After the goal, Arsenal were like the guy who 

finds himself with two baggies. One is filled with money, and the other with cocaine, and he 

rents a good hotel room, orders Jack Daniels and a couple of hookers sent up, and he 

rubs his hands together thinking, “Oh, man, here we go, party, party, party!”  However, at the 

first touch of flesh, he overfills his condom, flings it into the corner, and then, giggling, takes out 

another one, but it will never feel moisture for the rest of the night.


If you are a badass, bitch-slapping pimp who just found out where the punk with his bitches and 

money is, you will know how Everton responded to the Arsenal goal. And so the first half 

unfolded. Now, If you are a low-life, cock-sucking faggoty-son of a whore you will know what it 

was like to be a linesman during this match. This one single linesman, who looked like Tony 

Hibbert would if he had AIDS and rats feeding and pissing on his head, called offside on 

Drenthe's goal, and all of the rest of the Everton moves inside of Arsenal's box. The 

commentator's were to the point of outrage with this poltroon, and the more incompetent he 

proved to be, the more incompetent he tried to be, in order to try and justify his own 

worthlessness. Well, a bullet to his skull could have done that.


HALFTIME


The second half kicked off, and kicked off again. Everton were all over Arsenal, and Arsenal, not 

liking it, were diving in retaliation. A few of Everton's newer players showed that they could dive 

with the best of them, and then boots were kicking mouths, elbows jabbing throats, and 

shoulders barging into shoulders. Lee Mason and his befuddled assistants looked as though they 

were trying to referee the Normandy Beach invasion, yet if these tools just had a clue, we could 

have had a great match to discuss, rather than a great deal of match points to debate. It does not 

help that Mason, with his frightened eyes and shaved head looks like a pussy posing as a hard 

man.


The last fifteen minutes ended as the first fifteen had begun. Arsenal on the ascendency, Everton 

on the back foot, and the linesman with a little smudge in his pants. Get these tools sorted FA, 

you fucking weaklings.


 




             ARSENAL PREVIEW 


                        News Item: "Arsenal Ready For Everton"


                                REACTION: I Don't Think So.


                         Here is what Arsenal are "Ready" For:

                                                                                          Life is full of surprises 

 Oh, Mother, look at me! I bet I'm playing playing the prettiest football, ever!



And I'd be surprised if this guy likes pretty football. 






 





        EVERTON 3 ARSENAL 1 



 




Ooh, Arsene, Noo, I'm sorry. The answer was, "Who Are Everton Football Club?"

 



  FA  CUP  QUARTERFINALS  EVERTON  SUNDERLAND        

                            17 MARCH 2012

     THERE WILL BE BLOOD! 




Everton and Sunderland sank their teeth into this FA Cup quarterfinal and didn't release until the  

final whistle, and even then, just. The Match was brutal and beautiful; horrid, and exciting. The 

opening kickoff was more like a touching of the gloves, and then they were off and running, God 

knows where, but I was willing to let these two teams take me there.


It took only eight minutes for a kicking to knock over Drenthe in the box, no whistle by ref Andre 

Mariner, and for Phil Neville to see a flash of yellow at the other end due to a simple foul. 

Mariner... I haven't seen him ref in a long time. My mind quickly ran through its Cunt-O-Dex 

under the M's. In the meantime, the only M to concern myself with was the delightful mayhem on 

the pitch. This was end-to-end stuff, like anvils and sledgehammers flying prettily through the 

air.  Just a moment after his penalty appeal, Drenthe blasted from distance, a miss, but a good 

sign.


At the twelve minute mark Sunderland gained a free kick, which isn't hard when the match is 

flying along like trees passing by the window of a speeding car. Fair play to Mariner, he could 

have ruined this match with a frenzy of whistle blowing, but didn't. Anyway, this free kick was 

too far away to trouble Howard, and GOAL! Bardsley's kick hopscotched through a sea of legs, 

deflecting off Cahill, and past the helpless Howard.


However, Everton were everything in this match that they had not been on Tuesday night. The 

Sunderland fans were just as sonic as Everton's, and if jets had flown over The Old Lady, it's 

doubtful anybody would have noticed. The noise ratcheted up even further when Jelly and Cahill 

played a double donger off their heads, with Cahill, the one who would be punching flagpoles. 

The commentators were even awed by the noise, with one of them saying, “And you can really 

hear the Evertonians singing that What the Fuck? song now!”


A Sunderland player finally got dealt a card when T. Bettner was booked. Though he protested, 

the cameras saw the ref telling him, “I saw you there, and there, and there, and there, and there, 

and there, and there, and there.” Yeah, so behold this card you disgusting mask-faced-fiend.


Oh, this match kept going, trust me. It was like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disneyland. And fair play 

to Cahill, and not just for scoring. He wormed his way inside, bicycle kicked, nearly got punched 

a few dozen times, headed, drove, bobbed and weaved and kicked, and basically did everything 

to make opponents hate him again, rather than being a whisper on the pitch that his own fans 

have come to detest. Halftime drew near and neither players nor spectators cared. Coleman 

ding-donged between two Black Cats to draw a free kick that Drenthe pinged the top right 

crossbar with from distance, Ossie broke into space to force the keeper into a save, and then it 

was corner-for-a-corner at either end, and the ref blew his whistle, allowing the fans to exhale, 

and for some, to retool their pacemakers for the second half.


HALFTIME:

 A lad wearing a number 17 jersey with “McBain” on the back was taken into custody for running 

onto the pitch and helicoptering. Probably worth it, poor devil.


As the commentators were discussing how hard it is to keep a frantic pace up in the second half 

after a torrid first half, the two teams were at each other like wild black cats and toffees. Really 

aggressive toffees. Yellow cards pattered from the heavens like raindrops, penalty pleas were 

plead, turf flew, mud flung, lungs ached, free kicks filled the sky, players panted, and alliteration 

abounded. At seventy-five minutes, Moyes warmed up Jagielka, and signaled Heitenga to come 

off. Jony made more gesticulations toward Moyes than VDM used to make to a cocktail waitress 

on a night before the match. He turned away from Moyes, waved the back of his hand at Moyes, 

made thumbs up gestures as to his fitness, and sit back down gestures to Jagielka. He shook 

his head back and forth—OK, VDM never did that at a cocktail waitress—then he waved the back 

of his hand, and then he closed a nostril and blew a stream of vile out toward the bench. Moyes 

told Jagielka to sit back down, and the other subs began taking the piss out of him, and Jonny 

continued to take the piss out of Sunderland. He even pulled Drenthe away from a volatile 

situation and had a word in his ear in a way that had me thinking, “Next Captain.” Some more 

subs were chucked into the melee on both sides, yet no further advantage could be gained. The 

match wound down by heating up even hotter, with Heitenga heading a wicked shot that 

Sunderland's goalkeeper just saved, and Jelly barely booting the rebound into the side netting.


Laws dictate the natural order of both nature and man. The laws of nature dictate to the beast 

when the time is to bed, to rise, to feast. The laws of man ordain that order be maintained in a 

civil society, and those laws decree that social and sporting events have a limit as to their length. 

I sincerely believe that without those laws, Everton and Sunderland would still be playing. To the 

north, then.


 

  FJ CUP PREVIEW 






      Again, I show you the ins and        outs and what to look fors 











    What you are sure to see at  Goodison Tomorrow afternoon 


 

  Bang on   

  guaranteed

  to see him 

     And him... 

     Me too?

     YES.

     Promise?

     YES. 

  Hey, doan    

  forgetta me!

   

   HE WONT.

   PS You're not Italian, twat. 



 





  Umm, not so 

  fast, you. 

   WTF? 




EVERTON 4, SUNDERLAND 1 

                  BONUS PHOTO; THE KING AND HIS TIERA FOR BEING CHAMPIONS OF 8TH PLACE 

 



         Blackpool, Feb, 2012 FA Cup @ Goodison 

 ROYESTON DRENTHE LIKEY GOALS


 




Well, It was during the pregame show, while Warren Barton was telling Eric Wynalda that Everton were going to have their hands full with this Blackpool squad today, that Royston Drenthe scored. Gueye had rambled down the left side of the pitch with the ball, found Fellaini in the box, and sent him the ball. Mauro, caught in a tangerine cluster, held it a moment before spinning it out to Drenthe, who was clanging down the right side, his mechanical maw gleefully opening and closing while his gigantic eye-socket orbs locked onto the ball. Silence froze the fans inside Goodison, as well as the Old Lady herself, and gripped the studio's sound monitors. The only sound was the thud-THUD-thud-THUD of a tell-tale heart about to pump blood into a left leg cocking back to greet a rolling little ball from about twenty yards out.


The crowd leapt, the Old Lady Bounced, the sound monitors in the studio exploded, and somewhere in the stratosphere, a roaring jet ripped the sound barrier. On the pitch the Blackpool goalkeeper carefully disengaged the football from his net, and Eric Wynalda said, “Yes, Warren, Blackpool are on a roll right now, and are rocketing their way up the Championship table.” That was when Staqualursi scored off a Drenthe corner from the right flag. The ball dipped like a guided missile seeking heat, and it found a perspiring goalkeeper and a hot-blooded Argentine. The Argentine kicked at the ball and stumbled backward, but the ball locked onto him and his second smack found net as the G-forces knocked him to the ground.


“This promises to be an exciting match. I'm Warren Barten, sitting in with Eric Wynalda, and now let's take you out to Goodison Park, in Liverpool, England, for the start of our match.”


HALFTIME


The Cameras found the good, the bad, and the ugly, in the stands


I'm not exactly a rocket scientist, or science major. You probably won't be surprised to discover I was a very poor student in English, as well. In machine shop classes I melted things that weren't supposed to be melted, and in wood shop I scorched what was beautiful, and gouged what had been perfect. In short, I'm more stupid than that thick cunt that wrote the song about not knowing anything about algebra, trigonometry, the middle ages, or the French he took. What I do know, however, is chemistry, and this group of young lions is passing with flying colours!


Knock-knock.

Who's there?

Landon Donavon

You're lying. He's gone and Drenthe rules!


I am convinced that Moyes keeps Drenthe in a basement and sprays him in the eyes with battery acid.

     “ARGH, ME EYES!”

     “Yes, Royston no likey battery acid!”

     “NO...DRENTHE HAAATTEE BATTERY ACID”

     (psssssstttt!)

     “ARRGGH NO MORE!”

     “Listen, Royston, I only spray you in the face like this because Blackpool are bad people...”

     “BAAAD PEOOPPLLE. ME HAAATTE BLACKPOOOLL”

Royston certainly was bent on taking his revenge today, and not one of his teammates dared shrink from the task of throttling these sunbed colored dandies who cause Royston so much trauma. Well, except for Fellaini, who took the piss by missing about fourteen sitters, and laughing after each one. Not that any of us were bothered. This match could have ended 10-0, or 2-0, but the outcome was never in doubt. In fact, the cockiness with which these young lions of Moyes play is so infecting, that I even found myself almost disappointed when Kevin Philips missed his gift penalty near the end of the match. It would have made my prediction of a 2-1 outcome come true. I settled instead for watching the team of a dream come true.




 

 

       

       Wigan  Everton  02-04-'12 






Wigan's DW Stadium is just a short burst from Goodison Park if you take the Optimist Taxi there. However, Everton, though full of optimism after their last two matches, chose to hop Wigan's Midnight Express for the Three-O-Clock derailing, and they arrived just in time, as far as the home team was concerned. Certainly David Moyes rubbed his hands together as this match approached and the transfer window closed. He had just bought the top scorer in the Scottish premiership and traded his out-of-gas striker for the return of Steven Pienaar, Stracqualursi had the love of the fans behind him and goals in front of him, and Drenthe was both healthy and foaming at the mouth. If you add to this the fact that Wigan City had lost their last thirty-seven games in a row without scoring a goal the odds were in Everton's favour. Thus buoyed, Moyes put Drenthe on the bench and fielded a 4-5-1 formation.


This match almost didn't take place because snow was threatening to fall. I have no idea why snow should halt a football match when the yellow ball was invented for just such a purpose. However, there was no snowfall for the match, although sleet was falling. I have always lived in Southern California, so I don't really know what sleet is. I did take a moment to google it, though. So with ice-flavoured Slurpees gooping down from the skies onto the players this match kicked off. While it is no secret that I pop a few pills and slam a fair few beers, it was hard to tell whether the heavens were plopping on the pitch or if indeed, the players were the plop.


I sat down to watch this match with an eagerness I had not experienced in a long while, and now I fear I will not experience again. Fellaini was playing, I remember that. I recall Tony Hibbert saving a goal from a cross. To be honest, I drink so much and remember so little. I remember hearing Wigan fans banging on pots and pans to either signify halftime, dinnertime, or to tell their player “Man on!”


I ask you: what is there really to tell you about this match? You could set off every bomb known to mankind and after the fallout, if you asked the survivors how their day was, this is what they would tell you:


“Woke up, face full of puss, the sky was white, drawing a breath made me scream, had a bite and then vomited up my testicles.”


“Tim Howard, Tell me about Wigan's first goal.”


“Woke up, face full of puss, the sky was white, drawing a breath made me scream, had a bite and then vomited up my testicles.”


“Gibson, how do you feel about your performance?”


“Woke up, face full of puss, the sky was white, drawing a breath made me scream, had a bite and then vomited up my testicles.”


“Landon Donavon, you're returning to the states soon. Did that have any effect on your performance?”


“Woke up, put on my toupee, some face lotion, prayed for powder, then woke up for real and had to go play soccer. Kind of a drag, whatever. Hey, are we done?”


“David Moyes, could you tell me about your team selection?”


“Woke up, face full of puss, the sky was white, drawing a breath made me scream, had a bite, vomited up my testicles, told the lads to go out and get a point.”


Stracqualursi finally managed to create the void that was filled when Saha left, and Cahill returned to walking around the pitch like an accident victim trying to draw a whip-lash settlement from the ref. In fact, almost the whole of the Everton team resembled tumbleweeds blowing aimlessly across the pitch.This match, in fact, should lay to rest the wretched argument that it is the fans' responsibility to bring the players into the game. This is because the only sound in the stadium was made by Everton fans, and it was raucous, boisterous, and so loud that I almost left the house to run laps. Everton players seemed bothered by the noise. However, Fellaini, for his part, spent the afternoon tackling without getting carded, taking the ball from the opponents and giving it to his teammates, who would respond with a snarky, “Gee, THANKS.” and then mope around with the ball until it was taken from them. This match was so dreadful that at halftime the studio crew didn't show any of the highlights, choosing instead to show National Geographic clips of elephants “Doing it.”


Halftime


The second half was more lively with wasted shots, corners and free kicks from Everton. Straqualursi was so vile that Moyes replaced him with a player named Jelly, who spent the rest of the match living up to that name, and oh look, here's a goal from Phil Neville's backside that back spun its way across Howard and into the Everton net. For some reason the match was stopped while the city of Wigan put on a production of “Everybody Polka!”


When the music died down, the dancing stopped and the lights came back on Victor had replaced Hibbert on the pitch. I don't know what is wrong with Victor, but he scored again. Baines took a free kick from the right corner that was blocked, the rebound coming back to Baines, who moved in closer and put another perfect cross into the area that Victor rose for, turning it off his head perfectly for a picture book bullet header into the net. A jaunty accordion tune began playing but quickly died out when the rest of the band just stared at the poor fellow.


I suddenly knew, knew in my heart of hearts, in the secret, quiet part of my soul, that Everton were going to win this match, and in fact, when Jelly fell over just outside the area and Baines stepped up for the free kick I broke into gooseflesh as the DW stadium hunkered down, hushed. 30,000 pairs of hands clenched in prayer. Half for “Please, dear God...” the other half for, “Please, dear God, no...” Then Leighton slammed the ball over the net and an accordion broke out into the “One Point Shuffle” that got half the stadium dancing. I turned off the TV and walked outside. I took a drink and looked at the sky. It was white. I touched my face with my hand, and when I pulled it away, it was covered in puss. I drew a breath, which made me scream. I had a bite to eat. God, I felt sick.


 



        Everton @ Wigan Preview:



 

                                                                             WHAT TO LOOK FOR

 

 Wigan play football in a Rugby town. Look for their players to be wearing this------->

Wigan's Last Five Games------------------> 

This match will have another pitch invader---------> 



This is where Wigan Play-------------> 



This is where wigan is going to play------> 

                             DID YOU KNOW...? 

 


<------That John Terry can play the banjo? 


I guarantee you will see this



BELIEVE IT, BABY!-----------------------> 

                                            EVERTON 5 Wigan 0 





 

      MANCHESTER MASQUERADE:                                  GOODISON PARK--31-1-'12 

Manchester City came to this costume party dressed up as league leaders. The commentators played along, saying, “Ooh, my, aren't they scary? This is surely Everton's toughest home match this year.” Everton, for their part, arrived dressed as caged tigers. Gone was the feckless Saha, and in his place was Stracqualursi up front and the rabid Drenthe in midfield. Although Cahill was in the lineup, without Saha's broken-bone necklace chained around his neck he was back to throwing himself about the pitch like a wild aborigine.


The posers in pale blue did what any masked dandy would do when thrown into such a circumstance; they pissed themselves and tried to flee. However, thanks to Operation Goodison, all the exits were barred, and urged on by their cowering flounce of a manager they ran around the pitch screaming like coeds in a horror movie. Everton chased after them, except for Gibson, who, surprised by City's reaction to the big game stood around with his hands on his hips and his mouth agape for the first 18 minutes. It wasn't until Drenthe took a bite out of his ankle that Gibson finally began to jog about the pitch to see if he could catch a blue fairey for himself. Tim Howard's role in this match appeared to be just to toss the City players back into play whenever they showed up at his goalmouth quivering for shelter.


If you have ever watched a lion tamer in action, it is not until the lion has worn himself out that the lion tamer finally puts down the whip and chair, pulls up his panty hose and takes a peak into the mouth of the lion. Everton, disgusted by the cowardice of the “League Leaders” and exhausted from the hunt, soon lay down in the tall grass, panting. Oh, didn't THAT bring out the bravery in these prancing ninnies veiled in fainted blue. They even dared to take the football from Everton and possess it at a 70 percent to 30 percent clip. A few of them even approached Howard and took a shot at his goal while the others leered at him, laughed and threatened to scratch out his eyes. This brought the other Everton players' heads up, and they rose from the grass and into a crouch. Suddenly, Bill Kenwright, seeking his own sanctuary from the Blue Union rushed the pitch and handcuffed himself to Howard's goalpost, swallowed the key to the cuffs and chased it down with a handful of Big Macs and Chicken Nuggets, and puffed pastry and a jug of whine. The ref blew for halftime and the City players stood back and watched warily as Everton strode to the locker room.


Halftime


City took to the pitch for the second half inspired by their managers stirring rendition of “Oh, Solo Mio” during the break. However, Everton responded by slapping them around like they were Harry Redknapp's saggy, excessive jowels. Phil Neville was repeatedly kicking the ball into City players' faces and out of touch, Fellaini walloped Davy Jones, from The Monkeys, in the penalty area, no call, and Tim Howard punched Lescott in the head, explaining to the ref that he thought it was one of those “spikey voodoo dolls” The ref listened to Lescott's complaints and then yellow-carded him for having an illegal bulge in his face.


In the 59th minute there was a sudden buzz around the stadium. When people looked around to see what the cause for all the commotion was, they saw that Drenthe had gotten hold of a football. Oh, he was so proud of himself! He kicked it about, strutted, pranced, and pawed it, and asked the City players if they would like to try and take it from him. They responded with a mass quivering of the lips, and the show of cowardice so enraged Drenthe that he raced the length of the pitch with his prize. The City players bravely tried to stop him by playing dead, and when Drenthe finally got near City's goal he became bored with his new toy and gave it to Leighton Baines. Baines sent a long cross to Donavon out of the right. For some reason Donavon seemed puzzled by the ball so he passed it to Gibson. The look of triumph that creased the ugliness in his face would wound a grizzly bear, and Gibson gave the ball a tremendous smack. The ball flew at the net, gave an insulting slap to a City player and then clocked the back of the net sending alarm bells going off around the City of Manchester. City responded by taking off their best players and putting women and children onto the pitch for the remainder. Mancini's head drooped, and he muttered “No mas.” (But in Italian)


Goodison was a bright light of lit torches, feasting and singing. As the City players clumped toward the tunnel, one of the stewards told them, “Nice costumes.”




 

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Chelsea draw a close parallel with a steriod user. Steriod users bulk up fast, impress, and then their muscles finally sag, they get acne and strange heads, lash out at people, and finally, get stripped of their captaincy and go to prison. Today, a sad parody of Chelsea Football Club came to Goodison Park. Actually, it wasn't a parody, it was the true Chelsea team after the steroids have rotted the body. Not only have Chelsea turned back into a pumpkin, they aren't even as good as they were before the demented Russian bought them. Oh, and they're about to fire another manager while still paying twenty other fired managers. See you in Leed'sville, suck asses.


However, Chelsea had another stop to make on their way down the table. Goodison Park. You knew Everton were going to easily win this match. Chelsea are a snowball that has began chasing those who rolled it uphill, back down again, and it is flatteing eeerthing in its path.


Everton began with Straq upfront, and the ever hopeful Cahill behind him. Tim Cahill has become like the wandering dingo that gets adopted by a jolly bunch of rogue fellows. It's all laughs and hijinks until the dingo becomes too retarded to even eat the food you stick into its mouth. (National Geographic Wind Flutes and Deep Voiced Commentator For This Part:) “The poor dingo wanders around, void of friends, holding the back of its neck, and with unswallowed food particles stuck to its teeth. The dingo will not last beyond the winter.”


Although Everton's dingo is dying, spring is arriving and the Toffees' dolphin was in full-blown frolic mode. It took Steven Pienaar five minutes to break though the Chelsea line, chest down a fumbled Cahill ball, and burst the roof of Pete Check's net.


The atmosphere, of course, was brilliant tonight. Not only was the singing loud, but each Everton build up of play coincided with a roar of anticipation I have not heard in ages. Of course, no amount of Everton enthusiasm could drown out the shouts of Phil Neville, who sounds like an enthralled crow that just discovered his very own Cheeto. I have to say that Chelsea opened the match showing a 4-3-3 formation, but they played like a bunch of empty sandwich bags getting whipped around the park by a light breeze. At one point I double checked my TV screen, thinking that I saw “Dominos” on the front of their kit. No, this was Chelsea, and any Dominoes on the front of their kit was the result of them puking their lunch onto themselves as a result of nervousness. In fact, after Pienaar's goal I relaxed, unclenched my fists, cracked open a beer and let my mind wander while my eyes did sentry duty on the TV.


When my mind came back from where it was wandering with a peanut shell in its cheek, a bra strap clenched in its teeth and a golf ball in its ear my eyes reported what they had seen while my mind was gone: mostly Pienaar and Baines taking the piss and Cahill doing walkabouts while kicking at grass and glaring at the corner flags that mocked him. When the ref blew for halftime, the comentator asked his co-commentator, Trevor Francis:

“What do you think Cheslea will take from this first Half?”
“They've already taken twelve inches of South African Cock, mate. What more do you want them to absorb?”


Halftime


Chelsea roared out of the tunnel after the half like the black knight in the Monty Python Holy Grail movie, and the more they played, the more they bled. I like to poke fun at, but for the life of me I can't remember a more gutless peroformance by an Everton opponent since Newcastle, that May when we clinched Fourth. Well, there was Man City a couple of weeks ago. All I can remember about this Chelsea side is the fellow with froompy hair, and Torres. OMG, the man police need to pull this guy over and ask him for proof and ID. All day long the only thing he provided was poof. He mud wrestled, slap fought, foxy-boxed, and hair pulled with Everton players all match long. Finally the ref showed him yellow for acting like he was on the red rag, giving this hussy more cards than goals for the season.

Although Torres did manage to blow-dry a couple of fluffers over to Tim Howard, the only thing he did all match was to flounce around and huff about when the catcalls rained down on him. In the 70th minute Neville made a tackle that sent the ball into the path of Landon Donavan, who fed the ball into the path of a rampaging straq. Denis let the speed of a heartbeat pass before burying the ball past Check.


With five minutes left in the match the commentator summed it up better than I could: “The engine on the Chelsea bus is running, and they cna't get out of here fast enough.” 

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The holidays are upon us, and Everton Football Club, teamed with the FA Referees Association once again visited the poorer regions of the Premiere League to hand out points. If you enter “Everton losing to shit teams” into google, 10, 300,000 results will come back to you, and that number is sure to click over by one today, after the Reading match. In fact, I wonder if you change “shit teams” to “shit refs” what the number would be? Let's find out: Ah, only 3,160,000. Okay, make that 3,160,001, because today, Martin Atkinson was the ref.


First, you will already know, even if you did not see the match, that Everton dominated the first half. Every time Reading tried to touch the ball, Everton snatched it away, as though it were a ball of rat poison, and Reading were retarded siblings trying to stuff it into their mouths. Everton would then taunt them with the ball by doing tricks, such as scoring a goal. They even managed to do this latter part within the first 9 minutes of the match when Fellaini found himself, the ball, and the goalkeeper together in one big pow-wow. While Fellaini bobbled the ball and pondered his future, Naismith tore onto the scene and smacked the ball into the net. Did I jump up and down and scream? Did YOU? If so, then you may not have quite grasped Everton Football Club just yet. After the goal, I clenched my jaw, nodded my head, and said, “Don't screw this up, Everton.”


Only a minute after their goal, Tim Howard, in a desperate attempt to lose his clean sheet, came a mile out of his own area to challenge a bewildered Reading player who had found himself alone with the ball behind the entire Everton team.He sidestepped Howard, and from twenty yards away, with an open net, lofted the ball out of touch. Everton responded to this close call by shooting off rapid-fire chances at Reading like popping corn. Naismith began ripping Reading's left hand side to shreds and was finally kicked down for a penalty. Except that Martin Atkinson was the ref.


Everton dusted themselves off and kept hammering away at Reading. The problem, however, for Everton was that killing off Reading was like an old N64 boss battle. The Blues ripped the defence and took a million shots only to see Readings “Life Bar” fill back up with green. It did not help that just before halftime, Fellaini, using delightful skill, danced into the penalty area, got knocked flat, and, well, Martin Atkinson was the ref.


HALFTIME


After the break, neither side made a change, and why would they? Both sides were slicing the other to doll ribbons, but in the 50th minute, *. A bricklayer with the surname of an Elvis impersonator skipped the resultant free kick like a stone upon a pond, and to absolutely nobody's surprise, it landed inside Tim Howard's net. Just moments after Reading's goal, Atkinson * in the area yet again, and his linesman seemed to agree with him. Are linesmen trained to jut out their eyes like nervous little Boston Terriers with glaucoma while their Adam's apple bobs up and down after bad calls?


Well, Everton hammered away at Stoke, or whoever this bottom-feeding club was for another twenty minutes or so until The ball came up for breath and landed in Everton's penalty area, where Seamus Coleman and Martin Atkinson * produced a gift basket for Reading. In another holiday gesture, Reading allowed a child from the Special Olympics to take the penalty from the spot. Howard dove the wrong way, the ball ended up in the net, and the special ed. child flapped his arms and made loon sounds.


Everton, trailing by a goal, wandered around with a pot and a bell for the next twenty minutes looking for additional points to hand out to Reading. However, when the whistle blew, *, the three points were all Everton were able to donate. The kids from the Make a Wish Foundation, however, seemed plenty pleased with them and gathered in the middle of the pitch to jump up and down and applaud the wonderful Everton and Martin Atkinson off the pitch. 

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Words are very strong. One single word can conjure vivid images that sail away with your imagination. By simply hearing the word, “ocean,” for instance, I can smell the salt air, hear the sea birds, feel the sun and wind, and see exotic ports on the globe. In fact, two words would double this sensory sensation. For instance, if you were to say the words, “Aston Villa” to me, I would immediately think: dog shit. Well, Everton waded into Villa Park today hoping to take points without stepping in anything.


When I saw Drenthe on one side, Donavan on the other, and new arrival Gibson playing in the middle, my optimist gauge inched toward the right. Then I saw Saha and Cahill up front and the gauge sagged back down to where it's been since August. The match began as they all do, a ball bouncing and skidding, and players jogging and sprinting, and beer bottles falling off tables and onto my living room rug faster than I could pop them open. You may have heard that Clattenburg was in charge of this match. He wore his hair in one of the gel-fag styles the FA requires shit refs to identify themselves with, but did little else to stand out.


Gibson started strong, knocking the snot out of Petrov, yet taking only ball, and ireland got dropped like a parolee getting tazed in front of his trailer park home. In fact, Ireland looks like a parolee who should get tazed in front of his trailer park home. In front of his bleeding-from-the-nose-wife. While wearing extra baggy shorts that show all his underwear. Bare-chested with crappy tattoo caricatures of his ex-children staining his sunken chest. That's what Ireland looks like. Whatever, it didn't take Everton long to take hold of this match while doing nothing to improve their standing.


Everton passed, passed, passed, passed, passed, until Tim Howard Finally told the cunts that he was not likely to score again, and that they should venture forward to see if they could create anything. Well, what do you know? They could! Chances, I mean, not goals. In the 17 minute Saha got a terrific free kick from Baines and headed it to Limpville. A few minutes later Donavon, finally starting to get his British feet under him, stormed the right side and sent a lethal cross into Villa's box that knocked Saha and three Villa players into the net while the ball stayed out. The commentator and the co-comm said it was a clear penalty. Saha was content to lie inside the net for a few minutes sleep. Clattenburg's vision was obstructed, to be fair, but fortunately, he brought along linesman just as stupid and inept as he for this match.


Shane Given was having quite a game, meaning that Everton were, as well. In fact, even Warnock tried to score on him with a wicked header off a Drenthe cross, but could not. Speaking of Drenthe, he will never take another corner or free kick, and if he puts in another noodle performance like today, he will never put in another shift. Suddenly, Drenthe fell to the ground from the shame of his performance. He made the “I want to come off the pitch and go home to drink whiskey” motion toward the pitch, but his plea went unnoticed. With five minutes to go before halftime, the Villa fans began to make their way to the bogs. When the whistle blew, I went in search of glue to sniff.


Halftime***


Apparently, the Villain fans had decided to use the bogs at home, because they never returned. The stadium was as noisy as a gust of wind, save for the full-throttled voice of the Everton fans. However, at the fifty minute mark Marcus Bent found a bobbling ball in the mist of the business of the Everton area and he kicked at it like he was kicking racism out of football. While Louis Saha twittered to confirm that racism has yet to be kicked out of football, the ball Bent kicked bounced high into the corner of Tim Howard's net. Saha put away his phone, because he didn't want to talk about black on black crime. Bent almost knocked another one past Howard straight away off a ball by Ireland.


How bad must you suck in order for Moyes to Sub you out for Anichebe? Pretty damn bad.


It wasn't all bad for Everton, however, as their insistent “we don't suck THAT much” play began to pay off. Again, as in the first half, they dominated the ball until Landon Donavan—do you remember him? He's an American who was great the last time we had him but has sucked ass this time, but he played a sublime ball through to some hunk of meat that paddled and slathered and puffed his way through the defence. The name of this player is Vic. Vic Anichebe. This big tub of lard and deteriorating muscle caught up with the rolling ball and blipped it on the run past the irish keeper.


Just minutes after this moment, Victor chased a ball out of touch the way a stupid child chases a butterfly in order to make it his special friend. Well, the ball told Anichebe to fuck off, and Victor, devastated, crashed to the ground and grabbed for some random appendage to hold onto while he grimaced. The cameras caught Moyes talking into his phone, saying, “Get hold of Norwich and see if they need another striker.”


In the meantime, Gibson came off and Bily came on. That's when I kicked in the face of my TV set and wished that it was Moyes. Or Kenwright. Or the bank chairman. Whatever, I just want to kick in somebody's face who is involved with Everton. I want to smash teeth, crumble bone, stomp fleshy parts of the body, gouge eyes, slash throats, eat tendons, stab, murder, torture and kill these pieces of shit. When the police take me away I will sing about what a grand old team it is to play for and to support. I bet I die in prison before Evertpon win fuck-all again. 

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Boobs, tits, vaginas and John Terry. There, search engine keywords sorted, as well as Tim Howard's first outburst. Everton stormed the pitch at QPR today with Drenthe on one side, Pienaar on the other and Straqualursi up front, with Tim Howard in Goal despite his current goal drought, which is reaching Tim Cahillian proportions, oh, and speaking of, in a gesture of sportsmanship, Moyes put Cahill on the pitch behind the big Argentine. Game on; sort of...I guess.


It took three minutes-twenty-one seconds for Cahill to miss a goal scoring opportunity when the ball found him fifteen yards point blank in front of the goalkeeper, and his left foot pegged it smack into the crossbar. It was a bittersweet moment, because it reminded me that Tim Cahill could still be spotted on the pitch once in a while, but that God still hates him for that sleeve of tattoos, half of which are Chinese Characters for “Past His Sell By Date”.


By the ten minute mark all of the confidence that was flooding my endorphins at the start of the match was drained out of me as I watched QPR, which is British, for Queen's Park Rangers, start taking pot shots at our goal as though they were vigilant hillbillies trying to pick us off for sitting in their chairman's vacant seats. Oh, my goodness, if you hadn't heard, their chairman and his entourage were sitting in the “jes' plain folk” seats behind the net so he could show the working people what a Rolex watch looks like.


My confidence began to work its way back into my bloodstream again once Drenthe began doing what he does. He clawed up the pitch with aggressive runs that caused the House of Commons to toughen up harassment laws in the workplace, and he took long shots that peppered their goalkeeper like he was a paddle board. One shot, two shot, three shot, GOAL! Drenthe celebrated by running to the touchline to hug the first white man who would touch him. It should be noted that Moyes would have made contact with the big sweaty black man, if not for a deft move where he sidestepped, and then showed Drenthe his back.


Five minutes later Drenthe dealt a crunching tackle to the son-in-law of the QPR chairman that outraged the chairman so that he and his group left the stands in protest and returned to the chairman's box. Security cleared out the lounging scousers and on the resulting free kick, Bobby Zamora scared the ball into the net with his face. Minutes after this Everton were awarded a free kick in a great spot, but the QPR fans tossed a mystic squirrel onto the pitch to hypnotize the ball to avoid the net, which it did. At the 43 minute mark Zamora took on a fifty-yard pass, jostled with Heitenga, and sent in a pin-balling pass that one foot kicked off the crossbar, and then with Tim Howard Tumbling like a one-man kaleidoscope vision another foot smacked the ball at the empty net, but hit the post for a double-zero bonus.


Halftime


If you have ever seen those old movies where a little shrimpy guy furiously swings at a big guy who holds him at bay by pushing the palm of his hand against shrimpy's forehead, and laughs while shrimpy deals roundhouses and uppercuts to the air, you will know how the second half played out. Fellaini was the big bully, and every attack QPR tried, Mauro stepped in, cut out the ball and sent it to a teammate who bolloxed the attack.


At minute 63 Moyes twittered to the @straq people that the big guy had to come off because he was worthless. The jelly guy went on for him. At the same time Moyes had a handler go out to reel in Drenthe, who chainsawed his way off the pitch to make way for Osman. These two guys were clever, and tried to make something happen, but nothing did. Boobs, tits, vaginas, and John Terry. 

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This is hard to write. My Open Office screen is smaller than usual right now and the MSN news screen is just behind it. As excited as I am to tell you my thoughts on the match tonight, I can see the following items at the bottom of my screen:


Teen on 15-year chicken nugget diet lands in hospital

Actress says aliens abducted her

Journey drummer arrested

Report: Chris Rock snaps


I will, however, soldier on. Seriously, though, a fifteen year chicken nugget diet? Why wasn't there some sort of 'South Beach Diet' book about that? A teenager? Fifteen years? Chicken nuggets? Anyway, tonight was American Fest at Goodison Park, and Yank-a-Vision TV was all abuzz. The good thing about Yank commentary is that you often get Eric Wynalda doing the co-commentating, who is outstanding. The bad thing about it is that the main commentator has names like Gueye to deal with. The guy did say he called up Ian Crocker to help him deal with pronunciation, but then spent the rest of the match saying, “Mack-gay-ee-mack-eye” and referred to the injured “Yah-gelka” for Everton.


Whatever, the match kicked off and I'll say one thing: Evertonians love their night time football at Goodison, and the atmosphere was thumping from the get-go until the fans realized that the visitors were Fulham, not Fiorntina, Fulham. No matter, Everton were up for this and when the fans realized there would be no refunds, they got behind the lads proper quick. It has been so long since I have seen Everton play football like tonight. Each Fulham attempt at attack was met with either a deft theft or a crunching tackle followed by a mad acceleration up the pitch like a Porsche driven by a man on viagra.

Unfortunately, most of the players were not used to this sort of football and the attacks ended as though they were nagging wives making their husbands pull over to the side of the road and then rolling down the window to ask, “Excuse me, but my husband is lost. Which way to the Fulham goal?” Of course this made Dave Moyes crazy, and he screamed and pointed the way to the Fulham end at all the expensive foreign machinery on the pitch.


The danger about asking strangers for directions is that some cunt always gives you the wrong ones on purpose, or you get the guys from “Deliverance” When poor Jonny Heitenga found himself in the wrong neck of the woods an inbred baldy with a ten-dollar tan pointed at a spot on the pitch and told him to strip down to his jockey underwear and squeal like a pig. While Jonny, understandably stressed, tried to reason with the guy, some hillbilly with a face that was a cross between a jack-o-lantern and a cat's asshole, drove a ball straight up his wahoo. The bald guy gave Heitenga a yellow card for protesting too much and Goodison Park groaned in sympathy. Normally, Everton would spend the rest of the match spooning with their violator, but Landon Donavon started warming up...finally. It took a moment, but Everton returned to jacking the ball from Fulham and attacking the Cottagers' net. At one point they had 27 corners in a ten second span, but none of the kicks could find a target. Finally, an attacking run was finished by Donavan, who sent a cross that Straqueilka rose into the air to meet and greet, bringing the match back to level terms within a few minutes of haltime.



Half time


Because of how much space I used up on the first half, I will use a montage for the second half:

Everton, physical, physical, bam, bam, Fulham players grimace and fall to the ground like ugly swans, Neville kick the ball out of touch one time, two times, too many times to count, and yell at teammates each time his shitness is unmasked. Fulham attack, attack, tackle crunch again, Everton take ball, 

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I like to have my dinner with my football. I eat and drink with great relish during the match, unless, of course, the camera zooms in on Sir Alex Ferguson. When that happens, I murmur an oath and take my plate to the kitchen and scrape it all into the rubbish. Who can eat while looking at that mess? His face looks like lumpy mashed potatoes, the veins that bulge beneath his flesh bag look like my strained beets, and his top lip looks like liver, and his bottom, a chocolate brownie. In short, looking at Alex Ferguson is like watching a DVD of a crack mother giving birth.


With that in mind, I sat down to watch this post FA Cup letdown match with a bag of sunflower seeds instead of Sunday roast, and I'd only cracked into a handful of them before noticing that Everton were the aggressors. “Whatever,” I chortled, as I fed the dog some husks. As if! However, I soon began to wonder if perhaps Ferguson had been buying his players from a different catalog than the one he buys his referees from. Everton were playing as though a game at Old Trafford was just a Sunday of gardening. Meantime, United's only threat was in the 18th minute when Rafael burst in on goal. However, he looked less comfortable with the ball than Titus Bramble, and in fact, acted as though the ball were a stubborn bumble-bee he couldn't shake free of. In fact, the greatest threat from United came when Ferguson broke away from his nurses and got hold of the referee's assistant. I'm not sure if my lip reading is as good as it used to be, but he appeared to be urging him to, “Take me back to 1999, you son of a bitch. Do you hear me?” To add to the embarrassment, the cameras zoomed in on his orthopedic shoes peeking out from his six-hundred dollar Sans-A-Belt slacks.


In the 33rd minute Everton almost sent Ferguson back to the ICU when Tony Hibbert lofted a loaded butterfly that Jelavic nudged off his head, and sent floating into the upper right hand corner of the Manc net where it exploded into black confetti. I kept a close watch on Ferguson, because you never know when he's going to chip off another piece of his diminishing soul for the result he so craves. It is delightful to note that his demeanor is beginning to mimic, exactly, that of Arsene Wenger's when the results are not going his way. Five minutes later Rafael approached the penalty area again. However, this time, instead of taking the pesky ball with him, the wily defender brought a suicide note with him and then faked his death right at the edge of the box in a splendid scene straight from Othello. Play continued, and Rafael did not, and he refused to uncurl himself from his self-imposed fetal position. As the play moved up the pitch his eyes blinked, and when he realized that a defender would be needed again at the other end, he leaped to his feet and ran back to join his team, who were already gathering for a pre-halftime attack at the other end. Said attack ended with a deadly Nani cross that Rooney put his failing hair follicles to and the greasy ball ended up in back of Howard's net.


Halftime


In all my time all I ever knew when Everton played Man U was, “Brave Everton performance, capitulated at the end.” The second half saw Everton field a ghost team of Gough, Gemmil, Moore, Weir, Collins, Dunne, Watson, all playing brave, defending football, all playing with one thought in mind; defeat, and United began serving heaping spoonfuls of it just the way Davey Moyes likes it from his pal:


57: Weldek scored when Pienaar went down. Everton sort of thought that since the same situation had thwarted one of their attacks in the first half, that this, well, maybe. Kindof, the ref'll do something, 'dunno what, like, but...(This sentence was as sloppy as Everton's tries at clearing the ball out of their own end, and it ended with Welbek slicing a ball just past the diving Howard)



 


                                            I LOVE YOU EVERTON

Bolton, home, 4-1-11


Right now, if Forest Gump's mother told me that life is like a box of chocolates because you never know what you will get, I would affirm her suspicions by smashing her snotty little quaint-sayings yap all over her kitchen sink and then using the garbage disposal to grind her lips and teeth into nutmeg. Then, if she would stop her bloody screaming for one second I would explain to her that although she never knew what she was going to get just then, that I, as an Everton fan, knew exactly was I was going to get during the Bolton match; a mouthful of shit served up piping hot by an ex-redshite and the wrong Cahill, and that I would trade with her if I could, and if she could come back to life.


By the way, if you don't think a yank knows what the definition of irony is, I will now correct you. I missed seeing the starting lineups of the match because when I exited the liquor store with all the beer I would need to survive another Everton match, I found a beer truck blocking me from leaving while the driver made his delivery. After an animated discussion with him he decided to move his truck, and I raced home to the match, already three minutes old.


I hate trying to decipher what our starting lineup is while the match is already underway, but after eight minutes I was able to figure out that it consisted of at least Baines, Tim Howard, and the Argentine. As I began to tear into my beer and valium with the restraint of a hissing raccoon, the commentator filled in the blanks for me: it was windy on Merseyside and Donavan was playing, and Everton were in a 4-4-2. I would have to take his word for it on the later two statements. Donavan's presence was confirmed for me moments later when a ball hit him in the head and ricocheted out for a Bolton goal kick.


With the fury of the wind came more clarity. I could see Saha and Ossman edging into the match, and that Phil Dowd was the referee. Although whip and roar the wind would, it could not coax any of the stubborn goats on the pitch into any action, except for Phil Dowd, who carded a couple of Bolton players just to stay sharp should he need to show red to anybody wearing blue later on.


Oh, the match had its moments as Everton began stringing little passes together here and there, but it was like watching your children decorate a Christmas tree without any supervision. The oldest sister strings a thread of popcorn together, the middle sister lovingly lays a glittering set of lights upon a set of branches, and the little brother inhales a handful of tinsel and begins choking to death. However, around the 31 minute mark good things began to happen. Osman and Baines began working the left side of the pitch, and shortly Saha and Donavan were included on these little plays and ploys. However, each time the ball left the ground the cruel wind would snatch it away from the midget donkeys, leaving them pawing at the sky with their hooves while the little ginger keeper for Bolton laughed at them.


Now I will be honest. After all the drugs and alcohol I injest during an Everton match I can't tell who is coming, who is going, and who is Greek or Argentine. What I do remember is that right about at halftime, and just after, Moyes began making substitutions as though he were snarking down peanuts and playing Parcheesi. Rodwell and Guaye blew onto the pitch and by the second half, Tim Cahill would be the final chunk of coal in Evertonian stockings this day.


Second Half


Although Louis Saha wasn't one of the players that Moyes took off the pitch this day, he did manage to finally disappear through one of the holes in the number 8 on his jersey. It was a marvelous bit of creativity on his part that has been lacking all season long, and his disappearence was a welcome site for all Evertonians.


 However, the rest of Everton's wasted chances once again threatened to return like a loan collector, and Everton's defenders began playing as though they were dodging the doorbell or the phone call. Each time Bolton knocked on the door Everton's defenders squeezed their eyes shut, tried not to piss themselves, and waited for the threat to go away, which it would, each time, thanks to Tim Howard. Howard was left to jump and leap, and slap and kick away at balls that flew at his net like stray bullets in a crappy Lancashire drive-by. 


Everton finally managed to break down the Bolton defence when Tim Howard scored on a goal kick. Of course, he was too disgusted with his teammates to bother celebrating, so he spit into the pitch, muttered an expletive, and tried to return to work while the Everton slugs clung to him and slimed him with their tongues. It is worth nothing that just a minute after this event, Tony Hibbert found himself racing down the right hand side of the Bolton end and dancing closer to goal. The noise around Goodison was immense, and Hibbert, feeling the renewed pressure, chipped a ball in that the wind nearly stuffed into the Bolton net.


That was to be the last happy moment of the match, however, as an ex-redshite wormed his way around two defenders to quick-shoot past Howard, and in yet another perverse moment of this match, the wrong Cahill bounced a long, wide shot past 20 players, which finally ended up just past the wonderful Tim Howard's desperately reaching hand. The evening ended with a Leighton Baines free kick that struck under the crossbar and bounced away with three points. The wind howled, and blew ripped up pieces of season tickets across the darkened Goodison Park pitch.


 


Birds gotta swim, fish gotta fly, and Moyes gotta manage. We Evertonians have a wealth of derbys we have named after referees and dirty players. There is the Clattenburgh Derby, the Poll Derby, the Gerrard Stomping Weir Derby, and the list goes on. Did we ever think that a Merseyside Derby would be named, by us, The Moyes Derby? How curious that the day after he sputters truth splinters at Colima's cheating bug-assed eyed and bald head, he himself, would throw a derby.


Maybe Moyes was tired of hearing about how he doesn't know strategy or tactics. Maybe he was tired of being considered unimaginative. Okay, Davie lad. For the love of God, stay unimaginative, because you imagined your arse off for this derby and served up a Steven Gerrard hat-trick that will snuggle up with all of the Ian Rush Derbys till the end of time. You took a team that was on a nine game unbeaten run heading into the most important game of the year, and tore the guts out of it so it could be reassembled for the second most important game of the year. In short, you outsmarted yourself, but your have never been known for your smarts, at least in a tactical sense.


As I settled in to watch the match I honestly thought to myself, “This is just crazy enough to work.” Unfortunately, only the first four words of that sentence were validated by the match. I must admit that for the first half, the pipe fitters and chimney sweepers Moyes sprinkled onto the pitch played with an intensity that matched the buzz of Anfield. It may have been the fastest first half of football I have seen in a long time.


Liverpool, instead of being intimidated by our exotic team selection, the way a thug runs away because a wimp strikes a karate pose, decided to just punch us in the nose. That was within the first four minutes when Howard was forced into some nice saves, and Rodwell showed up to make some timely clearances as well. After that, all hell broke loose and it was windmills, haymakers and sucker punches all around, and up and down the pitch. In fact, this strange team Everton had rolled out, as if for the mini derby, performed like heroes, and the Everton fans sang the Zed Cars theme so loud that Ian Darke had to comment on it.


The next thing Ian Darke commented on was the Liverpool goal. The Everton defence was shaky, and the midfield was not helping it much either, when in the 34th minute one of the countless Liverpool fans dressed in the complete kit, top to shorts to boots, jumped off a bus onto the Anfield pitch, and took a shot that Howard saved, but the rebound fell to Gerrard, who dinked it cross-cut, from right to left, and past each Everton player, Howard included, who tried to get in the way of the path the ball took. However, the ball eluded each straining reach of the Everton players, and became the first goal of this derby. Gerrard was so delighted that he pulled a paper bag from his pants and began breathing into it to avoid hyperventilating, and unfortunately, this method proved to work. 


Well, wasn't that special? That is the only thing that went through my mind after Everton's 2-1 win at Upton Park as both teams took turns giving the ref an earful. Google the simple sounding name Anthony Taylor today and you will get a hell of a lot more results for the simple minded referee than you would have before the start of this match, and oh, by the way, his linesman was a wanker too.


The match started in an innocent manner; me telling myself, out loud, “I thought I saw Victor in the lineup.” Just when I was beginning to think it was an optical illusion, Victor popped up on a free kick, tussled with the goalkeeper a bit, and caused the linesman to rule out Osman's perfect bullet header for the first score. The ref did not call anything, and he's supposed to be the one watching, yet from touchline, the linesman decided, after watching 22 grappling bodies in the area, that Victor had impeded the goalkeeper. I, for one, do not blame the linesman for blowing his whistle. If these guys (I assume!) do not blow a whistle once in a while, they are simply sissy-looking boys mincing about while waving flags. Like an American cheerleader, but without the slit. (I assume!)


Naturally, according to the “Everton Way” West Ham scored a few nano-seconds later on a great low shot against the grain that Tim Howard had no chance on. A different keeper, maybe...OH YES I DID! I WENT THERE! The rest of the first half was Everton being whistled for offside by the pouty lipped linesman, maybe in defiance, maybe cause they were, and West Ham plopping the ball over the Everton midfield and defence, not getting the offside call and then missing the net or getting an unlucky deflection while Howard, like a fish was, I will quote Neil Young, “flopping on the summer sand, looking for the shot you missed, when another one is close at hand...” Okay, I paraphrased Young. *Stupid Girl, Zuma. Anyway, the half finally ended with Everton down a goal.


In the second half, three great things and one bad thing happened in this sequence: Victor took a great cross in the box, facing away from the goal, and flicked it off the back of his head for a perfect big man's headed goal, and then the ref showed a ridiculous red card to a West Ham player for getting his boot too high and touching Leighton Baine's arm with it. Then Osman took the ball to the very edge of the touchline before sending a Crap-O-Gram across the box. The ball scuttled at the keeper like a crab attacking a cook. Pienaar showed up on the scene just in time to lay claim to the spent ball inside the Hammer net, and then the ref embarrasingly red-carded Darren Gibson for the same innoculous high challenge, as though that would mask the patheticness of his earlier card. The delighted crowd sang, “You don't know what you're doing,” and I'm surprised the clueless ref and his crew didn't join in. The match was over at this point, except for Kevin Nolan taking a snap shot out of nothing and just missing humiliating Everton's defence, and goalkeeper again. 

                      THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT! 


West Brom was at home hosting Everton for this mouth-watering New Year's Day match—mouth watering if you're in an old-folk's home and sporting a paralyzed, frozen face while holding a paper cup. Once again Tim Cahill was ghosting in behind Louis Saha, haunting the halls of irrelevance, and not the goal mouth. In fact, Everton's lineup was power-packed with the usual duds, all ready to wander the pitch with their hands on their hips, and kick unwanted balls far away from themselves. For their part, West Brom had Roy Hodgson sitting on the bench and picking his face. This was to prove the liveliest attack the Baggies would have all afternoon.

The match began with Everton signaling their intent from the start, with Cahill taking the kickoff and launching the ball straight downfield to his own goal keeper. Captain Phil Neville intercepted the ball, and in a move straight off the training pitch launched a dying duck far up the pitch that the sleepy Saha felt obliged to jump at, to no effect. Gravity is always the winner when two titans such as these lock horns and this match would prove the theory over, and over, and over again as the ball went up and the ball came down, the ball went up and the ball came down. At one point I realized that ten minutes of the match had passed by without my being aware of it as I had been fantasizing about oatmeal. In fact, if these two teams had been firing squads, the condemned man would feel obliged to commit suicide. Before halftime the com said that perhaps the crowd was watching the match in a haze, and that, “perhaps that is the best way to watch this game.” With those words the referee, not arssed, waved the players off for halftime rather than blow his whistle. The players didn't have to be asked twice.

Halftime

The players all must have received a good slagging off from their respective managers during halftime because in the second half their thoughtful musing and meandering turned into ferocious half-speed jogging. Moyes decided to send a Frenchman onto the pitch to give Saha somebody to talk to because Cahill had decided to spend the match on the left side of the pitch launching in crosses that could charitably be described as 'ludicrous.' Hodgson responded by rubbing his chin. I decided that brown sugar and raisins, with a pinch of cinnamon is the best way to enjoy oatmeal. Suddenly, the referee, in a desperate effort to stay awake, yellow-carded Leighton Baines. Oh, it was SO not on...

As the match wore on like a lazy September day Moyes brought on the Greek, whom the com referred to as “The Argentinian,” and then, in a like-for-like swap brought on Anichoebe for Neville. Five minutes later this swap would provide the most deliciously futile words ever uttered by a commentator: “The ball falls to Hibbert...Anichoebe waits...” However, just four minutes from the blessed end of the match that combination would provide the key to Everton's bedeviling “Locked Vault of Three Points” as Hibbert sent a cross into the box. The site of a football in the general vicinity of the goalmouth caused panic on both sides, and they began a furious bout of “Hot Potato” with the unwelcome visitor until Anichoebe, in an attempt to kick the ball away from himself, accidentally sent it into the West Brom net. This was good for two reasons: one, Everton would probably win, and two, it brought Hodgson out of his chair to entertain us with a zany dance. Not a minute later the camera caught him slamming the back of his head against a wall like some demented character from a Doestoyevsky novel. I had to smile. Three points, free entertainment, and it was time for oatmeal.





 




Everybody in this world is different, and everybody who commits suicide does so for varying reasons. Perhaps someone has disgraced their family, or worse, themselves. Maybe a person with a great lifestyle, gained by illegal means, has been caught and realizes they are about to spend the rest of their life in prison. Sometimes a physical ailment, or a mental disability can push one over the edge...so to speak. Or maybe it is late January and you only need a win to get within twenty-five points of Manchester City, but your goalkeeper has more goals than your top-two goalscorers over the last three months. As I said, there are many wonderful reasons to remove yourself from this earth, the preceding being only a few.


Blackburn limped into Goodison Park today with a slew of other reasons to end it all. The Captains of the two teams met at midfield and compared notes, and then the match kicked off...so to speak. Within two minutes, Donavon played a nice ball through to Victor, and he frabbled the ball over the net. Blackburn upped the ante when Hoilett jetted past the midfield, jinked the ball past every Everton player, past and present, before passing in front of goal. Some Rover got a boot on it, but so did Tim howard, sending the ball off to Safety Land.


Steven Dunn is like a gigantic turd that shows up to your front door with a lotto power ball, wondering if it can cash it in at your house. You try to slam the door but the scrodie crap-hulk starts spewing balls at your door, rocking it to its core until you can finally slam the door shut. Once Tim Howard finally secured the area against this rowdy turd-ball, Everton caught hold of the match. In the 25th minute a mild goal scramble in the Blackburn box saw Fellaini hit by the ball. The ball bounced off the Turk's chest, glancing off his arm on its way to the path of Why Even Bother, occupierd, again this week, by Tim Cahill. Well Cahill didn't bother, he just slammed the dribbler in his path past the Blackburn keeper. The next ten minutes were filled by Cahill chasing the corner flag across Goodison Park, all the way to Croxteth, down Old Swann Road and back into Goodison before he could finally take a poke at it, his fist catching air. The TV cameras, however, caught Saha saying, “Great. Just fucking great. Pretty soon they are going to want me to score a goal.”


With Cahill uncorked, Goodison exploded and moments later Tim Howard lobbed a deep pass with lethal acuracy for Landon Donavon, who misplayed it. Fortuanately, the ref blew for pass interferance, but Baines's field goal attempt flew wide. The good news was that Cahill had his confidence back, and was now rampant, his misses showcasing his renewed intent.


Halftime


The second half kicked off with rain falling from the sky, wind swirling around the park, and Cahill still lively and missing. Saha, for his part, had to be taken off the pitch when his Sleep Apnea flared up again. Drenthe burst onto the pitch in his place, and constantly wiped at the froth foaming around his mouth. He exposed every weakness Rovers possessed, yet no Evertonian had the balls to drive a dagger into the exposed areas. Well, God hates a faggot, or however the saying goes, and at the 71 minute mark Rovers received a free kick in decent territory. The ball sailed toward Howard, who came out to embrace it like a lost love, but then the Tourrette's kick in and he punched the ball, barely connecting. The ball limped to a Blackburn player who kicked it at the open net. Tim Cahill saved, and then cleared the ball off the line straight into Goodwillies stomach. The ball barely had time to salute Tim as it bounced back inside the net for the equalizer.


The rest of this match was a blur of worthless subs and wasted kicks and ruthless boos. I shut off the TV and wondered if I had any rope. 

Norwich, Home, 17-12-11



 The problem for Everton is though we lick our chops at the various relegation fodder coming to play us at Goodison, those teams happen to be the very ones above us in the table. Could this be a mirror world where the shit teams drool at the thought of playing us? Indeed, are WE the shit team? This match answered a resounding...maybe.

These matches are becoming all too predictable, so it was no surprise when we started out the match by slamming Norwich into their own end and setting up a toffee shop. Unfortunately, the toffee shop attracted many interested visitors, yet zero takers. As each goal scoring opportunity slid down the embankment of the Premiereship table I noticed that I am beginning to resemble Walter Smith: arms crossed, head tilting down, and “Come on, Everton, disappoint me,” look on my face. For their part, Everton lived down to expectations beautifully, with the zenith of disappointment coming with Saha rolling a ball across the face of the Norwich goal so slowly that the defenders made a science experiment out of it. They took notes, eyeballed it, studied it's southern migration patterns, put a micro chip inside of it and then gave it its freedom, out of touch for a goal kick.

I checked the clock and noticed that the match was almost twenty minutes old and Everton were completely in control. Well, that is around the time that Everton get burned GOAL! Okay, then. Everything according to schedule. Some guy named Holt scored for Norwich. He took Heitenga down the left side, turned his back, and worked closer to the goal as Heitenga tried to check him without getting a penalty called. Holt, who has a face that looks like it was carved from a frozen block of Stupid, shimmied, back-heeled the ball to himself, spun around Heitenga, and scraped the ball against the grain, and the ball rolled past Howard, and then past Baines, and died a slow death inside the net. Holt clapped, sported a huge grin, and then ran around seeking something to set fire to or pull the wings off of.

Everton awoke from this bad dream the same way they do each and every time it happens: Cahill slid onto nothing, Saha swatted bugs with his feet, Fellani withdrew into his own end, Ossie tried to make something happen, couldn't, Hibbert found acres of space, caught a huge bass and had his picture taken with it, the flavor of the week on the outside ran away from the big, mean, round rolling thing, Neville screamed, Howard swore for no reason, Cahill headed over, Saha did something, I'm sure, and Everton took loads of corners and free kicks the way crazy people swat at flies that don't exist. The halftime whistle blew and the camera caught Holt blowing a huge sardine out of his nose onto the Goodison Park pitch, which the halftime television crew chose to show as a way of summing up the first half rather than having to talk about it themselves.


Second Half


As always, the second half drained away at the same rate that Everton pissed away chances. In disgust Moyes threw his ice cream wrapper onto the pitch. It took the form of Straggawhatever, who immediately caused havoc, against the other team, and then became withdrawn. Saha was demanding fouls to be called upon the years that kept dragging him down, and then Moyes, in a blind rage because he was cursed with the red hair threw Drenthe onto the pitch and shoveled Magaye off like so much dog shit, and a pack of dingos rushed the pitch and ate what was left of Cahill after the opposition, again, were through with him. Drenthe tore the pitch apart like a tasman devil.


Drenthe likes Tony Hibbert. How else can you explain the fact that Hibbert is always the first person Drenthe looks to set up for a shot? He even had Tony in on goal once, (week shot off the wrong foot) but at the end it was Drenthe who had to do it himself. He bullrushed the Norwich defence, tricked them, and shot. The ball headed for a lot of Norwich bodies, but Leon Osman tipped the ball against the slant of canaries and into the net. Oh, it was SO game on that Moyes brought out the famous # 43 shirt next. The #43 shirt was always around the ball, kicking it, deflecting it, barely missing it, and then the whistle blew and another beautiful Saturday turned into sawdust. With just a pinch of sugar added. I wonder what Drenthe and Donavan would be like in the same midefield?


 

At Arsenal: 10-12-11 

This match began with a tremendous celebration for Arsene Wenger's 125thbirthday, which he celebrated before the match by turning green. Everton, for their part, had the corner flags painted to look like a whispy Swedish goalkeeper, should Cahill get uncorked. Saha was upfront this week as a reward for the Greek's performance last week. One imagines that the Greek will be up front on his own next week as a reward...anyway... as the match began to unfold the commentator said that Everton were playing a very unusual 4-2-4. The midfield would consist of two men, and two wide men would be playing in support of Saha and Cahill, acting, so to speak, as two extra strikers. Uh, huh. I yawned. So 4-5-1 it is again.

After a few minutes of watching Arsenal ripping straight through the Everton midfield as thought the freezing Tierry Henry was using his shivering eyes to do some kind of voodoo against us, I began to think that maybe the commentator was onto something. Or that he was full of shit and that voodoo is real. Well, whatever it was, this match was beginning to look like Barcelona against the Ventura County Fusion (if I knew how to do keywords, there would be some local hits there) I cannot begin to use words to paint this match, so I will try to use a painting to illustrate my words: watching this match was like staring at Van Gough's Starry Night while frying on acid, and all the stars are footballs, and Tim Howard is gnashing at them all with his swearing face, and offside flags flicker like cheap porno films at the end of the reel and songwriters from the seventies are singing about severed ears and then last night's moon eclipsed in totality which brings us back to Everton's "4-2-4"

In the first half alone, each and every Arsenal player found himself alone in front of the net while all of Everton's “STRIKERS” gasped, out of breath in his wake. Hell, even Wenger broke in on goal and tried to suck the blood out of Tim Howard's bulging, obscenity-filled jugular vein, but he too, got swatted away. Walcott began the whole shebang by streaking down the right side and getting Howard got out of position, so Walcott fired the ball into the middle, instead of at goal, startling the Arsenal players who had made the run in case of a rebound. What followed was, in old west terms, “a steady diet of lead” But the Arsenal “gunners” were more like old west gunfighters, aiming their six shooters at the sky, firing at the moon's eclipse and yelling, “Yee-Haw!” because Everton and Howard should have been killed a million times, or even more than seven, but still they stood, thumbing cartridges into their guns-- guns they would never fire, and mocking Arsenal with an “Is that all ya got?” look. Arsenal responded with their own raised eyebrow look when Everton's best chance came off a Tony Hibbert cross that found nobody, although it kept drifting toward the net, almost dipping under it before the Arsenal Keeper woke up and snared it.


Halftime came and the cameras found Henri, sitting there, freezing, with one of those “If they take that camera off me, I'm out of here,” looks on his face.


The second half began with an embarrassing incident when Theo Walcott and Tim Cahill came out of the tunnel drunk off their asses. Walcott staggered around the pitch a bit, and then just fell over. A steward came out to 86 him from the park, but he was waved away. Then Everton finally went on the attack, played a bit of position passing until Cahill fell out of his shoes. He tried to continue, but Howard Webb, for some reason blew the play dead and turned the ball over to Arsenal. The Gunner's more sober players launched a furious assault, again, breaching the defence time and time again to get at Howard, and when The Arsenal weren't cocking up the shots and passes, Howard was massive, blocking up his goal most of the time, and kicking and deflecting the shrapnel from the heaviest bombs

Everton's next rarefied  chance came when Neville ripped a shot just over the net. I was adding things up in my head, thinking, “Okay, so our best chances today have come from Tony Hibbert, and Phil Neville, but at least...” Arsenal choked off the rest of that thought when Van Persie took a lengthy pass from Song just outside the box, and instead of bringing it down with his boot he fired it straight off the pass and the ball never touched the earth until the back of Howard's net stopped rippling, and Howard picked up the spent ball. The commentator took this moment to give us one of football's stupidest statistics ever. Did you know that Robbin Van Persie is going for the “Premiere League” record of goals scored in a “calendar year.?" 

What they should say is that he is going for a record that is significantly less than Bob Latchford's, and devastatingly less than Dixie Dean's. If I had been in the commentator's booth I would have been happy to add that "Robbin" is a girl's name, and "Percy" isn't so hot, either. Why does his name not have "Bruce" and "Gaylord" in it?  Whatever. The com did mention that Everton were taking off some deadwood and adding some green wood onto the pitch. Guyee and some Liverpool kid in a 43 shirt that his dad lent him made their way to the pitch and disappeared. In the interim, Heitenga knocked Roziski on his ass, Howard Webb blew his whistle, and Heitenga never turned around, but made a dismissive gesture at Webb with the back of his hand, as if to say, “I've had enough of your shit for 2011, you massive bald Fuckatossi.” Howard glared daggers at the back of Heitenga, but dared not reach into his pocked for a card. Not enough people were watching. Suddenly, the number 43 shirt found a ball that was about to bounce and drove it at Arsenal's net before it could hit the earth. But It did what Van Persie's shot did not do. However, only by about a foot. Can't even remember the kid's name. I hope I hear it again, soon.


 

WOULDN'T IT BE NICE?


Bolton Away, 26-11-2011 

 A youth movement is great, if you let the youth DO SOMETHING. David Moyes may have begun his tenure here intent on making Everton younger, but in the process he squandered the youth of Leon Osman. Heck, even fellow Youth FA Cup winner Tony Hibbert's hair is receeding. Fortunately, for today's testimonial match against Bolton, Moyes honored Leon by finally, after ten years, playing him in his natural central midfield role. In another tip of the hat to the youth of yore, Moyes gave Tim Cahill one last run out, and dumped Louis Saha onto the pitch, as well. Saha, unaccustomed to being on a football pitch, lay inert, moving only his eyes, left and right, to track the movement of the running legs around him. This match got off to an ugly start when hundreds of Bolton fans, all of them children, rushed the pitch thinking that Saha was a Pez dispenser. The stewards had to forcibly remove the children, who had crowded in on Saha with their hands cupped in front of his mouth, screaming, in Scouse accents, "Gizza candy, bitch!"

When this match finally got underway, the cameras shot up to Bill Kenwright, who was sitting among other injured players. Rain was pissing down on his head, although the sun shined around everybody else. Bill, amazingly, was grinning like a Christmas tree with all its lights. In the meantime, his team was playing like kittens who had found a ball of yarn, but didn't know what to do with it. Bolton played like dogs, that would like to show them what to do with it. The dog and cat show came to an end when Bolton's David Wheater, who has the face of a crowbar, tried to plug his studs into Bilyletdanov's legs to drain all the pretty out of him. This brought a whistle from the ref, and when Wheater jumped up to face him, the ref shielded his own eyes by blocking out the ugly with a red card.

Everton knew that this was their chance, so they pissed themselves. Players would break in on goal all alone, and instead of shooting, they would pass into phalanx of footballers. Instead of passing to the open man, they would kick at the ball as though the fault of their own suck-ness lay within the ball, rather than themselves. I even saw coleman play a sweet back heel to Tony Hibbert, which is like picking daisies for a cockney whore. Hibbert responded like any respectable cockney whore would: he sniffed the ball, made a face, then launched it as far as he could on top of the shit heap which is Everton's season.


HALFTIME:::::


For reasons known only to them, Bolton's halftime show was a tribute to giant hamsters and their play wheels. For the Bolton faithful, that was as good as it was going to get.


Although David Moyes, at halftime, probably told his team that they had a man advantage, the players began the second half as though they doubted the voracity of his words. After awhile of monkey business, however, for whatever reason, Bilyedtdov suddenly decided he wanted to be a footballer. Like a chimp escaping the testing facility he suddenly broke free, splaying open Bolton's left side, and drove an angry ground-eating cross that the charging Fellainie popped into the top of the net. Oh, it was SO on! Bolton responded by evacuating massive amounts of fans. Moyes countered by going off with the old and on with the new, and replaced the Pez dispenser with Velios, who responded by shoving a gigantic Pez up Bolton's ass. Moyes, in his delirium, brought off some older players we probably have seen enough of, and in their place brought on some youngsters we don't see enough of. If only they were older, wouldn't it be nice?



 




 

EVERYBODY'S WORKING FOR THE WEEKEND...

WOLVES, 19-11-11 

I always thought that was a stupid song sung by a bunch of Canadian fags. Here it is, the weekend, again, and I'm still working, so why are these guys getting their jazzercise all up and running? Whatever, I have a VCR machine and will watch this match when I get home from working ON the weekend, not, FOR. Idiots.

Wolves crept into Goodison Park today, snooping around for empty sandwich wrappers to lick, or a point or three to nick. What they got was a face full of relegation dung to sniff on, and they got a huge whiff of it, indeed. Distan was out for this match, Neville was out for this match, Heitenga was in defence, and the commentator spoke about the injections Jagielka had to take just to numb the pain enough to play. I clucked my tongue in sympathy, slapped my veins a few times, tied my arm up tight, and jabbed my own, “Everton Watching Injection” into my veins, and thus calmed, watched the match unfold.

The FA had a new referee busting his cherry for this match, so they demanded that the home side sacrifice a virgin, as well. Leon Osman came off the pitch and the match got underway like a ping-pong ball in an air storm. The ball finally settled down upon Wolves half of the pitch, and rarely glimpsed the Park End after that. In fact, one almost would think that Mick McCarthy's pre-match chalkboard was a diagram of half a football pitch. One half showing the Wolves section of the pitch, and the Everton half just a drop off into the sea with the frantic words, “Here Be Monsters!” scrawled in, and a cartoonish image of Tim Howard in the water, going mental in his  full-blown Tourette's frenzy, and his snapping jaws gnashing out from the water's surface. 

Well, the Wolves players didn't want to get gobbled up by the “Fuck You!” monster, so they splashed around their own end and tried to deal with creatures like the rabid Drenthe, and the Saha Freak with his hoopity-hoo shots. By the 23rd minute Drenthe and Baines were running down Wolves on the left, and Hibbert and Coleman were snapping at their heels on the right. In the meantime, Cahill finally connected with something, even if it was just the head of a Wolves player, who went down like a sack of crap. Cahill had crazy moths, or something, stapled to his head and we got on with the match. With Everton running rampant like this, any Evertonian could have told you that it would be just moments before Wolves scored. Well, as this match began heating up, so did the new ref's Cunt-O-Meter, and it blew a gasket in minute 36 when Wolves player, Edwards, fell over in the area while trying to memorize his navel. The startled referee pointed to the penalty spot, instead of the short bus, and the singer for Lover Boy adjusted his hair band, and converted from the spot.

Once Wolves had figured out how to get to the Everton part of the pitch, they bookmarked it, *liked* it on facebook, and began to have at it. Unfortunately for them, a bulky black man with the name of Drenthe took the play away from them and tilted the match back in the favour of the blue. Drenthe resembled a huge cheesburger rolling down hill and seeking out Whimpy's gaping mouth. However, he usually just found Wolves and lazy Everton fools who couldn't be arsed getting into the box. But on the 44th minute, Baines was afforded a moon shot of a free kick from up on Mars, and Jagelka ran onto the fallout and popped it into the net with his head. His milk-stain-mustache celebrated the goal by pinwheeling around his lips like a cut-out scene from "The Yellow Submarine."


Halftime:


Wolves began the second half like they began the first, and Everton thanked them by smashing the Wolves net with everything they had. The sad fact is that the Wolves had replaced their gawky goalie at halftime, with “The Tumbling Wallenda Brothers” who formed a spinning human shield in front of the Wolves net. Drenthe ran wild and fed the front of this spinning vortex, Coleman raked the right flank, feeding Hibbert, who kept popping the ball into the swirling maze of saves. Cahill was pulled down in the area, and the only thing that happened was the ref's Cunt-O-Meter rose another notch. Nothing Everton did could get through this matrix. I looked at the clock. I was going to need another injection if I was to make it through this match. In the 79th minute, Wolves made a substitution: Cunt on, Cunt off. In the 80th minute Everton rocketed the Wolves net with more shots, and in the 81st minute the ref brought his meter down a few notches when the Greek substitute, Velios, burped, and Everton were awarded a penalty. Wolve fans booed. Not really, though. I just said that to make it sound like there were some of them at the match. Baines stepped to the spot and set the ball down. The wolves goalkeeper took his mobile phone out and dialed the emergency number, saying he was about to get raped. Baines poofed a slow roller into the left hand corner of the net. The goalie hung up, telling the operator, “Too late.”

Drenthe was brought off after that because Moyes will do what Moyes does. A russian banker came on in his place, and wolves cashed that in for one last chance. A free kick within distance. The ball was whipped with fury, beating Howard, who dove across the net, but the ball sailed into the sky and crossed the moon, and the match was over. Nicky Hunt will have to work for the weekend, again, next weekend...faggot.

 

NEWCASTLE, AWAY  5-11-11 


Bonfire Night in England saw Saint James's Park throwing an early masquerade party to get things going. The Magpies were dressed like paved roads and title contenders, the referees like magpies, Everton like the ball, and the seats in Saint James showed up looking like pregnant nuns. The festivities got off to the same sort of start like at any pyrotechnics show where the guy in charge of the fire shows up with a bunch of soggy, sweaty matches. There were sparks, hisses, fizzles and farts, followed by grunts, cries of outrage and noisy outbursts—and this was just the Geordie buffet line. Finally, the match began, and it aped the flow of the feeding erupting from the St. James troughs.

After about eleven minutes of forks being pushed around the plates, John Heitenga got up from the table, announced that he didn't feel too good, loosened his belt, and then spewed a football out of his bursting red face into his own net before Tim Howard could even tie on his own lobster bib. The cameras caught Newcastle's manager scrawling out what looked to be like more take-out orders, but a closeup showed the notes as saying, “Come on, Newcastle. These are shit.” And he wasn't talking about the shrimp scampi.

Everton were still on the appetizers menu, however, and there were some tasty bits. Rodwell headed a mean shot that needed saving, Drenthe hooked up with Ossie for a wasted try, and Saha found a pie in his path and smashed it over the goal.

Two milleseconds later Ryan Taylor was hanging out, not doing much, when suddenly he saw a ball on the outside of the area far away from any target. Taylor smashed it from distance, against the grain, and it fount the upper right hand corner of Tim Howard's net. A great roar went up from the crowd at St. Jame's Park, and my head fell forward into my bag of cheetoes.

I may have been demoralized, and in need of a little more cheese sauce, but Everton began turning up the salsa, and it was Neville-miss, Saha-miss, Drenthe-miss, and then at the other end Newcastle's Tayler garnished a corner that almost went into the soup, sending everybody home, but the shot missed and Neville celebrated by having to come off with a hamstring. I rejoiced because I wouldn't hear his high-pitched screeching jamming shockwaves into my brain, and because it brought on Distan, and God Knows why HE was on the bench to start today. When play resumed, Everton got a corner, which Drenthe took. The delivery was wicked as a vampire bat and Rodwell, in what I must assume was a defencive gesture, lashed it into the back of the net with his head. Halttime came in the next instant, and I began popping peyote tabs like they were anti-acids. 


The second half made me sick, but that's usually just the peyote button talking, and then I noticed our old buddy Gossling, trying to sneak around the pitch in a plastic batman mask. Well, the mask worked a treat for him, because Everton were running at these puds like they were pancakes at IHOP that needed gobbling. However, mask boy swatted a sure goal away with his hand, and since the ref was wearing half a Geordie costume, he let it go. Still, Everton turned the screws, and then Cahill came on for Hetenga, but couldn't score in either net. My confidence was eclipsing my ego, but at the 80 minute mark,  the cameras zeroed in on some old Amish fellow  in an Everton top. He sported  a long beard, and  his head was patchy and balding.  It looked like Moyes had unearthed Dixie Dean himself, and Moyes was telling him to get out there and bake an apple pie for the barn raising.  I raised my eybrows and tried to recall where my sour little buttons had come from. Suddenly, the old fellow pulled out a shotgun and took a pop at one of the M'Coys. Well, sir, he fluffed it and the cartridge sailed well over the net.  I clicked off the tv, and clucked my tongue. Everton just were't hungry enough, it seems. I smacked my lips. I was starving.




Margin
x

 


 

PND? Yo no lo tengo ESPN ESPANYOL. QLC? (Que La Chingada) (WTF?) 

I knew that Everton were playing so-so, and Manchester United were playing like girls, but ESPN Espanyol? Yo no can get it on me cable! I tried, and it's not even offered! So I watched this match via the text scroll on Sky's LASH site, and Chicharito shoved the final hot pepper up my ass to cap off this dia de festiva. Everton, for their part ended the day with aggressive play and weak shots and a nil-one loss. Alex Ferguson formed a very tight two-man conga line right behind the uncomfortable  Hernandez. See you next week. 


PMSL!


AT Fulham, 23-10-11 

Everton traveled to Fulham today to face the Cottagers, who greeted them by disguising themselves as Leeds United. David Moyes, coming out of his Cahill haze, replaced Tim and had Phil and Drenthe in the starting lineup. He also punished Velios for scoring last week by beginning the tried and true process of starting him up front on his own.


The game started out fairly brightly – goal, by Drenthe! As I was saying, Everton were passing the ball at will in Fulham's end when Drenthe thought he saw Jose Mourino's head rolling around from well outside the area. He ran up to it and buried the head like a rocket into the Fulham net for a special goal, indeed. Drenthe had a serious scoring jones going and evertime he saw the special one's head he fired it goal bound. Fellaini, for his part, was of no more use than a traffic cone. Just some big, stupid object that useful people had to keep going around, and Drenthe, at one point screamed at him. Fellaini motioned for him to just go around.


Drenthe, playing on the right side was taking the piss out of that cheap son-of-a-whore, Danny Murphy, constantly tricking the sub-IQ'd piece of crap by feigning right, and dribbling left. Velios spent the match doing nothing, as per Moyes's “Operation Striker Kill” demanded, when a brilliant cross came for him which he buried into the stands.


Moyes, frustrated by Drenthe's goal, switched him from the right side of the field to the left, where his soul withered and sputtered like a pilot light on a windy day. Fulham began to finally get a grip, and in the 24th minute Howard made a brilliant save on a blistering shot by that cheating dung heap, Murphy, tipping it over the net.

A save on the hung-over looking clint Dempsey.

Another tip-over.

A save off a stoke-like throw in.

And again on Dempsey, when he broke through alone on goal, but Howard rushed out, grabbing the ball and sending Dempsey hurtling through space like a drunk getting tossed from a pub.


Halftime came just in time, and Fulham's coach gathered his frowning, jowly face from the ground, stuffed it into his pocket for his Harry Redknapp mask on Halloween, and slouched to the locker room while his necktie tried to flee the horror that was his being.


When Everton came out for the second half the cameras found Moyes talking to Drenthe, and if my lip reading is as good as I think it is, he was saying, “I was having a dizzy spell earlier, but I've taken some dramamine and I want you to go back to that side of the pitch where you were doing all that good footballing.” However, Everton seemed to be finished with all of their “good footballing” for the day. Drenthe had scored and now wanted somebody else to try it, but it is hard to score when all of your players' hands are on their hips and they are moving slower than Wayne Rooney at a vegetarian buffet.


Danny Murphy has the face of a jack-o-lantern that was carved by a demented child. The stewards finally had to have him removed from the match because children were being traumatized. Murphy was none to happy about coming out, and excreted bitter glands from his eyes, blinding the ref who was unable to see Cahill getting gay-raped in the penalty box by some ginger who had yet to be neutered. One of the Chilean miners came on for him, and crossed himself as he ran onto the pitch. Yeah, I think you already exhausted that avenue, buster.


In the 67th minute the Chilean miner found himself with plenty of space on the left, and ironically, buried the ball. For the next twenty minutes the match was a bunch of hullabaloo until God suddenly invented some bald prick, named him Andy Johnson, and put him on the field. This guy put Zamora through on goal, and this is what happened: 


bumbely, bumbely, and Howard fell prone to pray to Mecca. Bumbely, net wide open, bumbely, Zamora, the ball, the open Everton net, bumbely, and Zamora tapped it home for the goal—except he didn't. He put an exlamation point on his shot that would tear off the roof of the net, and a couple of fans put their hands in front of their faces to block the shot from hitting them. Then the ball bumbled back down the stadium stairs back to the bottom, just like a slinky, until it landed in Fulham hearts like a lump of shit. 


Some of the fans got up and left. A couple of them turned around, but became pillars of salt when Saha chested down a loose pass in the Fulham half, barged past a defender with his broken body, and then feathered the ball across the grain, and the goalie, and into the net. The Craven cottage emptied a bit more. Of course the camera immediately showed Zamorra, and when the camera panned back to the pitch we were treated to viewing one of Rodwell's, “the match is already over, now is my chance to score,” goals, and he did and the ref blew his whistle and a vacancy sign went up at the ticket window in West London. Rodwell was seen putting his arm around Zamora at the whistle, and if my lip reading is up to snuff, he told him, “Funny ol' game, innit?”

 

I CAN QUIT ANYTIME I WANT...


Chelsea Away, 15-10 


Whiskey and water are two different things, as are goals and Tim Cahill. Often times, a desperate drunk, with no money or booze, will chug water and hope to fool his mind into getting high. Lately, the same holds true when David Moyes chucks Cahill onto the pitch and hopes to get results. Well, when the father drinks, the family suffers, and again this summer, Everton suffered under David Moyes's blitzed-out lapses in judgement. 

Time, after time, after time, after time, he would savage a striker to spite his face. Strikers he couldn't afford to lose. Yakubu, Vaughn, Beckford. His wife would beckon him to come back to bed, ease up, but he would elbow her away: "Me no care! Me got Timmy boyo. Me got..." And then he would pass out on her and she would spend the night staring at the wall while listening to herself blinking.

At Stamford Bridge today, Moyes, with his red eyes and a little vomit on his shirt gave Bill K a pat on the back, and slurred, "No worry, you, today, boss. We got Timmy...Timmy..."

Kenwright clucked his tongue, gave Dave a little punch on the arm, and said, "We got Timmy, David."

"Is right!" And the match kicked off.


Cahill walked about the pitch holding his lower back so that the Everton supporters would know that there was a reason that he sucked. Rodwell rolled over and played dead, hoping he wouldn't get a reputation as a dirty player, and Saha drifted in and out like a poor radio frequency. This left the other players to organize and do their best, which they did. In fact, each Chelsea attack found a vanilla white shirt and a smart navy blue counter attack. Am I the only one who thinks that each time P. Czeck comes out of his goal area he looks like a bizarre pitch invader? Whatever, Everton made you downright proud--BOOM, BOOM, STURRIDGE, 1-0.

Abromovitch looked like Pee Wee Herman smirking over a stifled fart, and the nose of Chelsea's manager looked like it needed to snort some more coke. Evertonians knew that it was all good in the hood, because all we needed was a point, and we are experts at coming back on...while I was pondering the previous sentence, and how all we had to do was hold on until halftime, Chelsea were given a free kick. The time? Zero-point-two-seven-seconds from halftime. The result? Watching John Terry run around the pitch in ecstasy the same way his friends run around, in ecstasy, behind his back with his tramp of a wife.

Halftime...

Well, Moyes was going to have something special for Chelsea in the second half. If you didn't know, Chelsea had not beaten Everton since 2006, and...oh, but what is happening here? Chelsea are trotting toward Everton's goal like they were commies holding a May-Day parade and Everton were the useless hippies trying to put a flower stem down the barrel of a tank's 155 mm gun. The ball fluffed the back of the net and Everton reeled for a moment, but just a moment. True Evertonians knew that we could jab a dagger three times into the back of a Lanc's neck in stoppage time, so this still had a whiff of hope about it.

Moyes glared, sneered, gnashed his teeth, swore, and then looked at Steve Round and shrugged. On came the Greek, whatever his name is. Result...GOAL! He slid into a cross by Drenthe, who seems to make some really nice open play crosses. I sat up. Well, well, well, we have got ourself a little 'how-de-do' now, don't we? Let's see how Chelsea respond to--Dang...full time whistle. Moyes glared at the Greek, the freaking non-Tim Cahill-non-midfielder-goal scoring leper. He nudged Steve Round. "Let's get a drink, did you see that Cahill lad today?"


 


         ET TU, FUCKHEAD?

 


It is said that shit flows downhill, and that certainly is the direction that refereeing in the Premiership has taken in the last three years. I remember after Poll, Winter, Uriah and the rest of the clowns retired or were fired, how great the new class like Webb, Clattenburg and the rest seemed. That is until they all stuck their whistles into a Merseyside Derby, shat themselves, and soiled their reputations, as well. Welcome one referee named, Atkinson to the list of puds, poltroons, pussies, incompetents, metro sexuals, and losers with gambling debts on their minds and colored cards in their pockets, to the club. 

Both clubs played the first twenty-five minutes of this match in a fluid and clean manner, until disgraced referee Atkinson dirtied it with a whistle in his filthy mouth and a red card in his tainted hand. Jack Rodwell was the latest random red card victim, today. He tackled some bitch named Suerez, getting the ball first, and a half-hour later this cunt with that name fell over and begged the referee for a card the way his mother should have begged for an abortion.

 Rodwell was sent off and nearly broke his foot with a kick at the cement as he dipped his head to slouch into the tunnel, however it was the ref and suerez who should have slithered into it, beyond where daylight could find them.

Everton, as usual in these circumstances, defended like heroes until the end of the half drew near, and the ref jumped at his chance to cash in his bet on Liverpool when Jagielka committed a clumsy tackle in the box. Not only did Atkinson point to the spot, he skipped over to it, jumped up and down on it a few times, made an exaggerated masturbatory gesture at Jags, and then with his lips pursed, stood aside and smiled lovingly at the Liverpool player who set the ball upon the spot, which was still damp from Atkinson's drool.

Whatever, Howard saved, and halftime soon followed.


In the second half, Everton gave me reason to believe that they would not only stifle these satanic mickey mice, but would probably snatch a goal and go home laughing, along with the rest of us. Every positive kick of the ball by a Liverpool player met a negative response by an Everton player, followed by a roar form the Goodison Park crowd. However, tornadoes, earthquakes and tsunamis are always foretold by an eerie silence. Soon, Everton's play became as subdued as the crowd's voice, and there was only the sound of boot kicking ball, and the occasional sound of some cunt in the stands making that, 'do-do-do-do-doo-do'  whistle. 

However, winds of change were rustling. There was rumor that Moyes was putting Neville on to solidify things, while taking Ossie off. But that did not happen. Drenthe came on, snorting like a bull, and the fading Cahil came off limping like a kangaroo that had just had a miscarriage. Ian Darke went on to talk about how enigmatic Drenthe could be, and if enigmatic is a smart person word for, invisible, then, okay, Drenthe was really enigmatic.

It was time for the frustrated Liverpool to make a couple of changes. Gerrard came on. Has anybody noticed that in the past few years his aging and scabby face is beginning to look like one of Joey Barton's cigar ashtrays? At the same time that Gerrard was snorting about the pitch and chomping at the bit to stomp a helpless waiter, Bellamy was sent on too. Look, while we are discussing looks, Bellamy's face looks like a pair of white jockey underwear with a skidmark smeared across it. Oh, and Skirtel looks like one of those masks from the "Scream" Movies.

There was some more give and take, and then, well, let me just say this: David Moyes, when he is doing strategy things, reminds me of a meaty-faced retard of a club bouncer playing chess against a superior opponent, say, a glass of tap water. The club bouncer hears the word, "Check." and then slowly moves his pawn forward, the one space it is allowed. However, being no dummy, he leaves his hand on the piece so that the move is not finalized until he removes his hand from said piece. So, Moyes put Neville on for defencive help, let his hand linger over Neville, then finally, not seeing any problems, removes his hand, and grins at his opponent.

Goal, Liverpool!

Moyes gnashes his teeth as only he and Christopher Walken can do, and then watches with eyes bugged out as the referee added the final insult by running onto a rebound and smashing it home. He then ran to Suerez, buried his face in his shirt and began making out with the badge.  Howard, while his defenders lay about gasping, tried to say, "My bad, dog." And although Ian Darke is telling me how stupid it is to throw things onto the pitch, I am thinking that it is more stupid to let a crooked ref, or a ref with no balls, work a Merseyside Derby. And I am praying that Atkinson catches a cell phone to his temple. Not enough to kill him, but he needs to know how wrong he was, and the FA is not going to tell him. I also hope a poisoned dart jabs into the jugular vein of Suerez. Let us see that faggot fake THAT seizure. Have a nice day.


 

 DOGS

    OF

SNORE

 City, Away, 24--09--'11

 

It is said that pack animals, such as dogs, act upon the lead by the head of the pack. It is also said that dogs have no soul. If this is true, and the eyes are the window to the soul, this match was like a crystal ball foretelling Everton's footballing fortunes for the rest of the season.

It began with Everton creeping from their corner of the pitch, up to City's territory. City didn't know how to handle this sort of aggressive behaviour, so they fumbled about, frustrated, and unable to unleash the pistol-hot Aguerro. For the entire first five minutes Everton snapped at City, growled, and hounded their net.

However, City finally dared to stare into the Everton pack, and backed them back to their own end where they belonged. Moyes watched the retreat, but he was only a spectator, and no longer a master, and despite his shouts for the players to get up the pitch, they failed to obey.

This match was refereed by Howard Webb, who seemed determined to prove that his world cup humiliation had been no fluke. Halfway through the first half He began handing out yellow cards to Everton players like he was some clown making balloon animals for children. He even gave one to Phil Neville, as though it were through some fault of his that Silva was experiencing menstruation cramps. Osman also got a yellow because his first name is Leon, and then Webb gave a card to a City player as well, just to try and make himself look like less of a cunt. If he really wanted to save "face" he should have carded Lescott for Harbouring ET on his head.

Meanwhile, City began slapping around Everton at will, but it was not until the 35th minute when Howard was pressed to leap at a smart shot by Aggure, palming it around the net. For the last couple minutes of the half Everton snuck out of their own end once again, but Webb spied them and blew the whistle.


Everton kicked off to start the second half, but the ball was taken from them immediately and they were told to go to their corner and lie down, which they did. At the 67 minute mark they were enthralled to watch Aguerro dance around and backheel a ball for Balotelli to knock into their net. Moyes responded with aggression, taking Saha from his doghouse and putting him onto the pitch. Saha responded by barking at the moon, wandering around and scratching himself. Drenthe and the Greek followed, and the three subs trotted around the pitch like strays looking to see if anybody would feed them. Nobody did.

Just about the time Everton decided to finally do something about this match, City put another goal past them, and Howard Webb did the only thing he did right all afternoon, and that was blow the whistle to signal the match was over. It was a high-pitched whistle, and one that Moyes must have already heard when he put together his plan for this match.

 


 

DUDE, WHERE'S MY THREE POINTS? 

 Wigan, 

17--09--'11

 Football matches are often like a long road trip with your buddies.. You think you  plan it out perfectly, everybody jumps  into the car, and you begin cruising along highways. The highways are always the same. They are long stretches of beautiful scenery, delectable roadside diners with patty melts and malts, and everybody is singing. However, like with all road trips, your buddies get stoned and pass out and pretty soon you are the only one awake, and you're driving. The scenery begins to get monotonous. Your eyes get heavy. 

You turn on the radio--no good. You slap your own face, but still, your eyes begin to close. You open them wide and roll down the windows. The road is long and straight. There are some more trees...yawn, oh, some cows off to the side in a pasture...you stretch a little and lean back. The road is endless, and you're high, (according to rumors) and all you want to do is just lean back, close your eyes a minute and--- 

Wigan Athletic are like the deer that wanders into the road that you smash into, its bloody head in your lap, its  lolling tongue on your crotch and its wild, turning-to-vacant eyes staring at you while you skid across four lanes of blacktop before the party ends in a bloody heap in a wheat field south of Dover, making the score 0-1 and David Moyes screaming that, "So help me God I will turn this bloody car around if you lot don't pull your heads out your arses..." All the while not addressing that the deer head needs to be pulled from the windshield and the car has already been turned around about fifty times. Before Moyes can add anything else, Jagielka scores an open header from a Cahill header off the crossbar.  From the backseat Drenthe looks around and says, "I'm hungry, me." and looks around menacingly. Moyes gets out his mobile, orders happy meals all around and a tow truck to take them to halftime.

For the second half Everton had to ditch their ruined car, and I had to scrap the road trip metaphor and walk under my own power. Everton took the pitch and controlled right from the kickoff, passing the ball around, and around, and around. This made Tim Howard nervous, because the more they passed the closer they got to him. Suddenly, some guy named Watson, who looks like a three-minute egg broken open and doused with paprika, scooped the ball at Howard, which made him shut his freaking yap so he could backpeddle and watch the ball bounce off the crossbar into play. In the next five seconds all the guys Howard spend the match yelling at made about fifty saves, or forty-nine more than Howard had to make all day.

With the match winding down and the Audi gearing up in the shop, David Moyes gambled...ha ha ha, as if. But as the shop extracted a severed deer head from the car, Moyes took Bily off the pitch and put in the Greek, who responded by ignoring an open Ossman so that he could poof a dying bouncer at Wigan's keeper from a million yards out. Moyes gnashed his teeth, but Hibber suddenly sent a pin-point cross from a mile away over to the Greek, who, himself, was a mile away, but spun his head around like Linda Blair and buried the ball.

Moyes strutted up and down the touchline, giving the fans the old, "Yeah, well how do you like me, now?" bit. Then, feeling cocky, he took off the not-yet-match fit Coleman, and stuck Drenthe onto the pitch just as the repair shop was steam cleaning  the deer blood out of the engine. The engine purred, and Drenthe ran onto a long ball and past everybody present, caught up to the ball, turned, and side-footed it past their keeper. Now Moyes was strutting up and down the family enclosure with his hands tucked under his amrpits, and flapping his arms while cock-a-doodle-dooing and bugging his eyes at the fans. Children began crying, but before it got out of hand Moyes threw Carlos Tevis' twin brother, but without the ruined face, onto the pitch. Well, nothing happened, but the lad looked awesome. The referee added ten minutes stoppage time, (look it up) and Moyes left to pick up his car. Everybody piled in and Moyes sped off into the evening and out onto the highway. A couple of Wigan players were on the side of the road holding cardboard signs that read, "Dude, have you seen my car?" Flung Burger wrappers, spit and empty beer cans were the only answer they recieved, other than the laughter of a ginger wind, that said, "Check in the Championship Garage!"


                                                              MY  BLUE  HEAVEN

Goodison Park was bathed in warm sunshine before this match, yet permeated by darkness that is the byproduct from a summer of doom and uncertainty. Gone was Arteta and some other guys of varying colour. Gone was the prospect of European football, and on this warm September afternoon the only known thing was that winter would be barren, frozen, and its transfer window unforgiving. But for now, the leafs on the trees on Merseyside were not yet even brown. The commentator said that Victor was injured. I muttered, “Thoughts and prayers.” He added that Victor could be out until Christmas. I muttered, “Thank you, God.”

And then there was a kickoff and the match unfolded like a sunrise. There was hope, desire, possibilities, and a promise of resurrection. There was also a referee wearing an otter pelt on his head. I thought that was a bit odd, yet perhaps it would account later for this referee's erratic behaviour. Everton began by playing football as though Artet'a loss had been more of an exorcism than a cross to bear. Players who had previously seemed tentative, tested their wings, and others, who had previously stunk up the place, became sublime. After only seven minutes this rebirth unfolded into a Baines, Bily, and Osman show, and it became apparent that not one man out there would withdraw into the shadows on this day. Except Heskey. Ashes to ashes, shadow to shadow.

The Everton outfield players were as waving fields of long grass, rippling toward the Villa end, frightening the Villa 'Keeper, yet withholding their nettles for later. The songs the supporters sang, with the exception of, “Fuck Off, Villa,” were like hymns sung by angels, and wresting away the Villa will.

In the 18th minute the nettles sang and the needles stung, as Cahill withheld the ball near the box, but a moment, before passing through  to Ossie, who one-timed a skidder into the bottom left-hand side of the net. The goal was like the releasing of one-thousand doves. Everton continued to run Villa all the way into the tunnel at haltime.


The second half kicked off without a letup by the Merseyside Eleven. However, fouls will come, and fouls will go uncalled, penalties will come, and penalties will go uncalled, yellow cards will come, and they, too, shall go uncalled. It came to pass, after wandering the midfield aimlessly for sixty-minutes, a Villa player who looked like Will Ferrell got the ball from well outside, and the Everton team parted. This big homo took a shot that was in the right hand side of the Everton net, barely arriving before the air-bound Howard.

Villa were gorged, and fat in the face and jowls, sated and slow with their unworthy gain. However, fouls will come, and fouls will go uncalled, penalties will come, and penalties will—WHOA! Some big, stupid plunker jumped on top of an Everton player in the box like a leach jumping out of Bogart's hair and onto Katherine Hepburn, in, “The African Queen.” It took Baines about two seconds to equalize, and it took Villa just a bit longer to get behind a momentary lapse in the Everton defence and head in to equalize. After their goal Villa redoubled their efforts and began to suck twice as much. The new guy for Everton came on, or maybe it was just a beefy fan with a Clubber Lane haircut who got loose, but he made a desperate bid to be bought, and the Greek came on and glimmered in his appearance. And then the rains came, and then the sun returned, although paled from its absence. And so this match that began like a sunrise, ended in a sunset, landing heavily with only a point from a possible three, yet golden, like the sunset,  just the same, and with a rainbow to boot. 

At Rovers: 27-8-'11


FUNNY OL' GAME, INNIT?



 

If you play with fire you're going to get burned. The third time's the charm. These are a couple of wise sayings Blackburn should have studied up on before the match. Oh, here's another:  if at first you don't succeed, and then at second you don't succeed, somebody less deserving is going to take the third time and bury it up your wahoo. This is what happened to Rovers at Ewood today, and the pundits will say they deserved to win, but they didn't. Oh, it would have been nice for them if just one of their myriad gifts from both Everton Football Club and the referee had managed to get inside the net, today, but they didn't. The team that deserves to win, always wins, and Everton deserved their win because their keeper was on form, and disguised as the pitch, today.

When I saw the lineup today, I shut off my TV, turned off the lights, locked my doors, and listened to Yoko Ono's labour pains album she made with John's handclaps and harmonica in the background. David Moyes took off his one good striker and started his one bad striker in his stead. I would think that J. Beckford could get some better trim than a middle-aged Scottish lady who is the wife of his manager. Apparently, he cannot. How else can you explain Moyes's one-man-career wrecking campaign against Beckford? Whatever the reason is, dear God, play Victor, up front, on his own, instead of our leading goal scorer from last year, who did it with a quarter of the minutes of anybody else on the team, he did.

Watching Victor play striker is as pleasing as watching a dill pickle rape an onion. He is like watching a slow wave die before it gets to shore. In fact, the first time the ball came to Victor today he almost fell over trying to get out of its way. He then spent the rest of the afternoon trying to prove how fast he is by constantly getting past the last defender before the ball was in the air. Blackburn spent the afternoon ripping our midfield to shreds and running Chinese fire drills around our defenders. In a bizarre  moment, an aging, bewildered and fat Tom Selleck burst onto the pitch in somebody's number 8 shirt and smacked a shot that beat a surprised Howard, but hit the far post and popped back into play. In fact, whatever saves Howard wasn't making in the first half, the woodwork was. The only bright moment was when Salgado reached out and kicked Victor in the chest. I smiled. Imagine, Salgado is a closet Toffee. The sound of the halftime whistle brought me more joy than I imagine Victor gets from the sight of Mayor McChesse.


They say football is a tale of two halves, and it is; the first, and the second. The second half, however, was the same as the first half, and Rovers were robbing our players of their dignity, while this went on: Howard, save, Howard, save, Howard beaten, shot goes wide, Howard beaten, shot hits crossbar,  Howard, save. Penalty called on Barkley. Howard knew where the shot was going before penalty taker Hoilet--there's an easy one to spell--was within a yard of the ball. Howard dove right, and Hoilet obliged, sending it straight to Howard.  Moyes pulled Barkley off  because our defence was a shambles, and put Tim Cahill on...to shore it up? Huh. Howard, save, Howard, save, Howard beaten, shot goes wide right, penalty for Blackburn, Howard beaten, shot hits left goal post.

It was interesting that the cameras, at this point, caught Moyes consulting the astrology section of the newspaper. He tapped his finger on it confidently, and if my lip reading skills are as sharp as they used to be, he told Steve Round, "Capricorn, get Beckford in there. Of course, if Moyes had consulted his watch, instead of the astrology section, he would have seen that only five minutes remained, his players sucked, and so did he. Beckford trotted out, and if I read his lips properly, he turned to Moyes, and said, "I swear, it wasn't ME!" What followed was Everton's valiant attempt to pull the game out, but it looked more like a bunch of fat hogs rutting in heat. 

As my stomach knotted up and my eyebrows knitted down and the stoppage time ticked and the road to the bottom three lit up, Fellaini made the kind of half-hearted leap for a ball in the area that losers on crap teams headed by ruined chairmen make. Some dunce for Blackburn jumped up on him, easily bringing the spindly, delicate, sensitive Belgium to the ground. Victor gestured angrily at the referee and yelled, "Blow the whistle, I'm hungry!" The ref, who seemed on some kind of penalty-frenzied high, pointed at the spot excitedly. Arteta stepped up and placed the ball down. The other player from Rovers besides Emerton, said, "Hey, that's a half inch over the spot."

Arteta looked at him and said, "Really? This is where you want to make your stand?" Then it looked like Arteta muttered, "Whatever."  He then moved it back a half inch, stepped back and chose his own spot...the back of the net, bitches. You should try it sometime. Oh, wait, you did. Try, that is. The Everton players rushed Mikel to celebrate and the cameras caught Blackburn's coach just then. If my lip reading is as sharp as I think, he was saying, "Ah, well, football's a funny ol' game, innit?" But I could be wrong.





 


Queen's Park Rangers sound like a gang of vampire or zombies, like in, Lost Boys, who hound innocents for their blood, soul, or whatever. Today they showed back up on the West Coast like flesh-eating zombies that refused to believe they were dead. They just wanted to remain in the top flight, and after last week, when a gang of farmers and potters riddled them with silver bullets, cyanide and whatever else kills a zombie, they detoured for Goodison Park, arms outstretched, and muttering, "Points...Points..."

After avoiding the rioters last week in London, who were demanding, "jobs...jobs..." Everton took one look at this motley band of zombie points seekers, shit themselves, and then threw as many points at them as they could, which turned out to be three points, maximum. Although this gutless act saved many Everton lives today, it probably cost many an Everton player his job.

Speaking of zombies, the run-up to this match began with David Moyes crawling toward Bill Kenwright, and murmuring, "Players...players..."

Kenwright let out a girlish shriek, and did a mince-run to the banks with Moyes holding onto one of his legs. Kenwright, desperate,  but as full of life as a vampire can be, crawled into the bank, with Moyes en-tow.  Drooling, Kenwright mumbled, "Money...money...money..." 

However, the bank manager held up a verbal silver cross to Kenwright, by demanding, "Blood...blood...blood..."

Kenwright let out a shriek, his soul fluttered over the Liverpool sky to his box at Goodison, and dropped Moyes onto the ground over The Grand Lady, where he came to his senses and pointed a line-up- finding-formation-deciding-divining rod at his players, and thus divined, the players, took to the pitch, at home, in the season opener, against QPR, in a 4-5-1 formation.

Jermaine Beckford was the only buzz creator for the first ten minutes of this match for the crowd. Each touch, each run, each movement he made was aggressive, and to the purpose of winning a football match. This was when the comm mentioned that Barkley had yet to make himself known in the game. Those words would not be repeated. Barkley and Beckford were the only reasons to remain inside Goodison Park, today.  For the entire first half our players shunned the ball, shied away from the spotlight, and played coy with the goal mouth.

Baines drilled a free kick under the crossbar for a clearence, Cahill stooped to head wide, Ossie, crossed to a too-late-arriving Cahill, Rodwell  got pushed over in the area with no decision given. Well, how many times can you try to kill a zombie before you give up and run? Everton answered that question by running like squealing girls to the safety of their own end,  where QPR chased them down and the Everton defenders proved just as deft at passing to QPR players, as they did to each other. One such QPR player with the name of, "Smith," stole a silver bullet and shot past Howard, thus, killing off Everton. This touched off a controversy over whether a silver bullet kills a vampire, or, a lit torch kills off a zombie, but, whatever,  the shot seemed to kill off Beckford, who was brought off after halftime. 


*Halftime*


With Beckford off, our only player capable of exhibiting testosterone was the young Barkley. This may be because while he is only seventeen he looks as though he was brought up on a farm to both grow things and slaughter things, and, which, he really doesn't care. Moyes watched the rest of this match unfold like Napoleon at Moscow. So, with his eyes bugged out with disbelief, he kept dragging off the injured, and ineffectual, and replacing them with worse. By the end of the match the only Everton player left standing was young Barkley, like Custer, at The Battle of the Little Big Horn. He kept firing and firing, while all around him his comrades fell, and curled into little dead balls. The boos ringing around Goodison may as well have been the yips of victorious Sioux Indians, or the slurping sounds of sated zombies.





 



              OPENING  DAY,  AT  SPURS


I would like to say that rioters come in many shapes, sizes, and colours. I would like to say that there are many socio-political and economic reasons that they riot, and to better understand a rioter, we would do well to better understand ourselves, for a rioter is a reflection of the society he lives in. If we are to resolve the problem of riots, we must first learn how to resolve the reason that a person would riot, in the first place. I would like to say that, but it would not be the truth.

A rioter comes in only one colour; yellow. A rioter comes in only one shape; gutless pig. A rioter riots for only one reason; because we let him. In order to better understand a rioter, we would do well to understand a sociopath. A sociopath cares only about himself. That is not societies problem until the sociopath takes to the street destroying property, maiming, and sometimes killing innocent people. Society has a duty to protect itself and stop rioters. This is done with bullets. Lead bullets, not rubber pellets. Not with tear gas. Lead bullets. Understanding never prevented a rioter from taking to the streets, and understanding never stopped a rioter from destroying property and lives.

I understand a law will never pass allowing rioters to be shot down like the gutless pigs they are, because that would lead to the proverbial slippery slope. I bet it would also keep a lot of them inside their houses, or hovels, to brood, and to wish they could lash out at someone because their life sucks and because their body is not able to withstand the pressure of a backbone.

I wish death upon all rioters not because they allowed Mark Lawerenson's prediction on neither team getting a point at White Hart Lane today, to come true--which I bet he factors into his statistics. I wish death upon all rioters because I can, and because I'm too gutless to go out into the streets and kill them myself. However, if laws were offered, I would gladly vote for the death penalty, and if they were given death sentences, I would gladly throw the switch, fire the bullet, spring the trap door, break open the gas pellet or inject the needle.

These sorry puds have had their fun for the week. I hope it carries them through the long, hot stretches in hell that they so deserve, and hopefully get sooner, rather than later. I will see you next week and I hope the mood is lighter, and the results bin just that much fuller.


Kenyon

 

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