World Cup Soccer: Opiate of the Masses
I am super excited about this year’s World Cup Soccer tournament!
Because it is a reminder every four years as to why I could not give any less of a fuck about professional soccer, a sport that features more flopping than Donald Sterling’s dick every time he tries to fuck another biracial transvestite.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to suggest that watching World Cup soccer is the entertainment equivalent of being anally violated with a splintered mop handle coated in Tobasco, but it is pretty damn close. Any sport where it is difficult to tell from a distance whether those are professionals or a pickup game of retarded third graders absolutely sucks.
Furthermore I am pretty damn sure that my 12-year-old niece could beat the living shit out of every last one of those pussified FIFA players who exhibit the tendency to fall to the ground and cry every time another player so much as looks at them cross-eyed, which is why I believe that the World Cup would be better served if it were sponsored by Kotex—plenty of endorsement opportunities for the players if it were.
Lastly, please stop pretending like World Cup soccer is so much more special and important simply because it only comes around once every four years. You know what else comes around only once every four years? My herpes simplex 2 outbreaks, but you don’t see me dissecting its intricacies on TV or trying to impress its importance upon everyone else at the office. Which brings me to my final point: rather than advertise your love for a sport populated by spoon-fed bitch-made circus gimps, you should treat your World Cup fandom just as you would your herpes outbreaks—i.e. a little more discretely.
Because the rest of us who know what real sports look like do not give a flying fuck.
And that is all.