This marks my first EuroCup that I do not spend in Mexico.
It's pretty devastating. And weird.
I haphazardly got addicted to the EuroCup one summer in Mexico, when the only thing on all three channels of the television were showing the same thing: the EuroCup soccer matches.
I was basically forced to watch soccer or clean the house.
A. Soccer: hotass European boys (I QUICKLY made the association: European = HAIRY motherfucker. Yes, awesome looking men, but the hair... all over the place) running around, sweaty, angry, competitive.
or
B. Cleaning: splinters, sweating, sneezing, occasional rat/snake/lizard encounter.
Uh, we all know the winner here. Fuck snakes, man!
Eventually, this tradition bore some good fruits (did I use that phrase correctly? IS it even a logical phrase? I made a literal translation from Spanish so... it might... not make sense): I discovered good ol' crybaby Cristiano Ronaldo. Sure, he cries like a little girl... actually, he cries more than I do... AND he primps more than I do... but that mug... Mmmmmmmmmmmm!
He also runs like a dummy... I can pick him out of the crowd, even if all I see are little stick figures. Very distinctive. Still hot as fuck... as long as I don't get a glimpse of his tiny, creepy hands. That's the only thing that proves to me he's a mere mortal and not some... god sent from the heavens... those ugly, little fingers (manicure the shit out of them all you want, they'll always be creepy, Cristiano).
Good memories...
The previous cup, I didn't get to watch the final... because I was stuck in church.
This was better for me, since I suffer mild heart-attacks when I watch soccer matches I really care for. I was caring last time because my dudes, Spain (remember, 2008, I now had acquired my eternal love for the country after having spent a measly month with my sister over there), were playing the final against Germany- team I swore was going to rape and pillage the village (I mean, come on, when don't they?).
So, me being the ever so dedicated Catholic, and seeing how... well, the gates were pretty much open, I made a deal with the Virgin of Guadalupe (she has always been my G). Please let Spain win, and if they do, I promise to... dejarlo en paz.
And what happened? She came through.
Did I follow through with my end of the deal? Sort of. Half-assed. Ok, no, not really... not at all.
And for that, I can swear I've paid dearly.
My bad. Never again. I'm sorry, Virgencita.
Now, keeping with tradition... well, sort of, I went ahead and made my sister tie this badboy on me.
I get three wishes... which I won't divulge... but I can pretty much bet you guys will know at least two of those three.
Come on, senhor do bonfim da Bahia!It's pretty devastating. And weird.
I haphazardly got addicted to the EuroCup one summer in Mexico, when the only thing on all three channels of the television were showing the same thing: the EuroCup soccer matches.
I was basically forced to watch soccer or clean the house.
A. Soccer: hotass European boys (I QUICKLY made the association: European = HAIRY motherfucker. Yes, awesome looking men, but the hair... all over the place) running around, sweaty, angry, competitive.
or
B. Cleaning: splinters, sweating, sneezing, occasional rat/snake/lizard encounter.
Uh, we all know the winner here. Fuck snakes, man!
Eventually, this tradition bore some good fruits (did I use that phrase correctly? IS it even a logical phrase? I made a literal translation from Spanish so... it might... not make sense): I discovered good ol' crybaby Cristiano Ronaldo. Sure, he cries like a little girl... actually, he cries more than I do... AND he primps more than I do... but that mug... Mmmmmmmmmmmm!
He also runs like a dummy... I can pick him out of the crowd, even if all I see are little stick figures. Very distinctive. Still hot as fuck... as long as I don't get a glimpse of his tiny, creepy hands. That's the only thing that proves to me he's a mere mortal and not some... god sent from the heavens... those ugly, little fingers (manicure the shit out of them all you want, they'll always be creepy, Cristiano).
Good memories...
The previous cup, I didn't get to watch the final... because I was stuck in church.
This was better for me, since I suffer mild heart-attacks when I watch soccer matches I really care for. I was caring last time because my dudes, Spain (remember, 2008, I now had acquired my eternal love for the country after having spent a measly month with my sister over there), were playing the final against Germany- team I swore was going to rape and pillage the village (I mean, come on, when don't they?).
So, me being the ever so dedicated Catholic, and seeing how... well, the gates were pretty much open, I made a deal with the Virgin of Guadalupe (she has always been my G). Please let Spain win, and if they do, I promise to... dejarlo en paz.
And what happened? She came through.
Did I follow through with my end of the deal? Sort of. Half-assed. Ok, no, not really... not at all.
And for that, I can swear I've paid dearly.
My bad. Never again. I'm sorry, Virgencita.
Now, keeping with tradition... well, sort of, I went ahead and made my sister tie this badboy on me.
I get three wishes... which I won't divulge... but I can pretty much bet you guys will know at least two of those three.
If anything, it's a nice little ribbon on my wrist. I dig.
P.S. Coming up with those three wishes? Hard as FUCK! I'm such a broken, cynical, jaded mess.
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