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The Thrilling Tales Of The Galactic Pretty Boys, Part 1

Last Sunday at Texas, Jeff Gordon climbed out of his wrecked #24 DuPont Chevrolet and strolled down the track with a jaunty purpose in mind. The purpose Jeff Gordon had in mind was to bitch0slap the crap out of Jeff Burton, who just emerged from HIS wrecked #31 Caterpiller Chevrolet. And that is what he proceeded to attempt to do. It was a laughable bit of argy-bargy to be honest, and when all was said and done as NASCAR officials quickly stepped in to prevent any further humiliation and comedy from occurring, neither of the lads were any worse for wear. They EVEN rode to the infield care center in the same ambulance!! I don’t know if THAT was such a good idea, But as I said, no worse for wear.

Nurton and Gordon had a bit a of dust-up half a lap earlier coming out of turn 4, and by the time the locked horns in turn 2, Burton, was staring into the heart of the sun and just got caught up in Mr. Gordon and both lads went amuck and that was it. Argy-Bargy. Comedy. Apologies from Jeff Burton who is not the sort to intentionally wreck someone. Self-rightwous indignation from Jeff Gordon,who is the sort to intentionally wreck someone. And narry a boo from NASCAR about it. If it were me, I would have dinged Gordon a bitch-slapping instead of actually landing a punch. Gordon needs to take a few lessons from Joey Barton ((the Kyle Busch of the English Premier League)), and Jeff Burton could learn a trick from Morton Gamst Pedersen and taken a flop. But instead, Burton shoved back and the comedy was ON!

So that was last Saturday at Texas. Hamlin went on to win with Kenseth in his wake and the rest of the field lost in the fog somewhere. NASCAR, like the FA, continued it’s penalizing of the ugly by giving Kyle Busch ((the Joey Barton of NASCAR)) a fine of $25,000 ((£15,625 for those of you keep score in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne)) for using a certain hand-gesture to signal his displeasure, but generally using words like, bullocks, bloody hell, and dopey wankers to describe the NASCAR officials in the sort of vivid picturesque speech that only Kyle Busch can command. Bullocks and bloody hell indeed!!

Chelsea 0    Sunderland 3

What the fuck just happened?? Surely there must be a typo, yes?? That score can’t possibly be correct. There has to be a virus or a trojan worm or something that is making that score appear in my browser, and so? I mean they TOTALLY MISPELLED Didier Drogba!! It is NOT spelled Asamoah Gyan! And I’ll have you know that Florent Malouda is NOT spelled Nedum Onuoah. Get this right!! I can’t be that hard, no? And how could ANYONE mis-spell Gael Kakuta. What is wrong with journalists these days!! Can’t there once be a moment when they don’t go and make shit up? There is not and never HAS been a professional soccer player name Danny Welbeck. Now there IS a profession racecar driver named Danny WELDON, but he races in the IRL for Panther Racing, and never, as far as I know, played football for Chelsea.

So what the fuck. How in hell could Chelsea get boatraced out of their own gym by the same crew that Newcastle boatraced out of THEIR’S a few Saturday’s ago? We can blame it on Michael Essien serving a suspension for last Wednesday’s red card against Fulham. Terry tweaked his hammy in practice and was out. Also, Lampard is going to be out a bit longer with a tweak. But that should be no excuse…the Green Bay Packers have been decimated by injuries and the guys who have been filling have stepped their game up. Bottom line here is that Ramires, Ferriera, Zhirkov and Mikel have to step their game up and they haven’t. Especially Ramires. He has been absolute BULLOCKS! They need more creativity, sharper passing, and sense of urgency on both sides of the ball that has been lacking of late. Drogba and Anelka have to kick it up a notch or three as well.

GRaaaaaaggghhhhh!! What bollocks!!

I’ll console myself with the time-worn cliche that “on any given Sunday…… Onward.

In an hour and half as I write the Kobalt Tools tees of in Phoenix with The Carl on the pole and the aforementioned Pretty Boys (I’m including Jimmie Johnson in this little skit) starting 21st and 22nd. It’s focking 3 man race like last week, and the only hope is that one of the galactic pretty boys (that would be Jimmie Johnson for those of you keeping score at UCLA—The University of Cudahy by the Lake, Almost) meets certain and irretrievable defeat. I’m counting on The Carl to be, well…The Carl! And while I’m sick of counting on Dave Blaney, Landon Cassill, David Gillillillilland and the other back markers to cordially invite Jimmie Johnson to join them in the garage, but I will hold out a small hope. But a better would be for Hamlin to win outright and for That Lout Kevin Harvick to lead the most laps and finish second, with Matt Kenseth, The Biff and The Carl rounding out the top five. The two Pretty Boys can have at over pit crew switcheroos and other petty jealousies and frustrations. And if Jeff Burton can have a hand in that rumpus, well, all the better since I’ve tumbled off the Jeff Burton Bandwagon quite some time ago. And if Junior could somehow swing low in his sweet chariot and win one FINALLY, at long last, well….that would be gravy on the cake.

As for, I’m going to have a beer and bury my head in the sand. Chelsea 0, Sunderland 3. Grumble grumble grumble….

Manchester City 0      Manchester United 0

And speaking of sand, ever the sand buried it’s head in the sand after THIS little tilt.

This was touted as the game of the decade, the game of the century….the Manchester derby to end all Manchester derbies. People quit their jobs to watch this. Left work early. Called in sick. Drank a few pints too many. Sir Alex was at his trash talking finest. But when all was said and done, it was a derby that was about as compelling as watching a couple of giant robots having a staring contest across a grey and dismal pitch, only less so.

I watch every excruciating minute of this and I thought to myself, “What the Bloody Hell…..”  I could not think of much else. It was stunning in it’s mediocrity. Mancini has a billion dollars worth of talent and THIS is what he’s got to show for it?? They should have boat-raced United out of Eastlands and back across town. City should by all right OWN Manchester. But talent does not a team make. And with only one striker on the pitch, scoring a brace of goals is dodgy proposition at best. Tevez needed some help out there, and little David Silva did his best as the only offensive mid-fielder, but it’s was not enough to even make a dent in things….Balotelli is out on suspension, and for some reason, Mancini will not put Adebayor in the line-up. Adebayor is, after all, Emmanuel Adebayor….over-priced and all that dross, but he’s got something David Silva doesn’t have and that’s SIZE and BULK. City needed that presence up front.

Instead, Mancini pulled in the horns and played for a VERY EXPENSIVE draw at home. What flummery!! I mean, if I was Sheik Mansour, I’d haul Mancini off into the desert somewhere and he’s never be seen from again. Mansour spent all his money on THIS dull tedious shite?? Bloody hell, as they say.

The only real excitement of the match was Rafael and Carlos Tevez having a little argy-bargy a la Gordon and Burton. “I shit in your whore-mother’s milk,” they informed each in both Spanish and Portuguese before being separated by NASCAR officials. That honestly and truly WAS the only highlight of the match.

“If it cannot break out of it’s shell, the chick will die without ever being born.
We are the chick, the World is our egg. If we do not crack the World’s shell, we will die without truly being born.
Smash the World’s shell…

…For the Revolution of the World…!!”

There is more to all this than meets the eye, but I’m afraid that is all I have for now. In the next installment we’ll find ourselves faced with several no doubt thrilling conclusions. And I promise I will wrap up the 2010 F1 season in the prettiest package of all.


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