SMOKIN' FOOLS AND LIGHTIN' SUCKAS UP
EVERTON V BLACKPOOL
18 FEB FA CUP
X X X X
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 held it a moment, amid a tangerine cluster, before spinning it out to Drenthe, who was clanging down the right hand side with his mechanical maw gleefully snapping open and shut, while his flaring eye sockets locked onto the ball.
Silence gripped the fans inside of Goodison, and froze the Old Lady, herself, and silence sucked the sound from the studio's sound monitors. The only sound was the THUD-thud, THUD-thud, THUD-thud, of a strong heart pumping goal-scoring juice into a left leg that was cocking back from twenty yards out to greet the little rolling ball on a one-timer into Blackpool's net.
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 certainly on a roll right now,and are rocketing their way up the Championship table. Everton are going to have to take them very seriously if they are to progress today."
That was when Straqualursi scored off a wicked Drenthe corner from the right flag. The ball dipped like a guided missile seeking heat and found a perspiring goalkeeper and a hot-blooded Argentine. Straqualursi kicked at the ball, but stumbled backward. However, the ball was locked onto him and his second smack found the back of the net as the G-forces knocked him to the ground.
"Eric, this promises to be an exciting one. I'm Warren Barton, sitting in with Eric Wynalda. Now let's take you out to Goodison Park, in Liverpool, England, for the start of our match."
HALF TIME
I'm not exactly a rocket scientist, or even a science major. You probably won't be surprised to discover I was a very poor student in English, as well. In machine shop I melted things that weren't supposed to be melted, and in wood shop I scorched what had been beautiful, and gouged what was perfect. In short, I'm more stupid than that plank who 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 that test with flying colours!
Knock-knock.
Who's There?
Landon Donavon, MLS megastar.
[Poor language removed], we've got Drenthe.
I am convinced that Moyes keeps Drenthe in a bassement and sprays his eyes with battery acid to prepare him for matches.
"ARGH, ME EYES!"
"Yes, Royston, your eyes. Royston no likey battery acid, does he?"
"NO...DRENTHE HAATE BATTERY ACID"
**PSSSSST!**
"ARGGH! NO MORE!"
"Listen, Royston. I only spray you in the face because Blackpool are bad people."
"BAAD PEOPLES. ME HAAATE BLACKPOOL"
Royston certainly was bent on taking his revenge today, and not one of his teammates dared shrink from the task of throttling these sun bed-coloured dandies who caused Royston so much trauma. Well, except for Fellaini, who seemed to delight in taking the piss by missing about twenty sitters that Royston dished out for him. Long after the match was over, Tim Howard stayed on the pitch to help Kevin Philips practice shooting penalties, which Philips apparently still needs to work at.
David Moyes seems to have somehow fielded a team that has no memory of what losing is like. Watching these young lions is like watching a dream team come true. I wonder if David Moyes is capable of managing these players as though he, himself, has no memory of ever losing?
http://www.schoolofscience.eu
EVERTON V BLACKPOOL
18 FEB FA CUP
X X X X
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 held it a moment, amid a tangerine cluster, before spinning it out to Drenthe, who was clanging down the right hand side with his mechanical maw gleefully snapping open and shut, while his flaring eye sockets locked onto the ball.
Silence gripped the fans inside of Goodison, and froze the Old Lady, herself, and silence sucked the sound from the studio's sound monitors. The only sound was the THUD-thud, THUD-thud, THUD-thud, of a strong heart pumping goal-scoring juice into a left leg that was cocking back from twenty yards out to greet the little rolling ball on a one-timer into Blackpool's net.
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 certainly on a roll right now,and are rocketing their way up the Championship table. Everton are going to have to take them very seriously if they are to progress today."
That was when Straqualursi scored off a wicked Drenthe corner from the right flag. The ball dipped like a guided missile seeking heat and found a perspiring goalkeeper and a hot-blooded Argentine. Straqualursi kicked at the ball, but stumbled backward. However, the ball was locked onto him and his second smack found the back of the net as the G-forces knocked him to the ground.
"Eric, this promises to be an exciting one. I'm Warren Barton, sitting in with Eric Wynalda. Now let's take you out to Goodison Park, in Liverpool, England, for the start of our match."
HALF TIME
I'm not exactly a rocket scientist, or even a science major. You probably won't be surprised to discover I was a very poor student in English, as well. In machine shop I melted things that weren't supposed to be melted, and in wood shop I scorched what had been beautiful, and gouged what was perfect. In short, I'm more stupid than that plank who 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 that test with flying colours!
Knock-knock.
Who's There?
Landon Donavon, MLS megastar.
[Poor language removed], we've got Drenthe.
I am convinced that Moyes keeps Drenthe in a bassement and sprays his eyes with battery acid to prepare him for matches.
"ARGH, ME EYES!"
"Yes, Royston, your eyes. Royston no likey battery acid, does he?"
"NO...DRENTHE HAATE BATTERY ACID"
**PSSSSST!**
"ARGGH! NO MORE!"
"Listen, Royston. I only spray you in the face because Blackpool are bad people."
"BAAD PEOPLES. ME HAAATE BLACKPOOL"
Royston certainly was bent on taking his revenge today, and not one of his teammates dared shrink from the task of throttling these sun bed-coloured dandies who caused Royston so much trauma. Well, except for Fellaini, who seemed to delight in taking the piss by missing about twenty sitters that Royston dished out for him. Long after the match was over, Tim Howard stayed on the pitch to help Kevin Philips practice shooting penalties, which Philips apparently still needs to work at.
David Moyes seems to have somehow fielded a team that has no memory of what losing is like. Watching these young lions is like watching a dream team come true. I wonder if David Moyes is capable of managing these players as though he, himself, has no memory of ever losing?
http://www.schoolofscience.eu
