Chelsea Football Club are a snowball that has begun chasing those who rolled it uphill, down the hill, and at the bottom is Roman Abramovitch staring at it wide-eyed and slack-jawed, hoping his dwindling cheque book can save him from the inevitable wreck, and subsequent flattening. This rolling disaster arrived at Goodison Park this afternoon and had the cheek to tell the bus driver to leave the engine running. The players exited the bus, packing the various hair gels, perfumes, blow-dryers, and lip gloss they would need in order to dismantle Everton.
Everton began with Straqalina 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 un-swallowed food particles stuck to its teeth. The dingo will not last beyond the winter.â€
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 crowd enthusiasm could drown out the ear-cringing screaming of Phil Neville, who sounds like an enthralled crow that just discovered an unguarded bag of Cheetos. 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 a walkabout while kicking at grass and glaring at the corner flags that mocked him. When the ref blew for halftime, the commentator asked his co-commentator, Trevor Francis:
“What do you think Chelsea will take from this first Half?â€
“Well, Steve, they've already taken twelve inches of South African Cock, mate. What more do you want them to absorb?â€
Halftime: John Terry. I mention him just so I can add his name to the tags on my site and get more hits.
Chelsea came rolling 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 and clueless performance 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 of orientation 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 all his menstruation rage. The card gave the big 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 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 can't get out of here fast enough.†Is right. Roll on Sheffield United.
http://www.schoolofscience.eu
Everton began with Straqalina 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 un-swallowed food particles stuck to its teeth. The dingo will not last beyond the winter.â€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 crowd enthusiasm could drown out the ear-cringing screaming of Phil Neville, who sounds like an enthralled crow that just discovered an unguarded bag of Cheetos. 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 a walkabout while kicking at grass and glaring at the corner flags that mocked him. When the ref blew for halftime, the commentator asked his co-commentator, Trevor Francis:
“What do you think Chelsea will take from this first Half?â€
“Well, Steve, they've already taken twelve inches of South African Cock, mate. What more do you want them to absorb?â€
Halftime: John Terry. I mention him just so I can add his name to the tags on my site and get more hits.
Chelsea came rolling 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 and clueless performance 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 of orientation 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 all his menstruation rage. The card gave the big 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 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 can't get out of here fast enough.†Is right. Roll on Sheffield United.
http://www.schoolofscience.eu
