Boobs, tits, vaginas, and John Terry. There, search engine keywords sorted, as well as Tim Howard's first outburst. Everton stormed the pitch at "This is Loftus Road Park" with Pienaar on one side, Drenthe on the other, and Straqualursi up front. Tim Howard was between the pipes despite his recent goal drought that is reaching Cahillian proportions. Oh, and Tim Cahill behind Straq. Game on...I guess.
It took three minutes for Cahill to miss a goal scoring opportunity when, fifteen yards point blank from the keeper, the ball rolled out to him and said, "Kick me into the net, nobody's looking." Cahill grinned, and with his tongue sticking through his lips in concentration, he pegged the ball with his left foot, but instead of bulging the onion bag, he rattled the crossbar. It was a bittersweet moment, because while it reminded me that Cahill could still be found on the pitch, God still hates him for that sleeve of tattoos, half of which are Chinese Characters for "Past His Sell-By Date."
By the ten minute mark of this match my endorphins had been replaced with waves of despair. QPR were taking pot shots at our goal like vigilant hillbillies trying to pick us off for sitting in their chairman's vacant seats. Oh my gosh, you hadn't heard? Their chairman and his mail-order bride were sitting in the "jes' plain folk" seats behind the net so he could show the working people what a rolex watch looks like.
My confidence found a pulse again once Drenthe began doing what he does; clawing up the pitch with aggressive runs that make men and women tremble in two completely different ways. Moyes fumed as Drenthe peppered their keeper with longshots like homeboy was a paddle-board. One shot, two shot, three shot, goal!
Drenthe celebrated by running to the touchline to hug the first white man he could find, and Moyes couldn't get out of the way fast enough.
Five minutes later Drenthe dealt a crunching tackle to the QPR chairman's son-in-law which so outraged the chairman that they stormed out of their "jes' plain folk" seats and back to the chairman's box, dislocating the lounging Scousers who had found the liquor cabinet. The resulting free kick saw Bobby Zamora scare the ball into the net with his face. It was Everton who found themselves with a free kick in a great position minutes later. However, the QPR fans tossed a mystic squirrel onto the pitch to hypnotize Pienaar, but the rodent only managed to put the ball under a spell, and in a stupor, the ball roamed the air until the keeper gathered it safely into his hands.
At the 43 minute mark Zamora clanged all the Everton alarm bells when he took on 50-yard pass, jostled with Heitenga, and pin-balled a pass that one foot sent onto the crossbar, and with Howard tumbling around in kaleidoscope vision, another foot smacked the ball at the empty net, but it hit the post for a double-zero bonus.
HALF
TIME
Do Everton have a goal keeping coach? They should get one. At halftime he could do things like hand out orange slices and tell Tim Howard that playing inside of nets is dangerous.
If you have ever seen one of those old films where a little guy is trying to hit a big guy, but the big guy just pushes the palm of his hand against shrimpy's forehead and laughs as the little guy windmills the air with uppercuts and roundhouses, you will know how the second half played out. Fellaini was like the big guy, laughing and stepping in to take the ball away from QPR every time they tried to attack, and sending it to a teammate who would bollox things up.
At the 63 minute mark, Moyes tweeted to Straq: "gerroff pitch U suck 2day #waste of space" Jelly came on for him, and then Moyes had one of Drenthe's handlers go out to remove the goal scorer from the pitch. Drenthe chainsawed his way off, and Osmand was sent on in his wake. Both subs played like lovable puppies, but created nothing but doodies on the pitch. Boobs, tits, vaginas, and John Terry.
I reckon Moyes half expected a hug there. You watch Drenthe get dropped for the next month.
