Tetra

Happy Happy -Joy Joy

Anti-climactic seems to be a pretty good (if not somewhat sanitary) word to describe the end of this cup. Or, as I mumbled to my buddies Duende, Eggs, and Oso, it's more like having the most incredible sex with the most beautiful woman for hours, engaging in every act imaginable, and she just knows exactly how to touch, moan, caress, sigh, lick, and nibble you to set each of your pleasure senses burning, then, just a few moments before the most powerful and physically & emotionally satisfying orgasm anyone has ever had, she stops, get's up, and has to answer the phone, leaving you there with your raging chubb and a hand.

Buzzkill. I mean, in the end, you still shoot your goo, but it really just isn't the same.

Yeah. That whole sex thing is a much better description of this final. A world cup final should never be decided by penalty kicks. Ever. Never. When it happened for the first time in 1994, it was a huge letdown. It doesn't feel any different now even though the Azzurri finally managed to come out on top. There is something just fundamentally wrong with this ending. Just like having to manually bring yourself off after being immersed in your dream lover for hours.

At least the good guys won.

Shame on you, Frenchie!

The most bittersweet moment was also the strangest one I've ever seen in any world cup match since the opening kickoff of Spain '82: French icon Zizou turning around, gaining a full head of steam, lowering his melon, and barreling full-bore into the chest of Italian defender Marco Materazzi. It was surreal, and overshadowed a match that, frankly, really needed some sort of spark. Certainly in the afterglow of the game, that was the topic that controlled discussion. As in, "What the fuck happened to cause Zidane to snap?" Duende, who is no fan of the French, simply said, "Good" but now, a day later, it strikes me as just another piece to the whole incredible sex with no happy ending metaphor. Watching one of the best footballers of a generation leave the pitch in disgrace after something as incongruous as that just adds to the entire sense of confusion and hallucination.

El Sexo antes del futbol!

As it is, I've been questioning a lot of yesterday as I sip my morning coffee. Was that really Shakira shaking her perfect ass before the match? Don't get me wrong, if there was ever a woman I would cast in the role for the succubus of my opening paragraph, it would be her, but what the hell was she doing gyrating and grinding before a world cup final?

Still and all, the day ended in an appropriate, if not in a not-fully-satisfying manner. The Azzurri earned the tetra, avenging not only the ghost of the Euro 2000 final (fitting that Trezeguet was the Frenchie that popped the crossbar), but also the 94 cup final.

We're all getting laid by Shakira!

Now I have to settle in to a long, four-year hibernation until South Africa 2010. It sure seems a long time away.

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