Okay. First, this. And holy shit, you would think that Portugal had fucking annexed the Netherlands from the way every swarthy fuckwad in a fifteen-block radius took to the streets. Motorists: driving around honking and waving flags, many in trucks with twenty drunk idiots standing in the bed hooting. (Isn’t gas too expensive for them to do that? Honestly.) Pedestrians: weaving tipsily into traffic, apparently thinking their red and green flags are capes of invincibility. The traffic was so insane that even though I had called Ragdoll at 5:30 and offered to pick her up for the movie we saw (The Lake House, and shut up), and even though she lives about a three-minute drive away on a normal day, at 6:30 I had to call her and rescind the offer because College Street was a goddamn parking lot from Dufferin to Brock. And Dufferin was a parking lot from College to Bloor; we couldn’t have even gone around the mall. I don’t know if I can adequately describe how unbelievably crazy it was. And none of these idiots was even at the game! It was in Germany! GAH!
And then, of course, I got home to hear a scaled-down version of the Party House Combo (no amped bass, as far as I could hear) rehearsing in the back yard. Even without the bass, though, they still may have heard me saying “Oh, you fucking assholes” when I got out of the car, and “Die” as I walked into the back door, because I said it kind of loud. The bongos aren’t that big a deal at 9:30, granted. But last night they had another party (I swear to God), from which the last guests didn’t leave until 2:30 AM. How do I know that’s what time it was? Because that’s when the departing guests started honking their car horn on the street, and yelling their extended goodbyes to the Party House residents, who were standing on the porch thirty feet away, yelling back. For five minutes. Five minutes I spent trying to decide whether I would be wiser to lie in bed, trying not to fully awaken, or to get up, throw on a robe, stomp out to the balcony, and scream at them to SHUT THE FUCK UP. And, you know, I might regret not having the satisfaction, today, of having done the latter, except that I am completely certain that I will get another opportunity to do so very soon.
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I figured you might not be very happy about Portugal winning. But seriously we tried as hard as we could. Loved the article you linked to: a very North-American way to write about soccer I guess.
BTW: You know the Portugese coach was the one that lead Brazil to their World Cup victory four years ago? So good luck with that.
If it’s any comfort, two of Portugal’s best players were kicked out of the game and won’t be back against England.
So hopefully they’ll lose, so the car horns will be honking in sadness instead of jubilation.
Sigh. My sister was like, \”You know what we would be hearing right now if the Netherlands had won? [toot.] THAT\’S IT.\” So true.
So I am rooting for, like, a Ghana-Australia final.
Even after the movie, on the drive home, they were still honking. Same cars. Same knuckleheads. Same sex dolls wrapped in Portugal jerseys sitting on top of trucks. Three hours later. And no one even ran out of gas or had to go to work the next day? Stupid World Cup.
When we hosted the World Cup here in DC back in 1990, Bolivia won some major match (I forget which… actually, strike that… I didn’t CARE)… and nine million cars drove up and down the streets of Georgetown all the way through Dupont Circle, down Mass. Ave. to the Hill… everyone honking and yelling “BOLIVIAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!” Sixteen years later, and I still scream “Boliviaaaa!!!!” inside my head when I approach the intersection of M and 33rd Streets. F-ers.
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