Barcelona v Man Utd Like French Kissing A Tramp?

An influx of thousands of articles encompassing the two footballing Mammoths Man Utd and Barcelona who spar in the Champions League final set in Wembley have appeared in every corner of the media. Of course the 'How Man Utd can beat Barcelona?' question has comically populated every newspaper and football related ink station. There are precise 'to do' lists, such as mark Messi out of the game, assign Rooney to hassle the vaudeville villain Busquets. These 'paid' journalists should be sent to concentration camps for such infantile analysis that barely penetrates the intellect of a toddler. A prime culprit of this is ex manager, player and now commentator, David Pleat who wrote the subheading " Stay disciplined and keep 11 men on the pitch" as one of his 5 points to beat Barcelona, what next "Score More Goals Than Barcelona" says top football analyst? I'm sure Sir Alex Ferguson is running into the dressing room after reading that article, proclaiming, 'there is one vital thing I forgot in our last few weeks of preparation, thank god for football punditry, don't get sent off!'

Kudos to Guardian writer Barney Ronay who wrote the line "Dipping your mouth to its innards is a two-stage experience. At first contact it felt a bit like French-kissing a tramp" as he offered a parallel between fast-food burgers and Barcelona. "So, that's that then. Applewood smoked bacon, cheese, crispy onion rings: pass-pass-pass-goal. Of course, the only real – but crucial – shared attribute between the Steakhouse Angus and the Guardiola Barça is this sense of being crushed by elite engineering. A Barcelona Steakhouse would be constructed from uniformly excellent things: truffle ham, fresh Catalan spring onions and lodged between annihilatingly fine fair trade artisan bread. But perfection is no longer the challenge for the Barcelona Steakhouse. The challenge is simpler. It is more a question of finding something to get your teeth into, as a routinely Barça-steamrollered neutral. If you don't happen to already, can you really love this elegantly relentless Barcelona?" He then went onto to refer to what it must feel like to play against Barcelona "It must feel a bit like playing chess against a Terminator. You cannot rest. Barcelona can rest: they rest while they have the ball. But you: never. This is a team with players of genius, but the real power is in its all-subsuming design, the tidal surge of its parts."

Will Ferrell, a Chelsea fan will be watching the match in a telephone booth on his iphone. The assumptions of all the media who are treating the whole affair like a pre-programmed chess game, that can be won before a ball has kicked off, will be crushed if Messi decides to score a freekick which will result in the next English opponent of Barcelona having the hoards of journalists adding their expert observation of 'Do Not Give Away Freekicks To Barcelona' sold as 'expert' advice. One hopes this final will be scintillating, lets face it finals are usually drab and boring, with two teams who don't want to lose, finals are thus a cagey affair. Hopefully the technical ability and wizard school of skills of Barcelona and the 1500 years of knowledge and supernatural powers that Alex Ferguson possesses will make this final as memorable as the 2005 thriller which read more like a Hollywood script than a football match where the underdogs triumph against all the odds, this time around though there are no underdogs.

Sex in the Suburbs 6: Girls Of My Dreams Part 2 (Enter the Friday)

It's late at night, it's late at night, it's Friday yeah Friday Friday Friday... the girl of my dreams, the girl on the billboard is far from me now, when I stare at period blood stain on the wall, all I can think of is cancer, down an alley running at me, anally penetrating me till my brains are an afterglow of burning red traffic light , siphoning the moonlight with red blotches of karma.

I pick up some meds on the way, my sister is in a good mood so she gives me a lot of them, she tells me the kids now call these things by nicknames such as school kippers and fruit horses. I get lucky with a girl who is hanging out outside the putrid Supermacs. She burbs into my tongue when I try French kiss her. The wear and tear of the night has pushed her red lipstick to her chin and all the way up to the North Pole of her forehead. Making her look like a clown who is wearing a reindeer costume. The thought of a clown reindeer makes me want to fuck her right there doggy style.

I bring the girl home, she undresses, I undresses, she whimpers, I whimpers, I turn the mirror around, she disappears, I turn the mirror again, she is back. I play the flute as a sexual mating call that tribes in Africa do. I learned the tune from one of those National Geographic channels. You always learn stuff from those channels, definitely worth the extra few euro .

A drunken, collapsed colony on the left side of my brain struggles to grasp the complexity of the condom thermoplastic, I am a couple of attempts away from saving a baby from surfacing on this earth, where the warmth of love is calcified by the coldness of our bodies, rubbing together like glaciers off the Atlantic drift. I straggle along the coast of her body, I feel like a heat waiting to unwrap globules of puss and melt her cortex.

Half my body feels like it has drifted from the prenatal spirit. Fuck I think-something feels weird, its almost like she didn't know how to fuck, then again drunk whores usually fuck badly, like if a pilot swallowed Charlie Sheen's penis and brain whole and stir fried them with a blot of mercury chutney and tried to fly over the Rocky mountains with one hand. Damn she looks hot, a bit like Rebecca Black.

She mumbles something about been 14 years old before laughing wickedly like she knows what this means, I tell her to shut the fuck up unless she wants me to fuck her mouth, she quickly changes her tone.  Fuck that Yeats married a 14 year old you- think I care slut I think while I am on top of her and inside of her all at the same time, it is exhilarating, talk more bitch, I say. I realize this dirty bitch turns me on, she calls me a cunt, and I feel as hard as an intrusive, felsic, igneous rock.

High intensity palpations in erogenous zones, little desire to live into daylight, fuck daylight. Is she done, has she got her god damn precious orgasm yet?  Fuck her I roll off and out of her, I don't care anymore, I've stopped enjoying it since I've come, so no longer will I dig my grave inside of her.

Graves, graves, Friday, fucking Friday, how much longer until God puts me out of this misery, maybe a molotov cocktail next Friday  instead of  the usual Mojito or Sex on the Beach, the Grim Reaper can fuck my butt hole until the beach runs red with my broken dreams.