Trust us. The title of this post will garnish tons of hits. Meanwhile, and fully unrelatedly, Operative JS writes in to say:

Dear Glorious Czar,

I come to ask you a favor. I know that you are watching the World Cup games with amusement, as you already know (and determine) the victors. However, I would like to beg of you a favor: please destroy the vuvuzelas. They are destroying the game.

Thank you very much!

International football, (or soccer, as it is known by those with a triple IQ intelligence), is very much GorT’s passion. And he can have it. Let the Czar state that playing soccer on a field with kids is a lot more fun than watching the World Cup.

Yes, JS, you are correct about the victors. After all, how is that the English goalie could muff a simple play? English muffing. Get it? Typical Gormogon inside joke to those who can see it.

However, you are are sadly also correct that we did not anticipate the bizarre popularity of the vuvuzela. As the Czar stated in a private correspondence to you, they have finally managed to transform a game from something once maddendingly dull to something painfully irritating. Seriously, watching the World Cup right now is like watching a 100-minute long metronome with your head jammed in a beehive.

As to its eradication, your wish is our command.

But the Czar has watched more of the World Cup than he intended, thanks to his kids who like to hear the national anthems and laugh at the names (our eldest likes the Serbian team, and thinks there should be a player named Itchyic). And the Czar has determined why soccer has developed such extra-European appeal over the years: it is a perfect Euroliberal weenus game.

Shocking? Hardly. Look at the countries who participate. And look how the game has struggled in the US, except for a small contingent of verbally aggressive folks.

Players spend a lot of time running back and forth but not accomplishing much, until one of them trips and falls—whereupon he promptly raises his hands and asks “¿Qué, Was, что, そうですか?”, or whatever the equivalent of “what” is in his language…because he fully expects that a penalty kick will be called. Why? Because he had the ball, but fell, and someone else took it. Foul! Foul! Get over it, crybaby. In American sports, you would be told to get up or face being trodden over by your own teammates.

And to whom is he appealing? Some nameless, faceless, unelected referees. Yeah, we have those in American sports, but you are expected to argue with them. Not simply have him take your number, right it down on a card, and have you report to punishment. Very European.

Eventually, after a ridiculous amount of time, someone actually attempts to kick a ball into a target the size of a large touring bus. But misses. And the crowd goes crazy, because it means another nineteen minutes of watching guys jog around some more, failing to really get anything done.

And after 100 minutes, you can advance with a tie. A tie!?! Give us a break. If the Europeans had their way, every game would end with a tie, and people who win would be declared the loser. Coming soon to a sport nearer you.

It will be a long stretch to hockey season. And the Czar knows GorT hates hates hates baseball, but admittedly it is a bit of a cerebral game. Like chess, but with spitting. Not sure how one can decry baseball but defend soccer…when decrying soccer but defending baseball is so much more noble. In our eyes.

The Czar of Muscovy

Божію Поспѣшествующею Милостію Мы, Дима Грозный Императоръ и Самодержецъ Всероссiйскiй, цѣсарь Московскiй. The Czar was born in the steppes of Russia in 1267, and was cheated out of total control of all Russia upon the death of Boris Mikhailovich, who replaced Alexander Yaroslav Nevsky in 1263. However, in 1283, our Czar was passed over due to a clerical error and the rule of all Russia went to his second cousin Daniil (Даниил Александрович), whom Czar still resents. As a half-hearted apology, the Czar was awarded control over Muscovy, inconveniently located 5,000 miles away just outside Chicago. He now spends his time seething about this and writing about other stuff that bothers him.