Livin' on a Prayer

photo by slopjop	via PhotoRee

Columnist Ed thinks he's onto something:

Dear Diary:

I want to start by apologizing for not dropping you a note sooner, but frankly I’ve been in such a funk lately that even putting pen to paper has seemed like a bridge too far.  I think you already know what’s causing my angst, but permit me to list it again in hopes of finally cleaning out the brainworks, so to speak. 

First of all, everyone in the office is calling me “Wiggie” now, due to the fact that I’m currently in the same position in the company’s fantasy league  – 18^th – as a certain club known more for rugby than footie.  It’s shocking considering all the high powered spreadsheets that I employ to formulate my lineup.  (Call me crazy, but I really thought that the z-axis I installed this year would get me where I need to be.)  But seriously, if Nigel Reo-Coker and Steven Hunt don’t put up some numbers soon I’m going to personally visit their homes and give them the old Who’s Your Father. 

Second, I’m still not over the fact that United lost to some team called FC Swiss Miss in the group stage of the Champions League.  It’s awful, it’s embarrassing, and the hurt just won’t go away.  Well, it does go away some when I pound some Arrogant Bastard Ale (Clean, intense flavor with full bodied taste of anger, 7.2% ABV, A double minus for the arrogance), but it’s getting harder and harder to get away with that in the office before 11am.  

Third, United is currently in second and starting to look like a slide to fourth may be in order.  Chelsea is rising from the dead like Lazarus, despite my almost daily attempts to get inside Frank Lampard’s head with my constant derision.  (Clearly his people aren’t reading the blog as much as I thought.)  For a time they almost looked good against that other unmentionable team from Manchester. 

And Spurs, well it pains me greatly, but I have to admit they have a better midfield than United.   Who would you prefer, the flaccid under-beast known as Vacarandercheriggs, or Bale, Modric, Parker, and Lennon?  Sadly, to me it’s not much of a choice.  While it hasn’t happened yet, the fact that it’s even conceivable that we’ll fall behind those Lillywhite Pointy Toed Chickens is emasculating.

Dearest diary, after spitting out shards of prickly calcium from my pee pee this summer I thought I must be through the worst of it.  But no, for some reason the footballing gods now want to make me their personal Job and continue to pile on.  And as you know, despite evidence to the contrary I like to consider myself a strong willed person.  But there’s only so many times a man can wake up in a full sweat at 3am screaming “No, Bobo, No!!!!” to an empty and dark kitchen. 

Oh fates, please throw me a bone, send me a sign, allow me some mercy!!!  Because right now, in the immortal words of my all time favorite number one fan button on my denim jacket NJ brothers, I’m just livin’ on a prayer . . . .

Yours Truly,

Wiggie FOF

This is farlieonfootie for December 15.