Batman without the bat signal. Superman sans the cape. Mr. Clean without that rough and tumble earring. Every hero needs an icon. And justice, a diffuse concept that is not easily grasped by materialistic minds, needs a hero. Always. Since the start of time; ’til the end of time.

UEFA’s Financial Fair Play is no different. A recent report shows over half of European soccer clubs uncomfortably in the red. What’s worse is that the “Jones effect” is in full swing – like an obnoxiously new rich gated community in a tax haven exurb, the top clubs spend and abuse credit to compete with one another to win. Obviously, not all debt is bad. To use a person analogy, many professionals rely on student loans to advance themselves and their families. However, the UEFA report shows more shady car dealers than doctors. More disparagingly, Platini, the lapboy of Blatter, does not instill fear. Imagine him in a batsuit, leaping from a rooftop into a dark alleyway to punch a mugger. However, after landing a dainty single blow, he buckles over and is gassed for air.

We tried a special Supporters’ Trust (FCDSTT) to stem debt, but it failed. UEFA needs a hero. Justice needs a face. And I believe it should be Pepe.

I start with two ironclad premises: (1) that justice requires force and (2) Pepe would easily defeat Bane, the antagonist in Batman comics and the forthcoming DKR film. I say both with certainty. As background, in the comics, Bane frees prior bad guys from jail that then battle and tire down Batman, and then Bane breaks Batman’s back. Pepe, however, would cut through Arkham Asylum like Azrael with a lightsaber. The Scrarecrow needs special gas to drive victims crazy. Pepe, from the long and proud line of f’ugly Brazilian born soccer players, needs only to smile & wink in order to melt your eyes to their sockets. The Joker would try to trap Pepe in a prisoner’s dilemma between saving one innocent or another, but halfway through the dialogue Pepe would probably stamp the Joker’s hand, face, and crotch, and then sarcastically applaud the real life police force.

In sum, Pepe is the perfect tool of force to enforce UEFA Financial Fair Play.

Of course, this begs the question – does UEFA really want to enforce these rules?

Logistics would also be a dilemma. Obviously, as the anti-hero who enforces the law but does not abide by “due process” or “arrest warrants” or other major inconveniences for police, Pepe couldn’t be on the UEFA payroll per se. They could probably spare for a Pepe symbol, but may need to channel some funds via an offshore trust or Cayman bank account. They couldn’t give him any awards, but they could half-assed attempt to catch him but look the other way if they ever got close.

The results would be terrific. If anybody can bring an end to the coming backdoor old boys bogus business deals that will soon eviscerate Financial Fair Play, it’s Pepe. Did the Sheik’s Uncle’s business just agree to sponsor City in a record deal? Oh. Wait. Pepe dangled him from the top of the Burj Khalifa until he agreed to tear up the contract. Did City just agree to sign your club’s favorite player? Not so fast. Pepe broke his ACL, MCL, and even a metatarsl for good measure (while he lay prone on the camilla and was being carried off the field).

Of course, the boo birds will blow out of proportion Pepe’s pasts indiscretions. If anything, the time he’s sitting out and serving a suspension would be ideally utilized to enforce FFP provisions. Pepe would bring some needed sharp edges to the corners of the FFP paper tiger. Sure, once Pepe attains perfect 100% compliance then the absence of credit will dry up opportunities for advancement by middle class clubs, but that’s a problem for another day. For now, the bane of football’s existence is debt.

Granted, the greatest problem with European soccer clubs is preposterous labor costs. However, this may actually play to Pepe’s advantage. If he can just end the career of 3-4 players per team, then he could dramatically reduce payroll costs around La Liga and in the Champions League. There are less violent means, such as a salary cap and luxury tax, but that’s stuff for the UEFA folk, not the caped Pepe crusader. Like a heat-sinking missile, he will seek and destroy all potential debt and future FFP problems.

There are two simple facts: FFP needs teeth. And nobody can stamp out free-wheelers like Pepe. Thus, in our darkest hour, we should follow Alfred’s advice and turn to a man that we don’t fully understand.

“Take that, hand that was about to sign a contract at unsustainable wages! Justice!”

Have heart Real Madrid faithful, the Phoenix shall rise from the ashes. Barcelona‘s roster will age, wither, and eventually lose to us on a more regular basis. However, until then, we must cope. Seven points give us solace, but not joy. Rumors of Mou’s departure stalk our nightmares. Only one thing can brighten these dark times: laughing at amusing and ill conceived pictures.

In that respect, I present the first ever Futfanatico Caption Contest with the grand prize being the honorary title of “First Ever Champion of a Futfanatico Caption Contest.” Put that on your Linkedin Profile and smoke it! But seriously, here are the rules:

You have seen the above picture. Now, write something funny. More specifically…

1) Be Good-Natured.

I don’t want to ruin your view of life, but I heard that this one time a fan got angry about something about his or her soccer team. In reality, said fan hates his or her life and projects that aggression onto unsuspecting and well paid professional athletes. Pity them. This blog is a well guarded preserve of the passive aggressive, so an unacceptable entry would be “Xavi and Iniesta suck and shit.”

Here are some acceptable entries: “Win at the Bernabeu & Three Thumbs Up!” Or perhaps: “We won, & now we dance….the Macarena.” Also: “Xavi Silences Madrid Crowd; Goes for Swing in Banana Hammock.” You can cut a little closer, perhaps with: “We Lost the League…But Won the Bernabeauty Contest Hands Down.” And lastly: “Greg Lougannis Eat Your Heart Out.”

2) Don’t be Heterosexist.

The key aspect of this picture is a short, hairy dude in a speedo giving the thumbs up. Xavi might as well be on Semana Santa in Monaco. I don’t want any gay jokes and I will be moderating the comments to that effect. All sports involve some degree of same sex bonding, but displays of affection should not be construed or misconstrued to prefer one sexual orientation over another.

3) The Contest Closes At An Undefined Point In Futureland.

My real job has deadlines. I hate them. Thus, this pic caption contest will continue ad infinitum. I prefer that you add your entry to the comments of this post. However, you can send them to me at futfanatico (at) gmail (dot) com. You can also tweet me them, you lazy bastard you. In one weeks’ time, special guest judge Dr. Moschlavius Gumperteer will return to name the top entries and winner. And maybe even give some useful SEO tips! So put on your creative thinking cap and then be ready to dust off that black hat!

Note: this pic was spotted by the eagle eyes of Neil Sandwich. He regularly contributes to the collection of artists formerly known as Surreal Football: the FCF.

So, in case you have resided in a cave on the large rock in outer space formerly known as planet Pluto, Real Madrid played Barcelona in the 2nd leg of the Copa del Rey. Based on secondhand accounts, ’twas a most enjoyable spectacle. Teams scored goals. Teams kicked soccer balls. Teams ran. At the end of 90 minutes, the two teams tied 2-2. On global goal difference, Barcelona advanced 4-3. Most importantly, Pepe did not stamp on anybody’s hands and Busquets did not call any players mono. Thus, Barca fans accepted the narrowest of victories and Madrid fans  boasted about effort & dedication & spirit.

Yet, of course, a third class of person watched the game. The kind that write under deadline pressures. Here is what he or she or it wrote in a vain attempt to explain the sporting phenomena. Inside the chest cavity of Barcelona players beats the heart of a Champion. The heart is not abnormally large. The heart does not beat any faster or any stronger than most other hearts. However, there is still a great difference. And it is this: the heart beats inside a chest cavity of a player that is a Champion. And you can always tell a Champion from a non-Champion because the non-Champions finished second or worse in a competition. The Champion? First. So, Barcelona advanced over Madrid because of that little thing between their sternum and spine.

Barcelona had that extra something. Madrid did not. The Cule players just have “it”, but “it” cannot be precisely described with words. Rather, “it’ must be defined in relation to surrounding phenomena. For example, rumors percolate that Elvis Presley himself crafted “it” while working as a secret scientists at Area 51 and manufactured “it” out of the skin of the Lochness Monster, the brain of an alien, and the hair of Bigfoot. “It” was last reported in unofficial government records as being in the hip pocket of Amelia Earheart as she boarded her last flight. Since then, rumor has it that the kidnappers used “it” to help calm down the crying Lindbergh baby, but we can’t really speculate too much more on “it.” The important thing is that Barcelona has “it” and Madrid does not. “It” is the reason that they advanced. Duh.

Barcelona has the right mix of veterans and young players. Sometimes, veterans will get old and no longer be useful. They will lose footraces to younger players. Other times, a player will be too young and react poorly to an adverse crowd or a mistake or a foul. Barcelona’s roster is the perfect mix of veterans that are knowledgeable and young players that win footraces. Real Madrid’s roster is not the right balance. Madrid has too many veterans that are now old and well past their expiration date. Madrid also has too many young players that react poorly to new stimuli like being booed. Thus, Barcelona advanced because of the balance of their roster.

Barcelona’s youth academy is better than Real Madrid’s youth academy. Let’s just forget the Quinta del Buitre and focus on Bojan Krkic and Giovanni Dos Santos, the living proof that La Masia regularly produces world class players like an assembly line. Let’s also forget that Fabregas, Pique, and Iniesta actually left Barcelona to play at other clubs. That is not important. What is important is that La Masia produces consistently world class talent. This is not a golden generation of Spanish players that will fade like Les Bleus of the late 90s and early 2000′s. This is all the work of La Masia. Barcelona has La Masia, Real Madrid does not. Case closed.

Also, tactics. Barcelona played with better tactics. In particular, Puyol’s clever “let Benzema embarass me” tactic truly and fully lured Real Madrid into a false sense of hope, exactly as Pep drew up the game on his chalkboard at halftime. Pep also strategically planned on a Dani Alves screamer goal. Beforehand, Mourinho’s tactical gameplan to concede two early goals was a mistake. He should have tactically planned to only concede a single goal. Conversely, Pep’s halftime tactics to concede two goals was edgy but paid off. And that was the difference. Tactics. Tactics. T-A-C-T-I-C-S.

Lastly, the locker room. My reputable foreign sources reported that Mourinho has lost the locker room. A few weeks ago, Mourinho knew exactly where the locker room was. Mourinho could have been blindfolded and found the locker room. Mourinho knew the locker room like the back of his hand. It was a static, enclosed room in which players dressed into and out of their uniforms. Not anymore.

Mourinho woke up and everybody realized that he had lost the locker room. He’s still not sure how the locker room escaped. It may have been a hole in the fence. Or Perez may have left the gate open for the 1,000th time. What’s worse is that unlike most respectable dog or locker room owners, Mou did not even try to inject any GPS tracking device into the locker room. Thus, Mou’s best bet is to offer a reward, ask some friends to drive around nearby neighborhoods with him and shout “locker room”, and frequently check the “found” section of Craigslist. Pep, however, has his locker room. And it was a major advantage.

I am beyond elated. When I first started blogging, my goals were simple: break transfer rumors, injury reports, starting elevens, and try to bring a little of ESPN-guys-yelling-in-suits to the blogosphere. Since that fateful afternoon several years ago when I started this endeavor, I have won countless awards. This year, despite stiff competition from the ultimately disqualified fakefutfanatico and fakerfutfanatico, I won all five awards – best blog, best iPhone app, best Android app, best eBook, and best awardie! It’s a glorious time to be the proprietor of a blog with “futfanatico” in the URL.

However, none of these awards would have been possible without a very special person.

No, not the spirit of Ferenc Puskas. No, not Dr. Moschlavius Gumperteer. No, not Real Madrid’s future greatest player (once upon a time) Junito. We know who’s the key player to my success. We know who forms the foundation to this delicately balanced house of cards. Now, normally this is the part in the boring and recycled award acceptance speech where relatives are thanked with too little detail. Not here, though. Rather, I will start at the very beginning in too much detail. No, not my birth. Rather, my conception. Based on some educated guesses, I imagine this happening. First, I thank my dad and mom for having a few drinks and maybe going dancing. Then, when they get home, I thank my dad for [FIVE PARAGRAPHS OF NC-17 GRAPHIC DETAILS OMITTED BY EDITOR]. So thanks mom and dad. You sweaty and filthy bastions of original sin, you.

But I also owe it all to you. You, as in the person reading this post. Thanks for reading. Thanks for commenting. Blogs are fun because of you. Except for you, Liverpool troll dick whose comments I automatically send to the spam folder. You are the exception. Everybody else, thanks.

For those of you who foolishly boycotted the elections and want a proper piece of soccer writing, I penned a little something something at the excellent Classical. My post attempted to make sense of Mourinho and Guardiola’s odd press conferences. Check it out here.

You no longer need an eBook reader to enjoy Elliott’s “An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish.” A DRM-free, ePub version is available at Goodreads. Check it out here. A HTML version you can simply read in your browser is available at Smashwords. Check it out here.

The current possession era of soccer, with goalscoring wingers and almost invisible false nine forwards, has placed a premium on passing stats and yawn yawn yawn. Okay, I wrote a soccer-based Cristiano and Leo comparison several months ago. Most of it still rings true. However, I decided to do some real detective work because I noticed an odd occurrence – I’ve rarely seen Cristiano and Messi play at the exact same time. Unusual? Odd? Suspicious? Most definitely.

I did some digging, and realized that they normally only play at the same time and at the same location twice a year. Last season was an anomaly – they did so five times. However, even then, I could only witness this coincidence by television. TV often lies. Also, when one of them touched the ball, the other normally loitered off-screen. Body doubles? Definitely possible.

In sum, every other Cristiano-Messi comparison is flawed because it starts with a faulty premise: they are not the same person. Based on a wealth of circumstantial evidence, I formed a hypothesis: Leo Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo are the same player and person. I did even more research, and now an abundance of indisputable direct evidence proves my point. Simply put, they have too much in common to not be the same person. Observe.

First, I begin with the long-held and well respected premise that we must trust nobody and believe nothing until we see actual & official birth certificates. Have you ever seen Leo Messi’s birth certificate? Or Cristiano Ronaldo’s? Me neither. Thus, none of us can be sure of their actual names, actual parents, or actual place of birth. In fact, we can’t be sure that they weren’t born at the same time, in the same place, to the same parents.

Thus, I took a magnifying glass to these two “supposedly different” gentlemen. I was and am shocked at the results. Upon closer inspection, thousands of similarities appeared. For example, they inhabit the exact same solar system: the Milky Way. And it’s not like Messi lives in a loft in Andromeda and rolls into the Milky Way once a blue moon to gets some lottery tickets and beer – neither he nor Cristiano has ever left the Milky Way. In fact, neither of them has ever been so far as the trans-Neptunian region. When Ray Hudson yells that “Messi is out of this world,” he does not in fact mean that Messi inhabits a mansion on Makemake. It’s a figure of speech as far as I can tell.

Okay, so no birth certificate and same universe – not exactly groundbreaking observations. But don’t worry, this ball of yarn is just beginning to unwind. Many members of the Messi-is-not-Ronaldo-eratti point out a simple fact – last season, Ronaldo won the Golden Boot for most goals in La Liga. Messi did not. However, during that entire time, both players lived on the same planet: Earth. Not Neptune. Not Mars. Not even that dwarf “real planet wannabe” Pluto. Earth. Tierra. And things get even creepier upon an even closer inspection.

Did you know that on Earth there are around 8.7 million species? Out of those millions, you’d expect Messi and Ronaldo, soooooo different, to belong to different species, right? Right? Wrong again. They are both Homo sapiens. Not Homo sapiens sapiens. Not Homo sapiens idaltu. Despite what Cristiano’s critics say, he is not Homo sapiens neaderthalensis.

Granted, this is a point of contention. Some scientists assert that a subspecies of Homo sapiens are Homo rhodesiensis. Furthermore, Cristiano has often been grouped into a unique subspecies known as Homo poppedcollarus. And Messi has been inaccurately categorized as belonging to the long extinct Neversmilesgrimsaurious. Still, these theories have yet to find common acceptance. Thus, until the year 3000 AD when Homo sapiens split into two species, Leo and Cristiano are one and the same.

Are you starting to see how a little suspicion can go a long way? Let’s stop and do a quick tally of a few of the many things that these allegedly different & distinct carbon-based lifeforms have in common: they are not iguanas. They are not dogs. They are not birds. They are not sharks. They are not whales. They do not live on the Moon. They breathe air. Their bodies are about 57% water. Their bodies also contain around 6.7 X 10 to the 27th atoms. I could go on and on and on unto infinity. Yes, Leo Messi and Cristiano have an almost infinite amount of things in common. Indisputably, the mathematical case has been made for them being the same player and person.

Granted, some things are more important than others. Not all sciences are equal. However, even observing them both using cutting edge phrenological observational techniques, similarities pop up. While I personally have never had the pleasure of popping a caliper on the head “or heads” of Cristiano Leo Ronaldo Messi (his true name I suspect), Dr. Franz Joseph Gall himself would be intrigued by the visual evidence available.

Case in point, take a gander at “Leo Messi” and his alleged noggin.

Based on the latest and peer-reviewed phrenological publications, we know that the human head has 27 individual organs. These organs control various aspects of our personality. The organs are often detectable as bumps. In the above picture, Messi’s flat forehead in the “memory of events” region indicates a rather poor capacity for short or long-term memory. This probably explains why he has so many multi-goal games, and continues to score even though his team is winning handily. While most people relax, Messi may forget his team is winning and hurriedly rushes forward to seek a necessary & winning goal.

And Cristiano’s allegedly separate cranium? Have a look.

Shocking isn’t it? It’s basically the exact same as Messi. And it also explains why he also has so many multi-goal games. Now, don’t let the hair distract you. “Cristiano” likes to grease it up, but also changes his style frequently. In fact, that’s another cause of suspicion – his hairdo is almost always different from Messi, as if, as if, as if….he wanted you to see his hair and think “there’s no way this person is Leo Messi because the hair is covered in cooking oil and could explode into flames at any point.”

But maybe it is. And based on the lack of proper authenticated birth certificates and millions of never before articulated similarities, plus the latest in visual phrenological analysis, it probably is. As the soccerverse spits stats and vomits lazy comparisons at you, remember the millions of things that Cristiano Leo Ronaldo Messi has in common with himself. It’s the only way to stay sane.

Elliott’s soccer eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available on the Amazon Kindle for only $5.99. Check out a free preview here.

Pasillo is the Spanish term for “hallway.” However, in the world of La Liga, it has a secondary meaning: guard of honor. After a team wins either La Liga or the Copa del Rey, at the very start of their next game, it’s customary that the opposing players will stand in two lines near the entrance tunnel, forming a hallway, and salute the champions as they enter the field. For example, last season, after Real Madrid won the Copa del Rey, their next opponent, Valencia, formed a pasillo to greet them onto the field.

For various reasons, the pasillos between Barcelona and Real Madrid have been few and far apart. The two teams normally race neck-and-neck until late into the La Liga season, and thus have already played one another twice before the champion is determined mathematically. Thus, their consistent duopoly in accumulating points prevents either one from having to honor the other.

Except, of course, for a few remarkable seasons.

1988: a Fond Farewell to the Quinta del Buitre

In 1988, a glorious era was coming to a close for Real Madrid. The club’s cantera had produced a fine crop of star players. Key players included the Quinta del Buitre (“The Vulture’s Cohort”): Emilio Butragueno, nicknamed el Buitre (“The Vulture”), Manolo Sanchis, Martin Vazquez, Michel, and Miguel Pardeza. Spearheading the attack was Mexican legend Hugo Sanchez. The team played an aggressive and physical game – think Mourinho’s tackling meets Pep’s pressing high up the pitch. The team won five La Ligas, two UEFA Cups, and Hugol won 5 pichichis as the top scorer in the league.

On April 30th, 1988, at the Nou Camp, Barcelona’s players formed a pasillo to greet the La Liga champions onto the field. In terms of the actual game, Buitre didn’t feature in Madrid’s team, Dutchman Leo Beenhakker was Real’s coach, and Barcelona won 2-0 thanks to a goal from Englishman Gary Lineker and an own-goal by Manolo Sanchis.  Still, though, it was a bitter taste for Cules – they had won a battle but lost the war.

In the grand scheme of things, though, invisible plates had started to shift. Real’s team dominated domestically, but never managed to win the Champion’s League. The bright and bustling Quinta del Buitre increasingly showed signs of age, while Johan Cruyff would soon return to Barcelona and re-make the roster in his brilliant image. For Real Madrid, the pasillo was a parting wave to a generation adored by blanquillos. Barcelona may have la Masia, but Real also lived a successful period thanks to a fertile cantera (“Youth academy”). In a few years time, though, the tables would turn definitively.

1991: the Dream Team Draws First Blood

It did not take Johan Cruyff long to turn Barcelona into winners. He signed several fantastic foreign players, such as Ronald Koeman and Michael Laudrup. The Dream Team also featured several star Spanish players, like Josep Guardiola, Jose Mari Bakerao, and Txiki Begiristain. Their first title was a Copa del Rey in 1990, and they then won four consecutive La Ligas from 1991 to 1994. The Dream team’s most famous moment, though, was their European Cup victory in 1992 at Wembley. An iconic image for all Cules is Ronald Koeman’s celebratory hug -  shirtless, he jumped into the arms of a nearby assistant, overcome with joy. He had scored the Cup-winning goal with one of his trademark free kicks.

In June 1991, the sky was the limit for Barcelona. The roster brimmed with talent, and the Copa del Rey and recent La Liga had instilled in Cruyff’s side the confidence of a champion. The Dutchman’s trench coat on the sideline was a calming presence. Josep Guardiola was the metronome in midfield. Ronald Koeman, nicknamed the Floquet de Neu after the Barcelona Zoo’s albino gorilla, provided long-range passing from the center back position. Michael Laudrup was a fluid midfielder that created goals almost at will.

Cruyff’s team reflected his cerebral approach to the game – they confidently passed sideways and backwards, snaking the ball around the field. On that hot summer day in June, Real, playing at home, formed a pasillo to greet the Champions onto the Bernabeu field. The merengues, coached by Radomir Antic, played a cautious game, nicked a goal from Adolfo Aldana, and miraculously managed a clean sheet. Still, the writing was on the wall – a new era of Barcelona dominance was merely beginning.

2008: the Second Salvo of the Dutch Dynamos

Many Barcelona fans love to reminisce about Ronaldinho’s smile & Frank Rijkaard’s stylish locks, but gloss over their nasty divorce from the club. After Barcelona’s 4-0 loss to Milan in the 1994 European Cup, the team fell into a bit of a tailspin by their standards. A decade later, Rijkaard righted the ship, Dinho turned on the style points, and the team returned to European glory in 2006. Yet problems arose soon thereafter.

Ronaldinho’s love for the nightlife soon turned into a lack of motivation. On the field, his lengthy dribbling runs turned into extended walk-abouts. He fell out with Rijkaard, but no ready replacement existed. Brazilian play-maker Deco also went on a mysterious and extended injury leave. Many speculated that the departure of iron-fisted Henk Ten Cate had left the laid back Dutchman with no respected enforcer. As the late Gary Speed said, “hard work beats talent that doesn’t work hard.” The Cules oozed talent but lacked dedication. Barcelona soon shipped Dinho to AC Milan and Frank left the club in 2008.

Given the duopoly of La Liga, when one club struggles, the other profits. Real capitalized on Barcelona’s dip to win consecutive La Ligas. For the first title, Real Madrid hired Italian disciplinarian Fabio Capello to bring order to a talented but rowdy roster. He immediately dropped Beckham, and regularly played two holding midfielders: veteran Brazilian Emerson and fiercely combative Mahamadou Diarra. Up front, Ruud and Raul formed a thunder & lightning partnership. Real won La Liga with brutal efficiency, but Capello was sacked for lacking style.

That summer, the club brought in Dutch coach Bernd Schuster, and also Dutch players Arjen Robben and Wesley Schneijder. With a creative play-maker and dynamic winger, they won La Liga handily. On May 7, 2008, Barcelona formed a pasillo to welcome the champions onto the Bernabeu field. Unlike past pasillo-clasicos, the champions actually won the game. Real dominated Barcelona to the tune of 4-1. Still, despite a roster of very good players, uneasiness permeated the blanquillo fan base. Two consecutive La Ligas was a decent run for any team. Except Real Madrid.

Pep Guardiola would soon take over Barcelona, leading them to great success, and that May 7th game probably remains the sweetest taste in a merengue mouth since.

Elliott’s soccer eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available on the Amazon Kindle for only $5.99. Check out a free preview here.

Don’t you just hate those arrogant, talented, supremely handsome Americans? Me too. Well, this American had the pleasure of writing for and speaking with some friends from across the Atlantic, and the results were marvelous. At least in my humble imperialist American opinion.

First, I penned a piece for the excellent 200 percent. My topic? The endless carousel of 4th division “professional” soccer teams in South Texas. Corruption. Graft. Mirages. Unpaid wages. When the franchise system and poverty collide, the results are catastrophic. Enjoy it here, assuming you enjoy the macabre.

Second, I have an article forthcoming for the nascent Spiel magazine, a Liverpool-based football & lifestyle magazine. You can check out a PDF of the Preview Issue here. You gotta pay for the issue with my article though (which is due out in two weeks). My article’s topic? The lingering mirage of rugged individualism that we foolishly use to characterize Ronald Reagan’s Presidency & Hugo Sanchez’s playing career at Real Madrid. It is so 80′s it hurts and, if you are a guy, while reading it your shoulders will swell in size and your hair will grow curly and long.

Lastly, and slightly more stateside, I had fun with DC-based Mirit and UK ex-pat James Tyler at Nutmegradio. We got our podcast on and I answered some very personal questions, like if I prefer Fakefutfanatico to Fakerfutfanatico. Listen here, if you dare.

This past weekend, a German referee attempted to commit suicide. CNN reported on this tragedy, and also managed to sneak in the same article some game recaps. Tactful! The Guardian did one better, reporting racism charges against Luis Suarez while also letting us know that the alleged racist did not play in an international friendly due to injury. Useful! I will now do them both one up by reporting on this week’s Champions League fixtures…..and the gruesome puppy death(s).

(Associated & Fabricated Press) – Today, we regret to report the death of over 200 adorable puppies. And a less than adorable nun and bus driver. At eight o’clock at night, the Save-a-Pup bus, full of 200 recently rescued puppies, rambled down the road on its way to a warm & welcoming puppy shelter. Little did the driver realize that rather than heading towards Brownsville, Texas, he and the puppies were on track for their own grisly deaths. Taylor Sampson, a volunteer bus driver with Save-a-Pup for over five years, was going the speed limit on a country road when he noticed, despite poor lighting, that several stray cattle had escaped from a fence and wandered onto the road. He flashed his lights, honked his horn, and then, not seeing any traffic, switched to the other lane to avoid hitting any cattle.

Sadly, due to the lack of streetlights, he did not see Sister Johanna Merkers on her motorcycle. The Sister had just returned from 10 years of missionary work in India bathing lepers and lepers’ close associates (including friends, immediate relatives, and not so immediate relatives). Exhausted from the ten years of service and half-day flight back to South Texas, she must have forgotten to turn on her front lights and did not hear the bus honk or see its flashing lights.

The bus smacked into her head on, sending the nun to her immediate death and the bus flipped onto its side. It spun several times. The puppies, confused and startled, yet still adorable (perhaps even more so due to the fact that their yelps of distress sound cute to human ears, oddly), were tossed about the inside of the bus cabin. Logically, one could presume that several cute puppy bones were broken. However, a veterinary-coronary report is impossible. The bodies are charred beyond recognition, along with the bus driver’s.

After the bus stopped twirling, the engine began to leak a lot of gas. By a lot of gas, I mean an oil tanker worth of gas. Not literally. Figuratively. Hyperbole-ly. Gas. Everywhere. Lots of it. The car’s engine, terribly damaged from hitting head-on a nun in a motorcycle, intermittently turned on and off. The bus driver, half-conscious from the blow of the collision, could smell the gas and immediately realized the danger. If any sparks from the stuttering engine touched one drop of gas, he and the puppies would be toast.

The immediate impact had separated the bus driver’s right shoulder. He lay on his side, still buckled to the driver’s seat. The air bag had inflated, but only blocked his path to salvation. Pain shot up and down his right arm. The fumes made his head spin like a carousel. Taylor could taste his own blood in his mouth. The puppies shrieked in terror. Some moaned in pain. Others lay still, shocked or dead by the impact. He knew that he had to reach the ignition and turn off the engine. He had to turn that key.

He winced and attempted to move his right arm. A thousand needles stabbed him in his back. A hundred knives stabbed him in the right shoulder. He lacked feeling in his right arm. The engine sputtered. It clicked. He felt gasoline by the left side of his face. A pool was forming. It felt cool as water yet smelled terrible. He took several deep breaths. There was still no smoke. Some hope remained. He spat out blood, bit his tongue, and tried to move his right arm one more time. This time ten thousand needle stabbed him in the back. His right arm was useless.

The shrieks of the puppies made his head twirl. He felt his own heart beat. Among the adorable but injured canine groans, he could make out one dog’s voice, a miniature schnauzer. Taylor had several years experience as a driver for Save-a-Pup. He knew to keep an emotional distance from the puppies. He knew that he could not save them all. He knew that he could not, and should not, play favorites with the rescue puppies. But that miniature schnauzer had gotten to him. From the first time he saw her, he was smitten. Her trimmed hair, her bushy schnauzer beard, the way she wagged her cute little tail – he tried to ignore her, but he couldn’t. Hearing her low schnauzer moan inspired him for one last effort.

He had to turn that key. He took a deep breath. He gritted his teeth. He said a prayer. He closed his eyes and braced for an unimaginable quantity of pain. He would count to three and then try to move his arm and turn that key, pain be damned. One…..two…….

And then the engine sputtered, sending a spark down to the pool of gasoline beside his ear.

In other news, on the same planet but a different continent, professional soccer clubs in Europe played a series of games. Some teams won. Some teams lost. Some teams tied.

November 2nd is a special day for many Mexicans, Hispanics in the US, and lots of Central Americans. While most Americans have purchased candy by the bucket, South of the border cemeteries fill with the living. And the living bring with them flowers, candles, and fresh food. Yet this recent Dia de los Muertos reminded me of a special somebody: our incredibly flaky spiritual correspondent Ferenc Puskas. Or, as he’s known in these parts, Pusky.

I missed him. I also had a few questions that required some super spiritual stealth – like who will win the FIFA Ballon d’Or and also what to make of recent FIFA “reforms.”

Thus, I made a trip to Matamoros to get a Santisima muerte icon, some santeria dominoes, returned home, fired up the old gchat, and asked our favorite apparition some questions on those pressing matters. His answers will confuse you. And disappoint you. But not me. Ahorale!

Yes, I know that the Santa Muerte is not recognized by the church. However, the Catholic Church has shown a proclivity to mix and match official religious fixtures with local Pagan customs. Granted, it takes a super long time. The wheels of change in Vatican City do not roll as quickly as the four attached to the Pope-mobile. But I’m sure Santa Muerte will get some love some time, just like the Virgen de Guadelupe. Basically, Santa Muerte is like that really talented band you saw in a college town before they got big. Enjoy them while you can.

On a historical note, anthropologists like to think that the Santa Muerte is based on the Aztec worship of Mictlantehutli, a God of the underworld. I respectfully disagree for obvious reasons. For example, if you look at ancient artifacts of Mictlantehutli, he is always either Tebowing or making dinosaur arms ala the scheming hamburglar. The Santa Muerte does neither. Case closed.

Blah blah debates aside, many Mexican@s pray privately in their homes to images of the Santa Muerte and ask for a stroke of luck or that a dead relatives’ sins get burned off ever so gently. Since my thoughts had recently turned to FIFA, I figured a few prayers and some sin-absolution-requests were in order. I hopped over to Matamoros during the day and got me a lonche, found a hole in the wall santeria store which had dominoes (not the pizza), and was back in the US of A by nightfall.

When I finally found myself in my one story Texas ranch-house with the family asleep, I inhaled some special odors to cleanse my spirit and open my mind. I prayed a rosary or two. Then, I opened gchat and pulled out the dominoes. As luck would have it, Pusky, the omnipresent apparition, was logged in. In fact, he is always logged in. I think he has gchat on his iPhone or something. It’d been awhile, so I shot him a nice, friendly warm hello from Texas. Pusky was a little taken aback. I imagine him just sorta casually strutting about, doing whatever it is that Dead Hungarian footballers do late at night, when he heard a click or alert sound from his iPhone. I also always get startled when I get those messages. And for a dead Hungarian footballer that is used to moving in stealth-see-through mode, who can blame him for being taken aback? Still, though, as a blogger-journalist of the highest integrity, I had a duty to cut to the chase and try to pry some facts out of that dead Hungarian source. I did try to tactfully transition into it though… For those of you without gchat, the “…..” is normally not a good sign. It’s a nonverbal clue that the responder is pondering what you just said, but normally with a strong degree of skepticism. It was at this point that I realized this may be one of my more difficult Dead Hungarian Footballer exclusive interviews. I braced for the worst. Seconds passed, then minutes. Pusky wasn’t into it. He finally responded with a half sentence and another “…”, but I laid it on thick. When the fish is half-hooked, they struggle like hell and you either have to hall them in or cut loose. Then came the suspense. The gray text informed me that Pusky was entering text. Yet seconds turned to minutes turned to more minutes turned into minutes that seemed longer than sixty seconds but that’s because each second really felt like a second and one-fortieth a second which by itself seems like a second but when you have several seconds like that it feels much, much longer. I held my breath. I also kicked myself – disclosing the lack of possible goats’ blood as a reward was truthful and may earn me long-term credibility with Pusky, but also maybe revealed my hand a bit too early.

And I was right. Sigh. Dead Hungarian footballers can be so shallow and bloody narrow-minded sometimes.

I couldn’t really blame him. Season Four of the Office had some good moments. And nobody likes to dive halfway into a TV show’s season to come up for air prematurely. Deep down, I’d known Pusky would blow me off. At least on a direct and material median of communication like gchat. It’s happened before. I had my dominoes. I had my quasi-Catholic pagan idol. I had my expanded mind. And I had my questions.

Besides, Pusky has always communicated best via haunted medians like Ouija boards, Wikipedia, and tarot cards. He comes off as a bit discourteous in gchat. So I lit the appropriate scented candles and pulled out the dominoes.

I shuffled my bag of dominoes, channeled Pusky and though about FIFA’s current attempts at reform, and then pulled out three dominoes.

Now, I’m no expert at dominoes divination. However, I swear I could feel Pusky’s spiritual essence guiding my hands to grab certain dominoes. I also know that the first domino means your past, the second your present, and the third your future. After consulting my book of occult domino readings, things got much clearer about FIFA.

The Two/Four means opportunities for growth. It obviously referred to the start of the Havelenge-era, when FIFA went from a First World & Western biased institution into a better reflection of the world’s population and game. There were lots of opportunity for growth, and FIFA certainly has done a great job of moving World Cups across continents and turning a dime.

The Three/Five means emotional outlet time. This also made sense. For years, FIFA has been playing cook-the-books and soccer fans are pissed. While we may not have ran off Blatter, he has banned some pretty notorious cronies. He has also promised not to run again for President. And, of course, we eagerly await for a certain ancient dossier to be revealed. Even if bribes weren’t technically illegal in Switzerland at the time (what a gigantic coincidence that FIFA is located there!)

This is where the future gets murky. And it gets murky because it looks ever so similar to the present. The Three/Five. I guess this means more baby steps to reform or half-ass compromises, depending on your baseline for success. Perhaps the dossier-revelation will shame some old cronies into also not running for re-election.

I tried to connect to Gchat to see if Pusky had anything to add, but his profile had a grey bubble. I even shot him an email, but no luck – he was not playing invisible. No response, so he obviously had decided to let the dominoes do the talking. And they talked some more.

The next question pulsating through my head was simple – would the most deserving player finally win the Ballon d’oro? In my opinion, it’s Leo Messi. I love Cristiano as a player of my resurgent Madrid, but a Copa del Rey doesn’t cut it. I held my breath, channeled Pusky, reached into the bag, and pulled out another three dominoes.

Once again, the Three/Five reared its ugly head to talk about the past. And it made sense to talk about past Ballon d’Oro winners and venting. How many times have they gotten it wrong? All they need is a six hour awards show, a not funny host, hundreds of crappy unimportant awards like “best non-Union sprinkler technician” and they’re the Oscars.

In terms of the present, I was optimistic. The One/Zero means both new opportunities and the importance of morality. If there is cosmic justice, then Leo Messi will win this year’s Ballon d’Oro, sign for Madrid in the summer, and don Luis Figo’s famous ten jersey. Lass has been keeping that number warm, just for Leo. I swear. Messi getting sold for a profit in a capitalist system is the definition of morality. Right?

In terms of the future, not so hot. The Two/Three means that a place of work lacks orderliness and thus cannot progress. How about those World Cup US TV rights re-bids and hospitality bids won by companies run by relatives? Never before has a domino said so much, and been so right, with so few numbers on the top and lower halves.

I tucked my dominoes away in my bag, said a last prayer to the Santa Muerte for a pretty cool abuelo I had that died from cancer, blew out the candles, and went to sleep. Pusky was a prick on his iPhone, but the Dead Hungarian-guided dominoes had given me all the answers I could possible ask for.

I will keep this short and sweet in the interest of time. FIRST and foremost, Xavi’s hair will look like an iguana. No, I don’t refer to that pet iguana you had in grade school that eventually died because you forgot to plug in the hot rock. No, I refer to some sort of wickedly cool animated iguana who wears a Hawaiian t-shirt, travels by skateboard, constantly gives the thumbs up, and endorses a variety of delicious fruit-tasting snacks which contain little to no fruit.

SECOND and also quite importantly, Dani Alves and Sergio Busquets will continue their perpetual audition for the Catalan tumbling team. Somewhere in the stands at the Nou Camp, a man in a trench coat and with a mischievously large mustache will write on a small notepad numerical scores for their respective tumbles. At the end of the night, only one of them will be selected for this elite honor. And the other will be heartbroken.

THIRD and also kinda important, Mourinho and Pep Guardiola will fool you into thinking that they shake hands. However, in reality, their hands will get super super close but not actually touch. It will be more of a close-to-touching-hand-vibration with more wobbling than actual shaking. Mourinho may also wear a special hand colored glove just to be safe.

FOURTH and kinda depressing, Alexis Sanchez will like, toddle around a lot and be nondescript for large spells of the game. You will forget he’s on the field. Then, out of the blue, he will break Madrid fan’s hearts. If you are near a Real fan, they will ask in shock and disgust – “where did little dude come from?” And Barca fans will smirk, saying “Udinese.” And the Real fan will reply “I am not being nosy. You da nosy!” Then pout for the remaining 80 minutes.

FIFTH and obvious for all to see, Xabi Alonso and Sami Khedira will go WWF on Andres Iniesta, regularly taking down the little spinning Spaniard. If there is a folding chair near the sideline, watch out. The mayhem will continue until Javier Mascherano snaps into a Slim Jim and takes out Xabi from behind with a double studs up tackle.

SIXTH and most likely to be forgotten, you will confuse Pedro for that other dude who looks like Pedro but is not Pedro.