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!”

The Frank Lampard Appreciation Society offers another unique, unadulterated glimpse into the voyage of life of one tragic Monseur Lampeur.

DECEMBER 6, 2011

It’s funny how the clothes we wear reflect who we are, and I don’t mean those t-shirts that the mentally handicapped wear and include the person’s name, number, and address. I mean something more meaningful. I’ve worn the blue of Chelsea for several years. It has become a part not just of my repertoire, but of my essence. So it was blue tears that streamed down my cheeks when Mr. Manager Gopher called me into into his office and explained I would not start against Valencia.

Yes, the team won. But that notoriously obnoxious Kalou came on before me. He even stuck out his tongue at me when Manager Gopher called his name before mine. Obviously, as a professional, I did not immediately retaliate but definitely thought about writing him a really nasty note. Still, sitting on the bench and watching the team win without me hurt. A lot. I didn’t cry, but I didn’t not cry. Replays are inconclusive, but a series of mini-tears may or may have not formed and scampered down my face. Hmph.

DECEMBER 12, 2011

Another meeting with Manager Gopher, another dose of bad news – not starting vs. City either. This whole not starting thing has really started to take a toll. I know that, at age 34, walking an hour and a half twice per week is a daunting physical task, but Chelsea has top rate cardios. I feel just as slow at 34 as I did at 24, yet something has changed. My blue kit used to fill me with pride and put a spring in my step, now I feel a great weight. I yearn to wear it, yet also dread to wear it.

The other day, while going through an old trunk full of family stuff, I found the sailor boy costume that my mother used to dress me up in when I was in my late teens. I recalled my childhood, when I would spend countless hours in that sailor boy outfit and even attend special sailor boy galas with my mum. Times were so much simpler then. I didn’t actually sail a boat or anything, but I loved that outfit. I felt like Popeye and mum was my Olive Oil. All I needed was some spinach and anything was possible! Now, I can’t walk half a game without needing an ice bath. Sigh. Maybe Mr. Gopher has a point after all…..

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON DECEMBER 15, 2011

The funny thing about always being right is that you never get sick of not being wrong. Ever. Manager Gopher subbed me in, and whala, within a few minutes, I’d pointed at Sturridge, a good lad, and told him to score a goal or get an assist. He did the next best thing: he won a penalty kick. And guess who converted it? A hint: he looks quite dapper in a custom made sailor suit & cap for a teenage boy. Me!

It’s not all good news, though. Naturally, at my young age and with only two years left on my contract, I thought it prudent to renegotiate an extension at Chelsea just in case some really large club decides to try and buy me in a year’s time based on this single game. I don’t want to play games with Blues fans in 365 days time, and I don’t want to tempt myself either. Just as Ulysses tied himself to a mast before hearing the sirens’ call, I wanted to lock in my time with Chelsea before other big clubs realize my enormous talent and value.

Mr. Vile Boa Constrictor, the master of condescending and dismissive shoo-aways, just smirked and said he’d talk to Roman and the Sporting Director. Yet I haven’t received a text since. I’m really worried some big club scout will have seen my winning PK and make me a huge offer in 56 weeks, but I guess I’m the only prudent one rowing on this ship. Sigh.

DECEMBER 17, 2011

I’m really trying to change and be a better person and player. I had a dream where I cut off all of Mr. Vile Boa Constrictor’s body parts and fed them to my pet snake, Valdemorkandmindy. It was then that I realized I had a problem: a hate problem. I read up on it, talked to a shrink, and am now trying to embrace and respect the manager. Less hate. Less hate-filled dreams. More deep breaths. Some light yoga. And lots of pringles. In that regard, I am embracing Mr. Manager and my new role at Chelsea. I am a chameleon, and alternate between a starter, a super sub, awesome benchwarmer, and fantastic watcher-from-stands-or-tv-in-living-room.

I psychologically prepared myself to sit for 90 minutes, as opposed to walking for 90 minutes, and then life tossed me a curve. Against Wigan, I got the start! I also played a key role in our single goal that gave us the lead! Indirectly, at least. I cleverly and intentionally left the field to get treatment for a mouth injury (WINK WINK). Half the Wigan players stared at me, recognizing that even from a touchline I can cause havoc with the flex of a single forearm. The other players foolishly let their guard down, assuming Chelsea’s impotence in my absence.

Sure enough, Danny took advantage of the half-distracted and half-conceited defense to perfection and scored a goal. I don’t want to take all the credit, but even my absence is a positive for Chelsea. Some days, you walk on waters I swear! Granted, our defense caved and let in a late equalizer, but the important thing is I started. And was influential.

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON DECEMBER 18, 2011

I am ever so upset. Right after the game, we joked around in the locker room and gave Danny a bit of a ribbing. JT called him a “talented black cunt,” and I stepped in and said to JT “JT, you really need to expand your vocab. What will the police say?” He just paused, then smiled, and called Danny “A gifted footballing black cunt. An exceptional black cunt.”

I was about to give JT my two cents when that meany Kalou stepped in. He asked me what I was going to do about it, and I told him I was going to tell JT’s parents about his potty-mouth. Kalou then, to my horror, pulled you out of his Nike gear bag and tossed you to David Luzer. Kalou asked me if my Sailor Boy costume would save me, and I said I didn’t know because it was an outfit, not a costume. Kalou called me a sissy and I tried not to cry and I don’t remember crying but I may have cried a little bit. And a lot afterwards.

At least David Luzer gave me you back and didn’t speak enough English to understand most of what people said, aside from JT and the “black cunt” stuff. I fear I shouldn’t leave you around the locker room anymore. In fact, I am writing in you right now while I sit in the locker room, and Didier is giving me odd looks.

JANUARY 2, 2012

I am ever so exuberant! Call me the Captain of the SS Happiness! Today I started against Wolves, played the full 90, and scored the game-winning goal off an Ashley Cole cross! Obviously, given my recent run of form against top quality opposition like Wolves, I am 100% sure that Mr. Manager will start me for equally important matches in the Champions League and whatnot. It just goes to show you about that old saying – it’s better to have worn a sailor outfit as a teenager and then signed and played for Chelsea, then never to have worn a sailor outfit as a teenager nor played for Chelsea. I of course rang my mum to tell her about the goal and emailed her a link to it on Dailymotion.

JANUARY 14 2012

I have been told of emoticons. They are combined images from my keyboard that form faces on the computer to reflect emotions. This one, , means happy. I make it with : plus – plus ). And I am very happy, err, , today. Why? Well, I started and scored another goal in a super important game vs. Sunderland! I feel sorry for Torres that he can’t direct a simple bicycle kick on frame, but nobody can deny my raccoon-near-trashcan-at-night instincts. The defense even kept a clean sheet, we won, and nobody called anybody a black cunt!

NOTE ADDED BY FRANK ON JANUARY 15, 2012

I forgot to mention the other great news – Kalouey is off in Africa for some games blah blah and nowhere near Chelsea. In fact, I can write in you at the locker room, in the ice bath, and even in the shower if I’m careful enough! I hope those games in Africa last forever and then we don’t re-sign Kalou. I’m so joyous that I could wriggle into my sailor boy outfit and waltz all by myself all night, but that wouldn’t be fair to mum.

JANUARY 21, 2012

So, the last week has been a major buzz. Yes, I can confirm that MLS Champion and Megaclub the LA Galaxy have expressed an interest in me JUST AS I PREDICTED. I tried to warn Chelsea to sign me a month ago, but no, they had none of it. I’ve talked a bit with Becks, and he says the MLS is topflight and regularly pays the coach airfare for 18 hour flights to Southeast Asia for friendlies immediately after the end of the season. Here in Europe, we normally take  a break after the end of the season, but not those hardworking Americans! I was ever so impressed.

Still, am I ready to just discard my Chelsea Blue and don my Sailor Boy Outfit while hopping around the glitzy streets of LA? Truth be told, it is tempting. However, from a sporting perspective, I still feel I have much to give. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve scored goals in some pretty important games against Sunderland and Wolves. I still feel that Chelsea need me, even if I also feel hurt at times.

Against Norwich City, I once again pulled off my famous “injured to distract other team” tactic, the same one that led to a goal by Danny vs. Wigan. Still, while I distracted Norwich, I also took the wind out of Chelsea’s sails. After I left, we looked rudderless, deflated, defeated. I’ve always believed that only the rats flee the sinking ship – the Sailor Boy stays until all else have reached safety. But I increasingly feel Mr. Manager pushing me into a lifetime and telling me to row.

So, will I hop the pond and don my Sailor Boy outfit on Manhattan Beach? Only time will tell. But my heart still beats Chelsea Blue blood.

Digital Image Impression: the wildly talented Erik Ebeling.

Get the best of Futfanatico 2011 for only a buck here.

I wrote a thoughtful piece at the Run of Play on linguistic differences between Spanish and English. Since then, the FA has banned Luis Suarez for 8 games based on allegations that he made racist remarks. I don’t care to get into the mucky and murky waters of administrative proceedings. Rather, I want to focus on Liverpool’s official statement in response. Why? Well, because unlike other snobby bloggers, I can see the logic. The calculation is simple, yet makes perfect sense.

And now we must take this logic to its rightful conclusion.

First, the opening argument is weak. Basically, it mixes circumstantial evidence and character defense. Scousers claim that Suarez has a black grandpa and therefore cannot be racist. In sum, blacks can’t be racist. This is preposterous. Prejudices lurk deep inside all of us. Once prominent African American activist Jesse Jackson said that his greatest shame was hearing youth behind him in a dark alleyway, turning around, and being relieved to see they were white. We can all be prejudiced against our own race. But the debate doesn’t end there.

Second, and more subtly, there exists an ingenious & unassailable formula of an argument. Liverpool pointed out that Suarez had black teammates and black friends. Concisely put, the equation appears to be Luis Suarez + black friends = not racist = did not make racist remark. However, Liverpool argued that the word “negro” was not racist in Spanish-speaking countries. Thus, they admitted to him using that word. The equation is more nuanced.

Therefore, the actual formula is: Luis Suarez + black friend = okay to make racist remark. The underlying logic is that one cancels out the other. If you are nice to a black person one day, then that cancels out being racist the other. From a utilitarian perspective, this makes perfect sense. In fact, in cost/benefits analysis, this would make the world a much better place. I can dig this. In fact, I will now expound on this equation for the benefit of all humanity.

Let’s take a totally wild example. Let’s assume that John Terry, captain of England and upstanding human being, utters a racial epithet during a game. I know, I know, it’s preposterous but bear with me. So, JT makes a racist comment. BUT, what if JT invites Ashley Cole over to his house for dinner? What if JT invites Ashley Cole and Bosingwa and Drogba over to his house for dinner? From a global societal perspective, he has lowered the quality of life of one black person, the victim of the racial epithet, but also improved the lives of three other black people. Now imagine if every racist did this. Black people would have countless dinner invitations and be really happy. What a wonderful world it would be!

Just to clarify, I’m not saying that Suarez can just invite over Glenn Johnson to play XBox for 12 hours and all’s well. No no no. It must be somewhat sincere. Still, if society is ever to conquer racism, then we must accept the Liverpool formula and try to rehab the racists. We must oblige them to form superficial friendships and acquaintances so as to cancel out their deeply held racist thoughts and prejudices. If Suarez goes to the mall right now, this very minute, and meets and befriends two black guys, then I just may be able to forgive him. And isn’t that what stereotypical tokenism is all about?

Now, some cynics will say this logic is a “get out of jail free” card. They are wrong. You can’t go to jail for making a racist remark in a soccer game. You just get suspended and fined. Case closed!

Kids have dreams. And we all dream of being a star. When I was about eight years old, I opened my first ever Excel spreadsheet. It blew me away. The charts. The formulas. The numbers. From that day on, I dreamed of someday being an adult and spending all day looking at Excel Spreadsheets and trying to maximize EBITDA for high revenue but low profit multinational corporate entities. I also foolishly hoped to someday create elaborate PowerPoints to disseminate this knowledge to half-interested executives and lower-level management.

And my name is Arsene Wenger.

Seriously, though, trophies are for the weak and titles for the vain. Everybody knows that the true measure of any club’s success is its daily checkbook. Do you have to float some worthless shares in Singapore to be able to afford a teenage Eastern European central defender? Oh. Too bad. Is some Middle Eastern oligarch trying to work some backdoor sponsorships to get around Financial Fair Play? Ah. Poor baby. We all know that the Gunners are the greatest team of the last decade. The “Invincibles era” was their last hiccup of non-profitability, but the club soon straightened out their finances.

Which is why they must and will sell Robin Van Persie to Barcelona.

Like a pint of Guinness on a rainy day, transfer rumors make us warm & fuzzy inside. Yet, for us experienced bloggers, we know that true transfers operate like hurricanes – ominous silence before the storm. David Villa is injured. Barcelona could use a striker. Robin Van Persie is a striker. Henry blossomed at Barcelona after an extended trial run with the Gunners. The clock is ticking on Van Persie’s contract. The cards add up too nicely. And…..nobody has said anything. Silence is the telltale sign. Then comes the Wenger claims of “not for sale”, then comes the briefcases of cash.

But I am breaking that silence. And I am starting this soccer transfer rumor. And unlike ESPN, I will credit my sources. Me (pats on back). Based on uncorroborated reports from the award-winning Futfanatico, Van Persie to Barcelona is a done deal. In fact, the deal is so done that there’s no point in other outlets reporting it. It’s like saying that the sun will rise or the Earth will rotate or Lady Gaga will get drunk and embarrass herself in public. Fait accompli.

I remember a time when Brian and Fredo and I were somewhat surprised at the British Press getting duped by a fake footballer. We were so innocent then. Now, I assume all players mentioned in the British Press are fake, especially when they have preposterous names like “David Silva” or “Robinho”, or come from obviously invented countries like “Japan.” Where do they come up with this crap?

But only a cold and stark reality stands behind the Van Persie to Barcelona trade. I feel sorry for Gunners and disgust for Cules. As for me, I’ll just batter down the hatches and get ready for a wave of hurricane-level traffic. I expect the Daily Mail to pick up this story at any moment……

Digital Image Impressions by the wildly talented Erik Ebeling. Check out his own website Erik Ebeling Art. He also did the original illustrations for “An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish”, available on the Kindle for $5.99. Check out a free preview here. The UK version is available here.

The Frank Lampard Appreciation Society proudly presents yet another chapter in the unedited, uncut version a of Frank Lampard’s diary from this season. Read at your own risk. Warning – this content may not be suitable for mature adults.

NOVEMBER 1, 2011

Genk. The word will forever haunt my nightmares. It seems like just yesterday JT was missing penalty kicks in finals and I was hugging him and reminding him that there would always be a tomorrow. That tomorrow is today. And I can look back at a long line of unhappy yesterdays. We tied Genk in the Champions League. And I didn’t start.

The manager continues to play tricks with my mind, what with the not starting me every game and not playing me every minute. In this game, Ramires scored an early goal, just as I told him to before the match, but then tragedy struck. We won a penalty kick, but our designated penalty kick taker was not on the field. Me. I did shout from the bench for David Luiz to take it, but I specifically instructed him to score. He did not. Then Genk scored. And then, surprise surprise, Mr. Gofer, our “manager,” subbed me in. Super Frank to the rescue. All I needed was a cape!

But even Super Frank needs more than a half hour to create magic. You can’t just grab David Copperfield out of a bus, hand him a hat and wand, and expect him to make the Statute of Liberty instantly disappear. That young Sturridge chap did well, though, and sent me a decent cross. However, he sent me a cross to my feet, not to my head as instructed. If he can just improve that and place a ball on my noggin, I harbor the hope we can turn things around. Assuming I start matches, that is.

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON NOVEMBER 2, 2011

I am ever so upset. On the charter back from the Genk game, I wrote a nice note to Sturridge to compliment his performance, especially the part about passing the ball to me. I sat at the front of the charter, so I passed the note backwards in the hopes it would reach Sturridge at the back. And guess who intercepted it – KALOU. He grabbed it and opened it and read it to everybody. He even imitated my voice and sang “Danny & Frankie sitting in a tree.” I was so angry and also so embarrassed and so sad. Doesn’t he realize that people write and pass notes because they want to say something in private? I really hope we don’t re-sign him at the end of the year. He upsets team chemistry. And me.

NOVEMBER 5, 2011

I am ever so elated! I haven’t much to say because I normally only write in you when things go poorly, but today was marvelous. I started the game, played 90 minutes, and scored the winning goal! I vividly recall the moment. Ivanovic sent me a pass which made me happy, but then I realized the pass would be too low and miss my head, the fool! Instinctively, I closed my eyes, attempted to re-enter the womb, curled into the fetal position, tripped over my own shoes, and headed the ball into the net. It was glorious. I just hope Manager Gopher saw it and learned his lesson.

NOVEMBER 12, 2011

The good times keep rolling and I feel like nothing can stop me, not even Mr. Manager Gopher buzzkill. Well, you can’t stop true genius – you can only hope to not-start it. Or un-start it. Regardless, I am elated yet again! I captained England and we beat Spain! Scott Parker was man of the match, but many journalists overlooked a simple fact – he was only running to where I was pointing. Regardless, I also scored the goal, once again using my patented “no movement /ball bounces invitingly to forehead” approach. I am so so happy! Nothing could go wrong!

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON NOVEMBER 22, 2011

I’m sorry if you think that I’ve been avoiding you, but I’m really really sad. I’ve been too depressed to even pick up a pen. I was scoring goals and starting and the world was wonderful, but then the carpet got yanked form under my feet. We lost to Liverpool at home. I didn’t score a goal and my teammates didn’t give me good passes. It was miserable. Glen Johnson scored a late winner and I sprinted over to John Terry to tell him to not call Glen a black cunt. JT agreed, but asked if he could call him a brown cunt. I don’t think JT quite gets the point at times.

Sometimes I feel like all I have is you. And it breaks my heart.

NOVEMBER 23, 2011

Guten morgen! Even though my team’s season is in a tailspin, I am ever so happy. Why? Well, today I get to see my old friend, Michael, from Germany. We still talk from time-to-time by telephone about the good old days, back when we could stand in front of Essien, walk around, take speculative shots from distance, and occasionally head corner kicks. Michael is liking Germany and even sent me some lederhosen. He said that lots of teams in the bundesliga would love to sign me, and that in Germany, my first name would be “Fran”, not “Frank.” I am not making that last part up!

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON NOVEMBER 24, 2011

I am sad. It was great to see Michael again, but we lost to his team, Barnyard Leavercusack, on another last second goal. The worst part is that I specifically told each defender not to give up a goal in the last ten minutes of the game! And what did they do? Yep. I also tried on the lederhosen, took a pic, and put it on my Google Plus profile for a spell as a joke. And guess who printed out a picture and taped it all over the locker room? KALOU. I hate him.

Worst yet, management got wind and I had to meet with the coach and GM. I had to profess my “commitment” to Chelsea, but nobody had to commit to me. I’ve really started to lose patience with Mr. Gopher Manager. I tried to talk tactics and drew a chalkboard of our team with lots of arrows pointing to my forehead and me standing near goal, but it was lost on him. Simpleton. I actually miss Avram Grant. And Gus Hiddink. And Carlos.

NOVEMBER 27, 2011

The downward spiral continues. I didn’t start yesterday and the manager told me the night before. I slept with the window open and a cold chill awoke me around 3am. I closed the window. I put on an extra layer of sailor pajamas. I got out a second comforter from the closet. I still felt a cold chill. I put on the lederhosen my friend Michael had sent me, but nothing worked. I lay awake, freezing. The day of the game, the team won 3-0, but I only played the last 20 minutes. In that time, I walked, I pointed, and I panted, but I felt the world spinning around me. I was lost in my own jersey, in my own stadium, and playing in the stadium I’ve called home for a decade.

I really hope I get an iPad 2 for Christmas to cheer me up. And a Bentley.

Digital image impression by Erik Ebeling. Check out his other artwork at ErikEbelingArt.com. He also did the excellent illustrations for our soccer eBook “An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish.”

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.

Noted American philosopher and novelist Ayn Rand has graciously cleared her hectic social schedule to answer a few questions about the MLS cup, David Beckham, and also her philosophy of “objectivism.” Please note that while I am a fan of MLS and respect Mr. Beckham’s sporting endeavors, I do not intend for this post to serve as an implicit or explicit endorsement of Ayn Rand’s philosophy. Or their implications for MLS. Nevertheless, as an intellectual celebrity, we were delighted to get a few words in with her.

Even if they don’t really clarify much of anything.

Editor: Ayn, few people know that before becoming a philosopher, you were actually a screenwriter in LA and playwright in New York. As such, MLS fans obviously want to know – were you secretly hoping for a LA Galaxy vs. NY Red Bulls final?

Ayn Rand: Everybody always wants to see the most productive geniuses at the highest level and to achieve greatness we must create systems that do not reward mediocrity. My attachment to those two clubs, though, comes purely from reason and the reason that the strongest, fastest, and swiftest must prevail or we as a society are collectively strangling them in the worst ways imaginable. The fact that I geographically occupied the same region should not be read as some sort of moral or emotional attachment. Only reason must drive the individual, and the individual’s attachment, or success will be unattainable.

Editor: So, um, with that in mind, do you think the MLS playoffs are okay? Should we just disregard geography entirely like they already sorta do? Or do you think the playoffs need to be tweaked? New York playing LA early on and in a Western conference game is kinda weird, right? But at least you must love the fact that both teams have lots of designated players and therefore have put serous pressure on the concept of a salary cap. Do objectivists dig the direction of the league? Do the “haves” in MLS not “have” enough?

Ayn Rand: The “haves” never “have” enough. The Beckham Rule was just the beginning of the inevitable – be it in Russia, or even now in Cuba. The strong will not be shackled for eternity by the mediocre demands of a weakly collective. The runts of the litter will enjoy their teet of milk for only so long, but they will die as the stronger thrive.

Editor: So you think eventually the designated player rule will swallow the salary cap and the Columbus Crew will cease to exist? Interesting. Now, changing gears, your philosophy of ‘objectivism” was pretty popular stateside but largely ignored by the intellectual elite as stubbornly nativist. The basic problem was that you just kinda assumed an objective reality existed free of language, and then built a philosophy on that. Similarly, MLS has arguably built a single entity-franchise model built on Wal-Mart principles that has failed to attract a whole lot of international attention. What do you have to say for you and MLS’ detractors?

Ayn Rand: Philosophers have always lashed out at me for a simple reason – science and technology have supplanted their importance and threatened their livelihood. The old guard of philosophy was built upon mysticism and faith, yet the industrial revolution improved medicine and extended the length and quality of life. Capitalism has rendered the average man incredibly intelligent and self-sufficient. The 21st century man and I have no time to squabble with ivory tower academics that preach blindness to an objective reality everybody can see but them. And as for MLS, the proper laissez-faire policies could allow the producers of greatness to do what they do best – produce greatness. Attention will then follow greatness – it always does.

Editor: Wow, so you’re for no salary cap? Then more international eyeballs will catch an MLS Game? But surely European debt problems at major clubs show that without any check on competition, the owners will spend themselves to death, right? Surely sport is distinct from other enterprises – in PCs, if we are left with only Microsoft, we’ll survive, but if we are left with only Manchester United in soccer, who the hell will they play?

Ayn Rand: I find your lack of faith disturbing. Where you see a monopoly, I see greatness personified atop a mountain’s peak. Do you really enjoy watching Manchester United play against Norwich on a cold Saturday morning? Regardless, you sound like the most cynical of social workers. Even mid-table teams don’t need coddling. The opposite is in order. For example, in terms of MLS, the elimination of a salary cap would allow the teams to recruit top players to then obtain more profit from people paying to see the improved product that they produce. How would that spell a death knoll? Your condescension and lack of faith in the producers belies your cynicism and is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Editor: Um, what about the NASL? But that debate is beyond the scope of this interview and you sound like Data from TNG anytime somebody pokes a hole in your libertarian ideals. Thus, here’s a more practical topic: in terms of the actual MLS Cup Final, who did you expect to win – the LA Galaxy or the Houston Dynamo? Why?

Ayn Rand: Based on the past, often a poor rubric for predicting the future and success, one would think LA was more likely to produce the best product. LA also had a significantly higher investment in assets (players) and was playing the game in the comfort of their own designated industrial production zone (stadium).

Editor: Speaking of that “zone”, Los Angeles, I know that you have long argued that air pollution is a “scientific” problem, not a “political” one. However, anybody who’s flown to LAX can see the cloud of smog. I was in LA for a week and didn’t realize there were surrounding mountains. Surely Chad Barrett would be a step faster if he could breath during games, right?

Ayn Rand: Yet Chad Barrett had a good season and has never doubled over from a coughing attack. I do not blame you for imposing your-concerned-social-worker values upon a professional athlete, yet the freedom of labor and movement offer the solution. If one is not happy in their wonderful industrial metropolis, then the world offers many others full of fruitful occupations.

Editor: On that topic, in terms of the mobility of labor, MLS has continued to rely on the college draft to pick-up talent. However, in Europe, they usually sign teenagers and then send them to elite soccer-focused academies. You’ve come down pretty hard on American high schools and colleges – you believe they only confuse young minds and leave them in a state of disbelief. However, many professional athletes who have avoided this “land of disillusion and poor education” and made mad bank are poor within a few years of retirement. Can we agree that education at least teaches people to not be total idiots with their money?

Ayn Rand: No. Once again, your narrow-mindedness attempts to cleverly graft a sense of value upon flawed institutions. Who are you to judge the spending of another? Who are you to say that Mario Balotelli’s iPad does not bring him immeasurable joy? He has worked hard for his wages and has an objective right to spend them as he sees fit. The individual’s right to autonomous decisions, including the spending of wages acquired for production of soccer playing, should never been subject to such naive “altruistic” and “collective” considerations.

Editor: Alright, I figured you’d say as much. Now, and lastly, this is the most important question – now that his contract is up, will David Beckham re-sign with the LA Galaxy?

Ayn Rand: Maybe.

EDITOR’S NOTE

We at the Frank-Lampard Appreciation Society knew that releasing his diary, the uncut version a, would ruffle some feathers. Nevertheless, we remain firmly committed to shedding light on the player’s life, thoughts, and ruminations during this darkest of winters at the twilight of his career. This historical document will continue to be released, unedited, for the sake of the world’s heritage.

SEPTEMBER 29, 2011

Yesterday was bittersweet. I smiled. I cried. I was exhausted. The manager told me the morning of the game that I was going to start against Valencia (no relation to David), and I was excited. I put on one of my classic performances where I control the game with as little leg movement as possible – a metronome if you will- and I scored my first goal of the season from open play!

However, then the manager got fickle. He subbed me out with seven minutes left. As if I couldn’t have walked another seven minutes! Did he not hear the traveling fans’ applause for my goal? Now, I realize I don’t gallop with the ball like I used to, but class and pedigree are eternal in a thorough-bred. And the worst part is that Kalou, the little runt with the big mouth who came on for me, struck the ball with his hand like a volleyball. Valencia scored on the penalty kick. And we only got a draw.

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON OCTOBER 1, 2011

I must admit I thought of you while I was in Spain. The joy, the sadness, the anger – it all got pent up. I do ever enjoy so much writing in you. You really are my dearest friend. I shall make sure you come with me on my next travels, so that we shan’t be apart for so long.

OCTOBER 15, 2011

Another one of those days. Today I started, played the full 90 minutes, and really feel that the manager is starting to trust me. I make mistakes. He makes mistakes. We all make mistakes. I can forgive him for not starting me in the past so long as he keeps starting me in the present and also the future (which is important). I think he’s finally began to realize that my exceptional leadership qualities continue to shine even when my legs tire. Nobody on this team, not Mikel, not Ramires, not Mata, not Droba, can point to a teammate and tell them to run like me. With my years of experience and the lessons my footballer father taught me, I know where my mates should run before they even know, and I’m not afraid to let them know. So, I didn’t score today, but we won. And my finger pointing played a big part I’d like to think.

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON OCTOBER 20, 2011

I know I said that I wouldn’t ever trust that blabber Kalou again, but I mistakenly mentioned you to him. And, of course, within days, Terry and Drogba were making fun of me. Terry brought a pink and heart shaped diary into the locker room and asked me to sign it after training. I tried to fight back the tears, but when he threw it at my face and then Drogba pulled down my shorts, and then every body laughed, I just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry and cry.

OCTOBER 29, 2011

Yesterday was another bittersweet day. It’s an odd thing. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started thinking more about my legacy, but also my younger years. When I was a lad, I used to love to go to museums and stare at statues. I idolized them. I wanted to be them. I’d stare and stare and always promised myself – someday I”ll stand around, hardly move, be looked at, and be really really heavy. Here I am, close to the pinnacle of my childhood dream, yet now my legacy worries me. We lost to Arsenal.

Of course, I scored a goal. But as the game wore on, my mates really stopped listening to my instructions. I pointed at Cole at least five times and told him not to get dribbled around by Walcott. And what did he do? He got dribbled around. I pointed at Terry and told him not to trip when trying to receive a hospital ball, and what did he do? Yep. I don’t know if they couldn’t hear me because of the noise at the Bridge, but I clearly pointed at them. I was also standing center circle, so they couldn’t have missed me.

As I sit in my study at my loft, I’d like to think that I can pen the last chapter of my career as simply as I write these very words. Yet a tear runs down my cheek. I’ve never much cared for twist endings, especially when my ex-wife made me see The Notebook and it turned out that old ugly hag was crazy the whole time. I hope my time at Chelsea doesn’t end like that.

In our never-ending search for truth, we have consulted a preeminent French cultural expert on a stunning phenomenon: American celebrities professing love to a UK-based soccer club which has not won anything for over 6 years. Who? What? Where? When? Why? How? These are the questions that will not be resolved.

So, without further ado, our interview with Jean Baudrillard.

Editor: Bau-dawg, if I may be so frank, your seminal works on critical theory and the media have not been very popular stateside. Thus, a brief intro for our audience. Basically, you have focused on how technology affects communication, with the basic premise that meaning cannot be separated from how words interrelate. Thus, based on this theory, how do you think Chad Ochocino found out about Arsenal FC? Twitter? Cable TV? Tumblr?

JB: Well, first we must clarify the nature of meaning and, sadly, the answer is negative (chuckles to himself). Meaning is the casting away of other meanings, the discarding of other possibilities. When I say “dog,” I am also saying “not cat.” When you say “Chad Ochocinco,” you are also saying “not Chad CuatroUno.” When this celebrity says “Arsenal,” he is also saying “Not Chelsea.”

Editor: And when he focuses on the EPL, he’s also saying “MLS stinks.” I get your point. However, you’ve also posited that an object’s meaning cannot be separated from images of that object, re-creations of that object, and depictions of that object. You posited a theory of a web of meaning, so that I can’t experience my own knowing of Michael Jordan without also experiencing my knowledge of his face gracing cereal boxes. So, Baudrilla-rilla-zilla, ain’t no one illa, do you think that the EPL balls-on marketing campaign has influenced these celebrities? Did that Henry Nike commercial with the cute dog get all caught up in their web of meaning? Or do they all just have the same anglo publicist?

JB: from the onset, I am skeptical of this endeavor you seek to inquire into. It seems as though you desire to explore the minutiae of the subject beyond the signifier of its meaning, yet this search will only lead you to a delusional path of hyperreality. In the 21st century, with the twitter and Facebook and GooglePlus, we have placed the little under the collective magnifying glass so that it now appears bigger than it is or should be.

Editor: Yet your own post-structural brethren would criticize you for ignoring power relationships. As someone who believes in transparency and human solidarity, I find the world’s ability to see and empathize with local suffering as a plus, so we’ll just have to disagree on that Baudie-poo. But, just kinda ignoring that last part about what you said, isn’t it kinda weird that Michael Moore likes Arsenal even though European soccer is a product of a global capitalist mega-sytem which arguably contributes to human trafficking in Africa? It’s like, dude, you should be making a documentary on this, not buying season tickets. Your thoughts?

JB: Well, as you are aware, my focus has always been on “consumption” in our society, not so much “production.” Thus,  I share your curiosity at Mr. Moore and Mr. OchoCinco’s desire to consume the Arsenal, or at least exchange signs of linkage. In attempting to explain this, we must always remember that there is no innate need, but rather our society constructs needs for objects and then imposes this construction upon our consciousness.

Editor: Sorta like snoods? Speaking of which, Arsenal has recently lost Samir Nasri to Manchester City. The Blues are perhaps the sports team epitome of “symbolic” and “sign” value player purchases – they often buy good players from rivals only to sit them on the bench. The players have “symbolic” value because they are relatively good players, and also have “sign” value because they bring prestige to the club. Conversely, Arsenal under Wenger focuses more on Moneyball “functional” and “exchange” purchases. Do you think Michael Moore or Chad Ochocino can even tell the difference between Theirry Henry and Nicklas Bendtner? Or does a bargain bin used pair of underpants look like a solid “symbolic” purchase to them?

JB: There will always exist a tension between sign value and symbolic value, yet even I have my doubts as to whether Mr. Moore, Mr. Ochocino, or Mr. Z has knowledge or seen Arsenal’s new signing Gervinho before this year. However, I must admit, even my Marxist theory cannot escape the web of meaning. That is to say, Arsenal consumes these players and also adds symbolic value to them. Otherwise, Denilson would probably be mopping a floor somewhere.

Editor: Little Baud Wow, I’d also like to take a moment and ask about Arsenal FC and your term “the end of history.” Basically, you assert that contemporary society has so widely utilized the notion of “progress” that progress is now inevitable and thus meaningless. Since the end of the Cold War, you have sharply criticized the lack of a “Utopian dream” in popular thought, media, and philosophy as evidence that we live in a schizophrenic world where we love the world as is because we have rejected progress while accepting no progress as progress. Does this theory also accurately describe why Arsenal hasn’t won anything for six years?

JB: Yes.

Editor: Billy Bau-den, we have one last question, from a reader. Nick, of London, wants to know…

When post-structuralists write correspondence, do they refer to their school of thought in initials as P.S.? And, if so, have they ever written a letter and ended it with a P.S., similar to postscript, thereby causing confusion?

JB:Well, as my theory clearly states, meaning comes from interrelatedness. So, no, I have not seen P.S. at the end of a letter and been confused – I normally can tell from the letter if they meant to write a postscript as well. They also usually write more after putting P.S. for a postscript.

This is obviously a work of satire. JB passed away several years ago and may he rest in hyperreal peace.

FOREWORD

Frank Lampard kept a diary from September 1, 2011 until June 2012. Initially, he wrote it strictly for himself. Then, upon seeing the success of second rate player autobiographies, he decided that when the season was over, he would publish a book based on his diary. He began rewriting and editing his diary, improving on the text, omitting uninteresting passages, and adding others. Frank’s first, unedited diary is normally referred to as edition a. The second version, though, is known in academic circles as edition b.

At the end of the season, when it became clear that Frank was no longer a regular starter for Chelsea or England, he became frustrated and ceased to write. A secretary found bits and pages of the diary thrown across the locker room in Stamford Bridge. She then turned the diary over to Chelsea’s PR department, who decided to fulfill Frank’s initial wish and publish the diary.

In making this choice, the PR department had to bear several points in mind. For starters, the diary had to be short to fit into the serial blog format common at the time. Out of respect for other similarly discarded veterans, the PR department also initially omitted unflattering references to those players. Frank, who had the maturity of a ten year old at the time of the diary’s writing, wrote openly and candidly about his likes and dislikes.

The Frank-Lampard-Appreciation society, based in London, UK, was ultimately entrusted with these poignant insights into the mind of one of Chelsea’s iconic footballers. The reader should keep in mind that this diary series is based on the a version, not the b vesion, but naturally grammatical and spelling errors have been fixed. We have also added his later comments from the same time period. Otherwise, the words have basically been left as written by Frank, since any attempt at editing would be inappropriate in a historical document.

SEPTEMBER 2, 2011

I hope that I will be able to confide all of my life to you, as I’ve never been one to confide in any person, and I hope you will be a strong source of support. Not like that stupid Villas-Boas. Or Kalou. I once told Kalou a lot of stuff about my feelings, and then the next day Drogba and Terry made fun of me in the locker room. I hope you don’t do that.

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON MARCH 14, 2012

Thus far you truly have been my greatest and most cherished friend. Much better than Kalou. This way of maintaining a diary is ever so pleasant, and I look forward to writing in you daily.

SEPTEMBER 20, 2011

Today was one of those dreadful English days when the clouds didn’t envelope the sun, they’d killed it the night before in its sleep. From the window of my three-story townhouse in London, all is gray. Fall beckons. Outside my window stands a magnificent tree, standing over fifty feet tall and with a thick, sturdy trunk. Yet all its leaves have fallen to the ground, crumpled under a passerby’s footsteps. I feel as though the naked branches point at me.

I’ve been holed up in my townhouse for only a few days, but it feels like weeks. Each second stretches into an eternity that I both dread and grasp. I’d rather be training at the Bridge with the lads, but the manager sent me home to rest up and nurse an injury I didn’t even know I had. Every time I ask about the team sheet for a match, I hear the same story about legs, energy, and later important games. I want to believe the words, but the eyes, tone, and body language speak differently. I am depressed. I am profoundly depressed.

SEPTEMBER 24, 2011

Today the manager told me that I would start, but then right before the match told me he changed his mind. It’s okay, though. I’ve learned to cry on the inside, and only the inside. I thought about telling Kalou, but then I remembered the last time when he told Drogba and Terry, so I didn’t. I feel alone. You are the only one I can trust, the only one who will listen. I’ve tried calling my ex-wife, but she only picks up the phone when it’s my turn to have the kids. Otherwise, she doesn’t answer or respond to my text messages, not even the ones with smiley faces. I hope that someday you’ll respond to my text messages with smiley faces. And you won’t tell Drogba and Terry anything, unlike Kalou.

SEPTEMBER 28, 2011

A few days the manager called me and had me fly to Spain with the rest of the squad. I’d already taken up a correspondence course online and been hanging out in the attic/reading room with my cat Moortje, and the phone call came out of the blue. I’d just started to get comfortable with being useless to the man. He told me there’s a big game and I was an important player, just like he always does. He wouldn’t tell me if I was starting or going to be a sub, just that I’d made the game day roster. I don’t even know what to feel anymore, aside from anguish and disgust. He did send me a text message with two smiley faces, though.

This is obviously a work of satire. Neither Chelsea nor Frank Lampard was involved in the creation of this lampoon.