Real Madrid produced a fairy tale for merengues by Hansel & Grettling the relegation-destined Zaragoza. In particular, the brothers (not in the literal sense) Diarra showed a strong proclivity for completing ten foot passes to one another. At times, this abdication of responsibility frustrated the fans and appeared a narcissistic attempt at some sort of tedious Guinness record, but still…at the end of the match one cold, snowy, dark, historical fact carved itself in stone – this is officially Pellegrini‘s team.

While Higuain and Van der Vaart will receive plaudits for the mere scoring of multiple goals in a match, Marcelo won the “Mancini-Brazilian-Defender-Adapting-Reasonably-Well-to-Midfield” award. This experiment began under the Schuster reign, struggled under Juane Ramos’ rule, but yielded a scientific breakthrough of algae-Cha-Cha-Cha-Chia proportions. He showed the tact of a Parisian pickpocket and the cunning of a Bobby Fisher. But, of course, his defending was awful.

While Pellegrini is 1 and 1 in classicos this season, and o-fer in the Copa del Rey, his leash re-lengthens by the day and the impressive Van der Vaart looked much more comfortable pulling the strings than little Ricky. Not to say that Ricky cannot pull the strings, but in possession he shows the confidence of a 7th grade male at a middle school dance. His decision-making is similarly skewed.

Despite a 4-0 lead at halftime, the blanquillos continued to bomb forward as if a college football team and points scored mattered for bowl selection. Cristiano brought down a Higuain cross and pulled a triple axel, all in one motion, and the momentum caused a mini earthquake that prompted both goalie and defender to precipitously lose the un-winnable battle with gravity. However, the cocky winger contemptuously placed his bending shot far post rather than helping either get back up.

The last half hour did not degenerate into dying embers, but the offensive furnace lacked a few CO2 omitting coals. In the 61st minute, Raul come on as a super sub and immediately swinged the match towards Zaragoza’s favor. Zaragoza, for their part, played the part of a sacrificial lamb but for the occasional “bah.” And Madrid can celebrate a happy navidad, scrooging Tiny Tim’s chances of staying in the topflight.

From time to time, we actually write about soccer games here. In case you had forgotten. At least when our illegal streams allow for proper viewing of matches.

The Gunners-Liverpool match provided a classic case of the reeling multinational financial institution and the upstart credit union. On the one hand, the American bailout of the Scousers finances a few years ago only magnified the debt and jacked up the interest rate. On the other hand, Torres and Gerrard have a telepathic understanding – without even a phone call, text message, or email, they wore the exact same outfit to work the last four weekends.

Some coworkers get along, others get quite cozy.

The opening fifteen minutes followed the EPL top four formula of a classic rock reunion tour. The band started off on all cylinders, playing all your favorite songs in the span of, well, fifteen minutes. Then, the 55 year old chops, hands, and hips started to show their age. They played a few tunes from that less popular but slightly critically acclaimed (by their standards) album as your elderly father took a break to the johnny on the spots to relieve his overactive prostrate. After treatment, though, both William Gallas and Javier Mascherano were able to carry on despite hip flexor problems.

The Gunners attacked down the right flank where Theo Walcott and Sagna conspired to outrun their own passes. However, even when combining well, the utilitarian calculus lacked an unjustifiable end – did anyone really expect Arshavin to beat Carragher to a cross? A poorly thought out plan, well executed, is still a poorly thought out plan.

Arsenal looked for Fabregas with every spell of the ball, but Mascherano hounded his tiny Spanish counterpart all over the pitch. Alexander Song did his best to cover Torres, with a few late tackles keeping the Spaniard’s highlights bleached on his head and not some Sky Sports clip. Scousers had a halfway legit penalty appeal when Gallas took out Gerrard’s right ankle, but luckily the Englishman’s poor third touch had already short-ciruited his own chance.

When Dirk Kuyt pounced on a poor Almunia clearance, Liverpool garnered a deserved 1-0 lead, deserved as in “relative competence.”

Arsenal started the second half like a cobra on fire, weaving rapidly through the Scousers defense and spitting sparks and venom at every turn. Within minute, Glenn Johnson got caught out of position – in his own defensive box instead of overlaping – and knocked a dangerous low cross into his own goal.

Minutes later, Johnson got skinned by Arshavin with a tomahawk chop turn – bending a curling right foot shot in off the near post. The Scousers sputtered and sputtered, chugging along like a train without a track. Alquilani came on for Mascherano, but even his tidy ten foot passes could not reset the sputtering offensive clock.

The last thirty minutes were a tortured series of uninteresting encores as the bassist fell asleep, the drummer’s arthritic wrists gave way to synthetic beats, and the lead singer lost his voice. The referee, who’s first half laissez faire approach took a page from We the Living, began carding tired players with the interventionist aplomb called for in The Jungle.

Gassed from 70 minutes of running, both sides found themselves susceptible for pivots, elasticos, and a very special trick: the completion of a ten foot pass. Until Liverpool remasters this skill, the Kop will stay a very quiet place.