Yeah, well, this sucks. I sucked. We all sucked, man. Major suck-o. God. No one wants autographs today, huh. No pictures with Mr. Number here, hey. Now we all have to get on the bus to go home. I hate the bus. It sucks. I’m a millionaire. How many millionaires you know ride the bus to work. Sandro so damn cheap he makes us punch a ticket every ride too. Damn, that sucks.
I hope I don’t have to sit next to Dan on the bus. Don’t get me wrong, Dan’s o.k. Sometimes we wonder about him, you know, the tattoos and funny hats. At least he got rid of the fuzzy wristbands. But he always has to listen to those big-ass headphones on the bus. They cover, like, half his head. And they’re loud. I don’t really feel like listening to Carib-o-Brazil-o-rap-hop or whatever the hell noise that is right now. Sometimes a guy just wants to sit and be quiet for an hour and not get a migraine. Why not just get the iDiamonds like a normal person. Match his earDiamonds.
I don’t even know what I’m gonna do when I get home. Take a walk around the subdivision? Big whoop. I remember how cool it was the first time going through the big gates of Ciudad Diagonal and walking up to my big ol’ front door with the gold knocker and the big DING DONG when the guys came by, Andrés and Gerry and Dan, knocked me out. I got it all set up with the Bose sound and the built-in megaplasma over the remote fireplace and all that shit. View of the sea from the john, man. Now it’s like, ugh. Whatm’I gonna watch, anyway. Geez, I hope I get home in time for “Punto Pelota”. Don’t wanna miss that episode.
Maybe I’ll just go for a drive. Audi gave us all cars a season or two ago, but I really don’t feel like the guys seeing me, so I won’t take the A1. I wonder if Paco’s got the Spider tuned up like he said he would. Or else there’s the Mas. I don’t want Cesc to see me go out of the garage though. Did you see what that mofo did to his Mercedes? I mean, some guys treat their cars like they’re goddamn toys. Shit can hurt someone. Maybe I’ll just drive all night. I’ll drive right into Madrid and double-park in front of Cristiano’s ride. God, that guy sucks.
I wonder if my girlfriend’s home. She’s hot. She gets mad when I say that. The guys’ll go, Hey, how’s Carla or Merche or or whoever and I’m like, She’s hot. And she gets that look on her face. Then she craps about how I’m only about her looks and I’m like no, babe, you’re real cute too but apparently that’s not good enough. I’m supposed to appreciate something else, like her sense of humor or something. I go, Carla or Merche or whoever, you don’t get on the cover of ¡Hola! in a bikini ‘cause you say such funny shit in it. If she weren’t so hot wouldn’t I get rid of those puffy poof-pillows she leaves on the couch? Shit is Armani, man. Godamn Grembo set me back, that’s for sure.
Oh well. At least there’s the baby. He likes me. Or she, I forget. Carla says it’s hard to tell until there’s enough hair for a bow and I say, Merche, I am a swarthy Mediterranean man and my offspring are gonna have themselves some hair. And that shit stays until we’re old enough to ink up the guns. She says, Why don’t you spend some time with the baby and I say I just got the Mas interiorized. It’s calfskin and smells don’t come out, s’why I don’t let you smoke those stinky Ducados in there. I can walk, I guess. The guys all go for walks with the babies, that’s pretty man these days. Wags dig it.
I just wish … I just wish I could talk to someone. Dude who understands my pain, you know? Someone who’s bummed out too, but not too bummed out, like these sad sacks on the bus who’ll just get me downer. Just someone to listen, you know? Well, he’s probably home. I’ll try him. Got’em on speed dial from World Cup back when.
So, hey … Iker?