This is not a preview, it’s a meview. If you want to read something that makes sense, I suggest you click here for Kxevin’s thoughts on the game.
Huh!?! What?!? Huhyaaaaaawn…
Yo man, you up?
Wh-wh-wh-huh? What? Who is this?
It’s me man, me, that’s who!
Maaaan what the… (yawn) It’s three in the fu… (yawn) You know what time it is, you f—–g prick?
It’s CLASICO TIME!
(a loud crashing sound ensues, which is either indicative of the end of the world or of a culer falling out of his bed and generally making a mess of what once upon a time looked like a bedroom)
What? Where? When? Clásico? Here? Now?
No, not now. Take it easy. Keep that heart attack at arm’s length from your chest. Breathe in, breathe out. The game is tomorrow.
Tomorrow? So why you calling me at three o’clock in the morning?
I can’t sleep.
Tomorrow’s the Clasico.
Oh. Right. Why don’t you watch tv or something, get your mind off things? And let me sleep! Jeeez…
I tried that but they talk about the game on every channel.
Oh, right… Uhmmm… Hold on… Why is there a picture of the Camp Nou above this article? The game is at the Burn-the-Eeew.
Man, you’re slow!
Yeah, so? What does that got to do with it?
It’s got everything to do with it.
You’re a jerk. What do you think of the game?
Well, do you want my BFB-contributing, sangria-drinking, happy-go-lucky, rallying-the-troops and stand-behind-my-team opinion or do you want my honest opinion?
What do you really think?
Color me culer but I think we’re gonna lose. M*drid is playing like a monster right now. What do you think?
Man, you’re one pessimistic son of a bee. We’re gonna kick some whitey butt. We’re gonna run rings around Pepe until he bites his own —hole. We’re gonna make D-Lo wish that he’s Iker and Iker wish that he’s Sara sitting at home and breastfeeding the baby. We’re gonna make Ronaldo cry piss from his eyes, only they don’t call it piss they call it CR7. We’re gonna rip Bale’s nuts off and feed them to Tomás Roncero. We’re gonna fill their diapers with blaugrana doo-doo and snap the neck off of any Ancellady that tries to change ‘em.
Dude, forget I even asked. I forgot how weird you are. And Tomás Roncero would probably love to eat Bale’s private parts. Or at least nibble on ‘em just a little bit.
Man, he’d gobble ‘em up. And who you calling weird? Look at you, man, I mean, man, just look at you!
My point exactly. But I wish I shared your confidence. I’m also worried that Martino might have lost the team.
Lost the team? Martino? Not the Pope of the Pampas, no Sir. Gerardo knows what he’s doing. They don’t call him Tata for nothing.
Ta-Taaaa, Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-Taaaaaaaa! Ta-ta-ta-ta-Taaaaaaaaa!
Oh, I get it. Yeah, blazing trumpets. Cute. Some say he’s not Catalan enough for this team.
Sheeeeit, by the time he’s done they will hand him the keys of the city. He’ll be trainer, mayor ‘n president and all at the same time. Every other sentence heard on the streets of Barcelona will be “Who the f— is Pep?” They will change the country’s name to Tatalunya!
Enough with the madness already. You’re making my head spin. Why can’t you be more normal, like me? I thought you’d be more chilled out half-asleep. You’re still a crazy bastard.
I am chilled out, man. What the f—.
Yeah, I guess you are not as bad as usual. Wish you wouldn’t cuss as much, though.
Awwww be honest, you love me the way I am. Show me some love, man, let’s do it!
Hey, kids might read this, man, that’s nasty.
Here we go again (sigh). Always with the kids, huh. No kidding, man, but you’re boring! Anyway where we gonna watch the game, bro?
See, I don’t know. I don’t wanna go to La Rambla cause there’s just way too many tourists out there.
Shit now who’s crazy? The Rambla. Ha! Very funny! You act as if you’re in motherf—–g Barcelona or something.
Eh, du-uh! Where have you been?
Inside your head.
Yeah, and have you ever bothered to look out of my eyeballs?
I see a computer screen. An orange wall. A fan. And three mirrors. What you got three mirrors for? Wanna be three times as ugly?
Look to the left.
Out the window.
(waaaait for iiit…)
WHOAH!!! Oooh shit! We’re in (breathe), we’re in (breathe), we’re in (breathe), we’re in…WE’RE IN BARCELONA!!!
You mean I. In the eyes of our beholders there is no we, ’cause we are I. One person, not two. You should know that by now. This ain’t the first Clàssic preview signed by yours trulies. I, that’s who!
Yeah, whatevs b—ch. We live and direct from the city that never creeps: Mother…F—–g… Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar – Ceeeeeeeeeeeee – LONAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! BARCELONA! BARCELONA! BARÇA! VISCA EL BARÇA! BARCELONA! OMG. I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! WE’RE IN BARCELONA. BARCELONA! BARCELONA! BARCELONA. OH MY MOTHERF—–G GOD! I CAN’T BREATHE. I CAN’T (breathe), I CAN’T (breathe), I CA– I CA– I CA– AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGHHH! BAAARCELONAAAA! BARCE—
Calm down, calm down. Calm down. I know how you feel, boss. Please, just trust me and calm down. Maintain focus. Stay sharp. Concentrate. Waaait for it. And inform our readers in a cool and collected manner that we will now write our articles for the best football blog in the world from the best football city in the world. The Camp Nou better be ready for us, and by the way, I really hope you’re not gonna get me banned. Enjoy el Clàssic, y’all! Visca el Barça i visca Catalunya. Over and out.