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Football / Re: 2013 Confederation Cup
« on: June 17, 2013, 02:24:32 AM »Is it me or does Pirlo look like Chuck Norris?
The survivalist adventures of bearded Andrea Pirlo
By Brooks Peck | Dirty Tackle – Tue, Aug 28, 2012 1:31 AM EDT
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Bearded Andrea Pirlo: defiant and determined. (Getty)
In the summer of 2012, sometime between Italy's 4-0 loss to Spain in the final of the European Championship and the start of Juventus' preseason friendlies, Andrea Pirlo retreated from the putrid society of man. He rose above the murders and deceit, the wars and corruption. He sacrificed all of his worldly possessions and took up residence in a fortified bunker high up in the Alps with just his axe, his wits and his beard for comfort. These are the adventures of Bearded Pirlo.
Bearded Pirlo only comes down from the pure air and angst powered espresso machines of his mountain home and into the pollution and decay of the modern world to grace us with the beauty of his football. And sometimes to stare at people who haphazardly park their cars until they eventually develop a sense of shame and refuse to talk on the telephone ever again.
For exactly one hour every night he weeps for all those who suffer under the rule of greed and stupidity. Then he collects his tears in a jar and places it on a shelf carved from stone with the others. On the day that there is no more room for tear jars on the shelf, Bearded Pirlo will hold out his index finger and unflinchingly point it at everyone who has contributed to the general horror of the world. Even babies.
But for now, Bearded Pirlo is biding his time. Winning football matches and eating the corks off old wine bottles fuels his ever-growing desire. He bounces ideas for revolution off his most trusted ally, a goat known as Davide, and uses his sponsor-issued Jeep Grand Cherokee as an outhouse. When he sleeps, he dreams only of revenge for crimes that have not yet been committed. And Davide trying to use a knife and fork with his front hooves.
At the moment, his true nemesis remains unclear. This is the only thing keeping us from the inevitable wrath of Bearded Pirlo.
Part 2
Awake.
Bearded Pirlo's eyes burn and every part of his body not encased in dense bearding feels filthy under the blast of stale air pumping out of the airplane vent above him. Rest has escaped him since three nights before Italy's loss to Spain in the Euro 2012 final. Silva then Alba then Torres then Mata. It repeats in his head as his fingers dig into a leather satchel of mixed nuts he foraged for himself while on an excursion from his fortified bunker high in the Alps. Sebastian Giovinco asks for some, but Bearded Pirlo pretends not to hear him. He wishes his beard covered his whole body so he could better blend with the Yeti.
Bearded Pirlo has no home, only places where he waits. And sometimes dances without smiling. Davide, his only trusted friend and goat, does not ask for things like Giovinco. He just takes and gives. But he never dances. At least not in a way that would be recognizable to humans.
The World Cup seems far away, but Bearded Pirlo knows that diligent preparation is still necessary. He chases eagles and nods knowingly when they glide out of his reach. Silva then Alba then Torres then Mata. There is much work to be done and only when it is complete will there be time for merriment and teaching Davide how to high-five.
Bearded Pirlo's true enemy remains unclear. For now, scheduled opponents will suffice. The plane finally reaches its gate and while his teammates slow themselves down by fiddling with personal electronics, Bearded Pirlo thanks the flight attendent for offering him fizzy chemical sludge in a cup and water from a factory then he heads for the exit. The captain looks like a child as Bearded Pirlo takes control from here. He makes his eyes real wide and then squints.
Bulgaria.
