Germany spanked my country’s beautiful women 11-0 yesterday in the Women’s World Cup China 2007. In a game as low-scoring as soccer, this would be the equivalent of a baseball team scoring 28 runs or a football team tallying 121 points. In other words, a slaughter.

As I told , who was quick to remind me of this score this morning, this result would be depressing if i cared about Argentina women’s soccer. But the truth is, our women are not known for their soccer skills; they’re known for their beauty. Ask anyone. Everyone knows German women, though, are men.

I-66 agreed:

“I want HGH tests on the Germans. Word is they all follow Der Hügensprechtheaden religion, which is loosely translated to mean “Barry Bonds is God”, and that they got all the Chinese Gideons to add passages from the Book of Roids to their bibles for them to read between shaving their mustaches and going to bed.”

Don’t believe us? Look at this photo from the match:

Credit: FIFA

That is German player Birgit Prinz towering over — and, I’m assuming, later eating — our minas It is NOT an optical illusion and she is not, by from what I have heard, related to mythical figure Paul Bunyan.

Argentina’s loss is sad but not catastrophic. We still get to lose to play England and Japan before our mujeres can go home and continue to avert men’s gazes.

Besides, the Argentine men beat Australia 1-0 yesterday in a “friendly” in which the score didn’t accurately how dominating our side played. In that game, the men didn’t have to play German men women; but the kangaroos didn’t help.

El Guapo earlier this month. He hung up his famous Guatemalan mustache and became a civilian. Some of his former blog readers are not taking it well:

UberSchatz said…
Yeah. Why?? Damn it! This always happens to me. I find a good blogger and then they quit after a short time of me having discovered them. Curse you Gods of the Bloggers.

AZ :o( said…
My heart aches, a little more laughter taken from me…

taotechuck said…
I have shaved my vastly inferior mustache in honor of your decision.

Still, EG has come out of retirement to do the one thing he has done best since becoming my virtual hermano — make fun of Argentina. Here is an e-mail he sent me that he graciously allowed me to convert to a guest blog post. At least he didn’t steal my wallet.

“So, I’m in Seattle for a couple of days. I’m walking with a colleague who is new to Seattle and showing him around. I know that he is a fan of steak and happened to be walking by an Argentinean steak house, so I figured, why not?

You know that I try to not do anything that helps the Argentine economy in any way. You know this. The only reason that I ate there was a sign that said they proudly served Nebraska beef. I figured if I stayed away from any Argentine wines, I was actually giving money to the waiter. If the owners were even from your little country, they may send some back home, but I figured that if I paid by credit card, they would at least be taxed. So, as you can see, my thought process was very much against helping your country.

Ok, I’ll get out of the way that the steak I ordered was good. I knew it would be. It is Nebraska beef, but I did enjoy the presentation. It came out on a grill thing [ed. This is called a parillada] and I ate off of wooden dishes. Very good. En serio, very good.

The reason for this e-mail was the dessert. I ordered flan. It was the worst flan I’ve ever had in my entire life. I don’t even think that it was flan. Argentina should have its flan card pulled because of this damn restaurant. It had the consistency of papaya that was left out in the sun and drenched in urine.

Credit.

Don’t get me wrong, I ate the entire thing, but only so that I could write to you prior to my food poisoning.

Tell your people to stay away from flan.”

This e-mail, naturally, spurred a few replies.

Arjewtino: “On behalf of mi gente, I apologize for this restaurant’s flan. It’s only fair as long as you apologize for the guy who stole my wallet while I was coming back from Pane to Antigua.”

El Guapo: “Look, I can say, with 100 percent certainty that I was in an Argentine restaurant, and, can therefore place the blame on your people. You, on the other hand, assume because you were in Guatemala that a Guatemalan stole your wallet. It could have just as easily been a Honduran or even an Argie… My people don’t do that… Not always.
Not usually. Not really. Actually, were you wearing your Argentina shirt?”

Arjewtino: “I was wearing my dark blue, tougher-to-recognize Argentina “road” jersey. Your specious reasoning isn’t convincing.”

El Guapo: “I found it as convincing as it gets. specious… showoff.”

Hermanita, Abuelo, and Arjewtino at a sidewalk café not named Starbucks

Starbucks recently announced it is invading expanding the company into Argentina, a cotuntry where, along with its traditions of great wine, beautiful women, and World Cup championships, is rich in coffee and café culture.

The prospect of ordering an acidic “cup of José” from a surly — yet gorgeous — Starbucks barista is pretty depressing. After all, stopping in to sidewalk cafés in Buenos Aires for a cortado is part of the charm of visiting the city.

I remember meeting my grandparents for coffee after school when I was 9-years-old. Mi hermanita and I would chat over glass-bottled Coca-Colas while people-watching on Avenida Cabildo. And on my most recent trip to Buenos Aires, joining for breakfast at her favorite café/restaurant was always the best way to start the day.

It’s not that I hate Starbucks or boycott its shops. My mom regularly sends me $25 gift cards to Starbucks for no reason, which I happily spend on dulce de leche frapuccinos.

It’s just that I know what Starbucks does. It takes over. It shuts down independent coffee shops and other chains as easily as Guatemalans bow down to Argentineans. It overruns local coffee commerce like Maradona shredding an England defense. It sucks the life out of unique, independent shops with its homogenized and ubiquitous green logo.

I really have no idea if my fellow porteños are excited by this infection expansion or not. I’ll e-mail my cousins soon to find out.

But for now, let’s hope the next time I visit Argentina and sit down for an espresso and medialuna, it doesn’t cost me more pesos than my uncle makes an hour.

Update: sent me this photo of McDonald’s in Cairo; if you look closely at the left side of the photo, you can see the Little Caesar’s:

I hate David Beckham.

Wait. Strike that. I don’t hate him.

I hate English soccer players.

Yes, that’s better. That’s what I mean.

Though the Argentina national team has played England only 11 times, our games have always carried paramount significance surpassed only by those against Brazil. Between the famous “Hand of God” game in the 1986 World Cup to the more recent tournament matches in 1998 and 2002 –- not to mention the ill-fated 1982 Guerra de las Malvinas (Falkland Islands War) — Argentines and Brits have grown to hate each other when it comes to futbol.

My mom even threatened to disown me when I had a British girlfriend during the 1998 World Cup matchup (which Argentina won in penalty kicks).

So with Beckham coming to the U.S., I had to root against him. I went to RFK last night with Baby Bien and other friends to watch soccer’s Golden Boy make his debut against DC United.

Here’s the play-by-play from my night:

5:13pm: Arrive in RFK’s Lot 8. Meet up with , who’s tailgating with his soccer league and Barra Brava. Bust out my River Plate jersey, worn to show solidarity with DC United’s red/black/white colors and animosity against anything English.

5:17pm: Hear first chant in favor of Boca Juniors (River’s rival).

5:18pm: Start drinking 40-oz. Miller High Life I bought at 7-11 before the game. Eat spicy beef jerky. Show how classy I am.

5:43pm: Imoan and Jo-Jo show up. Steal some Heinekens for them.

5:50pm: GoPats shows up, angry. Steal Heineken for him.

5:59pm: Laugh at someone’s home-made sign which will likely be confiscated: Bend Over Like Beckham.

6:17pm: School some random 9-year-old boy at soccer by promising him $1 if he can dribble past me. Boy fails three times. Celebrate alone.

6:40pm: Baby Bien finally shows up. Walk to RFK. Chug fifth beer in a hurry.

6:52pm: Arrive in $43 seats along with 46,686 other fans. Act amazed at what some Mike Tyson-sounding British dude can do for American soccer.

7pm: Game starts. Settle in to watch DC United beat up on the last-place LA Galaxy.

7:01pm: Hear first “Bend it like Beckham” joke.

7:02pm: Hear second “Bend it like Beckham” joke. Realize this will be a pattern throughout the game.

7:03pm: Discuss with Baby Bien attractiveness level of girl in Israel soccer jersey in row in front of us.

7:28pm: Celebrate Luciano Emilio scoring his league-leading 13th goal of the season, giving DC a 1-0 lead.

7:38pm: Watch Beckham jog on the sidelines. Discuss odds of him actually playing in the game.

7:45pm: Get text message from Tits McGee, who is sitting in some other section in RFK: “those shorts make your ass look fat btw”

7:47pm: Take a leak at halftime. Consider tripping some sycophantic kids wearing Beckham jerseys.

8:03pm: Get back to seats to watch second half.

8:10pm: Baby Bien discusses idea to start a DC Jewnited club. I suggest he start it on Facebook first.

8:21pm: Receive second text message from Tits McGee: “I just ate a 12 inch sausage. Does that make me gay?”

8:22pm: Watch every other shot on the RFK jumbotron of Beckham warming up.

8:24pm: Another text from Tits McGee: “is your dick hard yet? Beckhams putting on his cleats…”

8:25pm: Consider the idea that Tits McGee’s level of homophobia is indicative of some deep-seated feelings of sexual guilt.

8:39pm: Beckham strips off warmup jacket and T-shirt. Puts on LA Galaxy uniform (longsleeve, of course). Goes to the sidelines in preparation for entering the game. Crowd starts to simultaneously cheer and boo.

8:40pm: Beckham runs onto the pitch. The noise is deafening. Cameras flash, little girls wet themselves, grown men capture the historic moment on their Blackberries. Guy in front takes picture on his IPhone. Everyone watches with envy.

8:43pm: Girl in row in front of us flirts shamelessly with Baby Bien.

8:41pm – end of game: Watch Beckham actually play really well, kicking a 40-yard free kick into the penalty area and momentarily scaring me into thinking the Galaxy might tie the game.

9:03pm: DC United wins game. Try to guess what my all-time record at DC United games is. Maybe 17-4-5?

9:30pm: Stuck in HAL’s (formerly known as Luddite) car in the parking lot. Drink Yuenglings in backseat. Eat Wheat Thins. Run to bushes to take a piss.

10:17pm: Finally get out of cramped parking lot.

10:54pm: Get to Columbia Heights Metro.

11:13pm: Miss Fort Totten metro stop because too busy reading.

12:15pm: Finally get home after arguing with cab driver at West Hyatsville over the cost of the fare, taking the Green Line train back to Fort Totten, cursing loudly after missing the Red Line train because someone jackass wouldn’t walk on the left of the escalators, eating at 7-11, and taking bus home, realizing it took me longer to get home than it did to watch the game.

Thanks, Becks, for a great game. You have an open invitation to join our DC Jewnited club.

Because we’re not Guatemala, Argentina beat Mexico last night 3-0 in la Copa América semifinals to advance to the tournament championship against Brazil – a rematch of the 2004 fiasco.

That final game, which I watched three years ago with a gazillion Brazilian fans at Marx Café in Mt. Pleasant, made an atheist out of me. I watched a 2-1 Argentina lead in stoppage time evaporate as Brazil scored the equalizer in the 93rd minute. The 93rd fucking minute! After my friends – who I warned not to razz me at that crucial moment – left the bar, I went home and cried.

You can’t have it both ways, kid.

Seeing my country line up in soccer’s “overtime” for penalty shots causes a dread matched only by my fear of coconut. (Seriously, that stuff is disgusting, how do you people eat it?) We all saw what happened last year in the World Cup against Germany.

The sting of that loss, coupled with my disgust of Americans’ obsequious worship of the Brazilian team, makes me absolutely sure that this Sunday, when the two South American futbol giants meet again, Argentina will win. Unless the ball is five times bigger than my head and the players are made of plastic.

Photo credit.

The Argentina-Brazil rivalry has been unmatched internationally since their first match in 1914, which we won 3-0. The teams have played each other 88 times, with Argentina winning 33, Brazil 34, and including 21 ties. Red Sox-Yankees seems like child play comparatively.

The Copa América, for those who don’t know, is the oldest surviving international football competition in the world, held for the first time in 1916 in Buenos Aires (won by Uruguay). Argentina is the most successful team in its history but hasn’t won a championship since 1993.

Click for a better view.

I’ll be watching the finale in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, with The Princess and her host family, which, I’m told, hates Argentina. Imagine that! who hates Argentina! How odd.

And when los Albicelestes hoist up that trophy, I might cry.

Vamos, vamos Argentina,
vamos, vamos a ganar,
que esta barra quilombera,
no te deja, no te deja de alentar!

My Green Line train was late by six minutes last night on my way home. I mumbled softly something about Metro’s inconsistent train schedule and went back to finishing The Examiner’s crossword.

What I didn’t do was this:



From the :

BUENOS AIRES, Argentina: Road rage is common in many countries. But in Argentina, railroad rage was the talk of the town after riots shut down one of South America’s busiest train stations during a midweek rush hour.

In one of the largest outbursts of passenger fury over poor service in years, mostly working-class commuters rioted at the Constitucion Plaza station in Buenos Aires after a train breakdown threw Tuesday’s departures into chaos.

Rioters set fires, destroyed ticket booths and looted shops. About 100 police fought back with tear gas and arrested 16 rioters. Another 21 people were injured.

Passengers on commuter rail lines, privatized in the 1990s under then-President Carlos Menem, for years have complained the new operators are failing to provide timely service on crowded routes.

My native country has a long tradition of social unrest and demonstrations. In an election year such as this one, it becomes even more common in Buenos Aires and Argentina for people to fight back at perceived inequalities, corruption, and incompetence in our leadership. This riot is yet another example of el pueblo’s level of frustration and, combined with the current airline strike, milk shortage, and threats to halt garbage collection, the frayed strings holding Buenos Aires together are ready to snap.

Thanks to Roosh for the heads up on this one. Good luck on your trip to South America, buddy.

Mike Myers once told me through a giant movie screen, “There are only two things I hate in this world. People who are intolerant of other people’s cultures. And the Dutch.”

While I had my own reasons for hating the Dutch –- 1998 World Cup Quarterfinals -– I always thought of Holland as just that cute little European country where you can smoke pot in bars and the soccer players wear sissy orange jerseys who cheat their way through global soccer tournaments.

Now comes this story from the BBC (thanks to Canadian H for the heads up):

One of the men who received safe passage to Argentina at the time was Karl Adolf Eichmann, Jr. You may remember Eichmann from such international war crimes as “Chief Architect of the Jewish Concentration Camps” or “That Guy Hannah Arendt Wrote About in that Book You Were Made to Read in your Freshman Humanities College Course, ”.

The lesson here? Always listen to Mike Myers.

Whether it’s love advice…

“I say hurl. If you blow chunks and she comes back, she’s yours. But if you spew and she bolts, then it was never meant to be.”

…an intelligent debate on the Second Amendment…

“A gun rack… a gun rack. I don’t even own *a* gun, let alone many guns that would necessitate an entire rack. What am I gonna do… with a gun rack?”

…or an experiment in spoken word “poetry”:

“Harriet. Harry-ette. Hard-hearted harbinger of haggis. Beautiful, bemuse-ed, bellicose butcher. Un-trust… ing. Un-know… ing. Un-love… ed?”

Thanks Mike Myers, you clairvoyant, hockey-loving, box office goldmine. We should have listened.