Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Contrary To What We Were Told...

I cannot confirm the myth about people running like a Welshman. We didn't see a single runner in Wales while we were there. Not one. I feel betrayed. And tired. And a bit like I have palsy.

We spent a mere 20 hours in Wales for Cardiff City's 2-0 victory over lowly Barnsley on Friday night, but we were shocked to find out that nobody runs there. Not on the streets. Not in the train station. No running, anywhere. There's apparently very little running in Wales. There was some running on the Ninian Park pitch itself in Cardiff, but the only starting Welshman, Joe Ledley, ended up being carted off for the remainder of the match after a botched attempt at running.

We didn't see Liverpool at West Ham on Tuesday, so we missed a chance to see Craig Bellamy running like a Welshman. We had a good shot on Wednesday, but Blackburn's Robby Savage broke his leg right before our trip and did not play. Rovers' manager Mark Hughes is Welsh, but he didn't run anywhere. Bastard.

I wonder what the Welsh words are for "What a fucking letdown." I wonder whether I'd even be able to even read 'em, considering I have no idea how to pronounce anything in Welsh, let alone platforms:

C'mon! Are you freakin' serious, Wales? How many Ls and Ws and Ys do you Welsh wanna use to create words? I refuse to speak fluent Welsh until that shit gets fixed. Sorry, llwyfixed.

On the way from Wales to Birmingham for the Aston Villa 1-0 victory over West Ham, we decided to act like six-year-olds and desecrate everyone's photo in the tabloid newspaper. And by "we," I really mean Donnie Fiedler, who created new headlines and scribbled penises and boobs into just about every shot in the paper. But the first target was six-foot, seven-inch beanpole and Liverpool striker Peter Crouch.

The Gangly Handful had a most unfortunate pose in the photo accompanying his article, and the halogen-lamp striker with the stroke of a pen quickly become Crouch Hitler. Hey, Crouchler sure beats the celebratory Crouchbot, if you ask me.

The last thing I want to force into your mouths and throats heads is a song that'll be climbing the UK Pop charts in no time. Our love for Norwegian winger and Blackburn standout Morten Gamst Pedersen is well-documented. The Arctic Monkey's name was the focal point of our trip to Dewey Beach this past summer and clearly a main player in our jaunt to the UK, where we watched him in person stink it up against Chelsea in a 3-0 rout of Rovers last Wednesday night.

Gamst (seen here about to try one of many unsuccessful corner kicks) that evening surely sucked the biggest, floppiest donkey dick that donkey dick suckers have ever sucked. Both he and the rest of the Rovers didn't even show up, but that doesn't change our love of Gamst. Nor does it halt the production of this hit single we're about to produce. Sung to the tune of Bon Jovi's Bad Medicine, try getting this one out of your head any time soon, suckers:

Gotta love the "Rx" symbol thrown in there for good measure. Actually, you really gotta love that we almost took this sign to the Chelsea/Blackburn match itself. What a bunch of jerks.

Gaaaaamst, Gaaaaaamst Pedersen. Plenty more to come...

Previously on Slack LaLane: I'm Back, Baby (An Introduction)


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