By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
By Michael Roberts
By Melanie Asmar
When the news surfaced that Sir David of Beckham would not be traveling to the beautiful borough of Commerce City, there to grace the feudal throngs with his signature brand of Cockneyed bendery, my heart sank like an Indian preteen in a shitty movie noteworthy only for giving the world Keira Knightley. Because What's So Funny is a soccer kind of guy. In addition to following the plights of various international teams, I've been known to keep an eye on the UEFA Cup, the Champions League, the EPL, La Liga, the Bundesliga, Serie A and occasionally even France. France! The best imported African talent usually comes through France, and don't even get me started on my love for African players. Didier Drogba had to have a restraining order issued against me last year, and even though as a condition of that order I technically shouldn't be writing about it, I'm willing to risk going back to the West London barracks, my love is that strong.
Still, when word came down that the Los Angeles Galaxy had purchased the rights to David Beckham, I immediately canceled the Fox Sports World channel, as well as my subscription to World Soccer Magazine, deciding right then and there that the only soccer I needed to watch was that played in the U.S. of A. Because now that we have the best soccer player in the world right here, why would I want to watch soccer from anywhere else?
And if you believe that, then, like, I have a bridge, in...uh, like, Terabithia that I would like to sell you.
Beckham is not even one of the top twenty players in the world right now, as any knowledgeable soccer fan will tell you. In order to transform the quality of Major League Soccer, you would need fifty Beckhams — and probably eighteen Poshes, all liberally be-speckled in the finest of blood diamonds. But while the quality of the league has not been magically transformed with the arrival of Beckham, attendance has. Fans are swarming the stadiums to get a glimpse of the dreamy icon, and Beckham has been playing quite well in return. But playing too much. Prior to his arrival in the States, Beckham's left ankle caught cancer or something and has been very touch-and-go, to say the least. And rather than resting it properly, Becks has been playing on it, even flying back to London last week for a friendly against Germany. A friendly! Non-soccer fans, that means a scrimmage, a game with no further implications. Becks, I get that you're still mad about the War and all, but let it go, brother, we need you here. A lot of people had a lot riding on your presence in glorious, bewitching, radiant Commerce City this past weekend.
David LaFrance certainly did. Sure, a bunch of sponsors wanted you here just for their profit margins, and I wanted you here because I miss you like the deserts miss the rain, but damn, at least I didn't have to dress up like a toilet! That's what LaFrance, the director of finance for Denver Water, did at halftime: He dressed like a toilet and ran across the field until a Rapids staffer tackled him and the JumboTron blasted the message "Stop Running Toilets." It was an irreverent little stunt put on by the good peeps at Denver Water, designed to encourage us to conserve water and save money. But one that certainly suffered from the absence of Becks.
"I was let down," LaFrance admits. "I only agreed to do this because I thought Posh was going to tackle me. I was deeply disappointed that didn't happen. But I was happy to see the Rapids take three points and move ahead of L.A. in the standings. Our slogan is 'Use only what you need.' I think the Galaxy needed to use more."
Snap, LaFrance, that's pretty big of you. But I'm not nearly as charitable. I had a ticket to see Beckham, and come hell or shattered ankle, Beckham I wanted to see. That's why I'm starting a vicious rumor right here that David Beckham and Posh Spice are against saving water. Matter of fact, I've heard that when Posh graces her throne-like golden toilet with her ornately bejeweled backside, she deliberately flushes eight or nine times, cackling defiantly. And she leaves the sink faucet on the whole time, too, and the shower, just because she knows Tom Cruise! And by knowing Tom Cruise, she knows that she and Becks will be picked up on the Scientologist spaceship any day now, so what does it matter if they waste the earth's resources? They're out of here when shit hits the fan. Selfish, selfish, selfish. Call Al Gore, alert the masses, send some hippie in Oregon up a tree, because this is big.
Ha, ha! Take that, Beckham! You were a no-show for What's So Funny, and now you must suffer my slanderous wrath. When the heat of this insatiable defamation becomes all too oppressive — and it no doubt will — feel free to give me a call, and I'll help you wash this mess away. We'll start with a make-up apology tour of sublime, enticing, pulchritudinous Commerce City. It's really quite stunning this time of year.