World Cup Soccer Widow

I'm lodging a complaint: I'm a "soccer widow." Danny, along with a total of perhaps 3 Americans, 5 Canadians, and the entire rest of the globe, is mesmerized by the World Cup. In this event, men of all citizenry dash sportily about a green field for 90 minutes chasing a small, checkered ball. The goal is to get the ball into a net the size of a whale. However, what these people do is get a whole set of other people to try and stop them from doing exactly this. Apparantly this is a thrill.

People pay exhorbitant amounts of money to go and watch this live--money which could otherwise be spent on the poor and needy, their wives, or baby formula. The only difference between one long, drawn out "match" and another is negligible: varying colour costumes. I know this is important because the cameras often zoom in on the shorts, which is a sneaky way of zooming in on some spectactular thigh musculature (statue of David eat your heart out). Personally, I would like to crawl behind the TV screen and simply PUT the ball INTO the net manually, so that we can all return to the Most Important Thing, which, of course, is Sam.

Here's a photo of Sam yesterday morning, June 10, 2006, during the England/Paraguay match. Sam is practicing his bicycle kick. What a clever boy. He's also wearing a colourful outfit which shows off his thighs -- thighs worth some media attention if it weren't for the $*!% World Cup.