World Cuppage

The day is upon us. The special day that arrives once every four years when Americans get to pretend that they actually give a shit about soccer. When we get to pretend we give a shit about Europe. When logic like “My mom’s paternal grandfather was French” and “My last name sounds like it could be Italian” and “I prefer lasagna to ratatouille” deems you a winner or a loser.

But who am I to judge? I spent the day in a hot, crowded bar with everyone else. Staring at the TV screen and discussing penalty kicks and red cards over a pint of Stella, like I actually knew those terms existed before last week.

And for some strange reason, I’m happy that Italy won. Why? Because the Italian players are cuter, of course. Hooray for soccer.