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Victory in the World Cup? Why the Hell Not!

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It's World Cup time again. If you're a casual soccer fan like I am, it's time again to nervously overlook the scourge of the sport like urine bombs, hooligans, and the Italians as you attempt to give this wildly popular event its due. At least that's how I approach it.

If you're ready to take it to the next level, however, pop on over to fantake.com's Pitchmen -- a covert attempt to take over the global futblogosphere, or at least grab some gratuitous page views for would-be advertisers like Canon or Carlsberg.

Seriously though, the guys at Pitchmen know their stuff and give favoritism and affiliations their full unalienable rights -- apparently all teams are not created equal. P.Drez is unapologetically blue in the face for Chelsea whereas Toadvine puts his guns up for Arsenal. Bricktop is also a fan of the Gunners but we fear his poison tongue may have finally cost him his life as he hasn't been seen since April. Jungleheat is the domestique of Manchester United's stabbin' cabin and Vasherized has blood lineage to the once mighty Liverpool throne.

But if there's one thing the Pitchmen can all agree on, it's their uniform mockery of Huckleberry's Man City squad, funded by Roman Abramovic's controversial Russian petrodollarz which fell just short of buying a top-four finish and automatic Champion's League berth. That spot went to as yet unclaimed Tottenham, who hadn't won anything since HenryJames was boring half of England with his weighty tomes.

With the World Cup underway, the gents have set aside their club affiliations for a few weeks and invited me to join them over at The Red Lion Pub here in Houston on Saturday when Sam's Army takes on those bloody Brits.

I'll be joined by that strapping Swede, magnusbleuveigner (we thought that handle represented something else entirely), and Toadvine, a Western/Euro half-breed sort of mix that went by Ghostofagroundgame before attending Cristiano Ronaldo's summer aesthetician camp.

So it's us three against hundreds of Union Jack-clad Brits hellbent on our destruction on the pitch and in the bar, which is ironic when you consider I'm a full-blooded German who grew up surrounded by thousands of Los Tricolores tricking me into eating menudo and various habanero-laced dishes.

At some point during Saturday's festivities, I fully expect to make the Emergency Room save by catching a pint of Bass Ale Sly Stallone-style before it goes careening off bleuveigner's prodigious head by the hand of a Cockney Londoner. And we'll be destroying a pinata of a Spaniard rolling around on the ground crying at halftime, so come on out.

All this typed, fuck the Brits and Michael Ralph Dixie Millicent Wayne Rooney. USA, ftw!

Here's to Victory! Victoire!