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I'm clapping for you, Pep.
In spite of my devastating taunts and fear-inducing ponytail, your troupe of hyperactive garden gnomes defeated Zlatan, once again crushing my dream of finally adding the Champions League trophy to my already overflowing silverware Zlabinet. So being the bigger man (I'm a 6'5" Zlatzilla and you're a Pepsqueak) I must congratulate and applaud you.
Except this is sarcastic applause, Pep. And my congratulations are as sincere as a bag of waffles. I bet you feel terrible now.
You won the game and advanced to the semifinals, but you needed two penalties to do it. I could've scored 14 penalties, Pep. While doing an extremely hard Sudoko puzzle and making tech updates to the I am Zlatan iPad app. This is the last time I will tell you to read it. Its monetary value is greater than money and there are 4,572 words about how your neckties are directly related to the clubbing of baby seals.
But I didn't get the chance to score all those penalties, Pep. Because the referee once again gave you the calls at the Camp Nou, in the Champions League, when you needed them most. Now I know how Jose Mourinho feels. Like a supreme winner who has been repeatedly violated in the ear canal by your Pique and Shakira-like relationship with the officials. Tell Pique I said that. I don't care.
So what now? Well, you will probably go on to once again win the only trophy that has yet to gain the Zlatan seal of legitimacy (thus making it worthless and Zlidiotic) while I return to kicking stuff indiscriminately -- plotting your ultimate demise with every slap of my foot against a teammate's kidney.
Enjoy your hollow victory, Pep. But answer this one final question before I go: What do you get when you cross a Zlatan with an ever-growing desire for retribution? Ibravenge.
