Sunday Breakfasts and David Baconham

Every now and then, there is born a man destined for greatness. A man whose force of personality binds a nation, a race, a species, despite all their differences and petty squabbles. A man who unites a diverse set of people who previously hated each other and assorted guts by forming a common ground for them to meet. A man whom everyone can unanimously and amicably agree upon to hate till their islets of langerhans hurt (I'm insinuating that is the gland responsible for chemical secretions that we recognize as hate, and you don't know enough to dispute it so piss off). Humanity is so embroiled in hate that is so insignificant and quite frankly, unrewarding, that it needs a sufficiently horrible and despicable public figure who makes for a wholly satisfying bout of hate and vitriol. That's why we had the Genghiz's, Atilla's, Jesus's, Hitlers, and John Lennons of this world - to unite us and teach us that despite our vast differences in taste, intellect, and penis size (by that I mean vastly inferior to me in all), we can find common ground and hate a common person after all. Enter David Beckham.

Why is this guy still alive?? The cruelty of whoever dreamt up this planet is no more evident than in the fact that Chris Benoit killed his family and himself, but Beckham still hasn't.... Can you imagine the collective Karma points we would gladly sacrifice if it meant the Beckhams' timely demise? (of course it was "timely" 10 years back... now it's just way f****ng overdue). Imagine my dismay when I wake up on a lazy Sunday morning to find that not only has England sealed their qualification for Euro2012, but also that Capello still hasn't closed the doors on a certain David Bakehead. Having played for ManU, Real, and a US team, I can safely say he's done all that he can do to ensure I will always pray for his death and eternal damnation (with a particularly relishing prospect of the circle with Cerebrus tearing through the sinners), although theoretically he could still further better his hate record by singing in his wife's albums, clubbing baby seals, and joining Arsenal. With Tottenham, Milan and Capello still flirting with him, I will now go on record to say he'd sooner become California Governor than rejoin actual football. If US doesn't release a Kill-on-sight order on Dave and Posh soon, they're going to become Land of the Fruit and Home of the Bolemic