Good evening everyone, I hope your weekend was better than Real Soccer Expert’s. It started with so much promise, setting anchor in the harbor of Sam Francisco and awaiting passage to the Copa America kickoff. That is not a typo you just read, I went to Sam Francisco. My yacht captain, Dinkish Bloodsatan, knows the finest ports to sail into and once again delivered with this tiny harbor designed to look just like nearby San Francisco but without all the tourists and start-up losers asking you for angel investments for their “Uber for Knee Shaving” app.

The quaint private seaport is owned by Sam Walton’s beleaguered ogre shaped niece Samwhistle Walton-Buttkiss. Poor thing, but hell of a harbor she runs. Anyway, the trip started great. We docked, waltzed up to our arranged transport (which if you ever need to travel between west coast cities check out TableTop travel. They whisk you around on a table covered in fruits and cheeses carried by four able bodied gentleman. Chair for the table is optional and recommended), and we set forth for the Friday night Copa America matchup between USA and Colombia.

Well, that’s where it all went south. Literally. We ended up in Arizona due to a slight miscalculation by my able bodied carriers and 42 hours later strolled up unexpectedly to University of Phoenix Estadium. Well, as luck would have it we were right in time to see Chile face Mexico. Or so we thought. Turns out there was another twist on this day as the Uruguayan team had switched out their national anthem for Chile’s to try and trick Mexico. Mexico, for their part, seemed very tricked. As did in fact many of the Uruguayans. It was a good prank by all.

The game started comfortably enough. Mexico parading around the pitch out-scampering the Uruguayans in blue. However something quite curious began happening very shortly into the first half. Something I haven’t seen in the USA before and could only be described as nightmarish torture of the human condition. The players’ bodies were rendered completely susceptible to even the slightest of pains. The gentlest touch ravaged their souls and ripped their spines from its bony roots, sending players sprawling and spinning and screaming on the ground. It was quite worrying, and as I cried out for a doctor I was booed down by the classless crowds urging each player to his excruciating death. It was the worst experience of my entire life, and I left the stadium as the bloodthirsty howling of the crowd echoed behind me calling out for more and more pain.

I later found out that this is what is known as “diving” and the players were FAKING their grotesque injuries. It really boiled my soup to find this out, and honestly I’m disgusted by the behavior of these “professionals” playing international soccer. I’ll stick to MLS thank you very much.