I don't blame God when babies die. I don't rail against Him when a shooter runs wild on a
campus. I don't shake my fist at God when earthquakes terrorize fragile cities like an invisible
Godzilla. Loved ones have been taken from me, and so will they ever, and I too, will join them,
perhaps before my time. I blame God for nothing, because it is all part of the plan. I know that if
the good lived forever, and evil smothered itself to death in its own vile before it could ever
spread, I know that it would mean we are living in heaven. I know that here, on earth, evil exists
to separate the bad from the good. Evil reigns because Satan rules the earth. I learned it all in
Sunday School when I was a child. When we get to heaven there will be no more evil, but in the
meantime, hey, there will be sorrow, sadness, anguished tears, and no justice for the good.
There will only be wickedness, sin, and death. Okay, I get that, but THIS?
In order to get inside Wembley, Everton had to pass a crippled beggar outside who pleaded, “It's
freezing, and I'm starving to death. Just a farthing or a crumb would help...†Everton gave the
wretched soul a steak dinner, twenty dollars, a lottery ticket, two pints and a tea with biscuits,
and then passed by to attend to their business. Dalglish chucked his wheel chair aside, tore off
his hood, snickered, and ran around the back to prepare his club for the match.
Everton began the match just a bit unsteady. For a moment, they forgot that they were the
superior team. They forgot that they had the sexy streak going, they forgot that they sat above
their overspending, befuddled neighbors in the standings. They forgot that they were the better
team. However, that only lasted a few minutes, if that, and soon Everton were treating the red
team as though they were a black team of cats. In fact, Everton were showing signs that this was
not your father's Everton, but your grandfather's. Liverpool were acting like they wanted to **** a
brick, and then they did. In the 24th minute, Everton, still applying pressure, caused Dumb and
Dumber to watch the ball with their mouths agape. Did the ball hold the secret for world peace?
Dunno. Was the ball about to tell the pair how to achieve time travel? Dunno. Did the ball hold
sacred scarab beetles that would allow mankind to live forever? “Argh, no more talk!†Jamie
Carragher roared, as the demons leaped from his head and into the little rolling white ball.
Sweating now, and speaking in tongues, Jamie kicked at the demons in the ball. Alas, it was
just a little white ball. The swine were only in Jamie's head. The kicked ball smacked Tim
Cahill, and flew into the path of Jelovic. He didn't take a touch, a moment, a beat, or ask silly
questions. He just kicked the stupid ball into the kopites net. Wembly erupted, and even the
kopite goalie didn't seem too upset, because just a few days ago he was a Starbuck's
“Barrista.â€
Liverpool responded by throwing the hapless andy carroll at Everton the way fleeing stage coach
drivers used to toss boxes of women's undies from the stage coaches to slow down pursuing
Indians. It worked for a bit: Carroll got the proper hat trick of misses. Missed open net with a
header, with left foot, with his right foot, but indeed, Everton began to lose their momentum.
However, halftime arrived with Everton just gaining the upper hand again. One began to wonder
what the scoreline would be had the wingmen, Osman and Gueye, decided to take part in the
match. Indeed, Baines was missing Pienaar, and this match was missing Drenthe. The match was
proving to be too large for Gueye. It would be interesting to see if the second half contained
adjustments that David Moyes was up to making.
Halftime. Everton were poised to break this match open. Who would make the adjustments needed for a date in the final?
Sometimes I think that we humans beat each other up so horribly, while God and Satan engage in
“Gentlemens Agreements†over their quibbles. How else to explain Distin gifting a goal to a filthy
swine like Suerez in the 62 minute? When Silvain poofed a gentle pass toward Howard onto the
racing hoof of swinerez who knocked it passed Howard, the match turned from probable Toffee's
romp, into a finger-gripping-hand dagger fight. As the match progressed, the managers'
acumen was called upon as much as the players' stamina, and Moyes blinked first.
He brought the overmatched Guye off for Coleman, brought Maro up behind Jelavic, and dropped
Cahill deeper into the midfield where he could go from invisible, to completely invisible. The
move made no sense, unless you heard Satan's clever voice saying, “Fair is fair...â€
Before God could agree, Carroll skidded a free kick off his own horrible head, past Howard and
into the net, and black flies burst forth from the skies over Wembley. Three-eyed laughter and
strange music trailed behind the flies and into the skies. I curled up, and with my tongue and
will, tried to control the sick that surged toward the back of my teeth. My flesh prickled, and the
hair quivered on the nape of my neck. Then Dalglish raised his fists toward the London sky and
the tidal wave of sick burst from its dam, through my lips, and splatted my TV screen. My eyes
began bleeding, and I wiped my mouth and eyes with my sleeve. When I recovered, I raised my
fist toward heaven, and without a though as to why, I thanked God for making me a Blue.
http://www.schoolofscience.eu
campus. I don't shake my fist at God when earthquakes terrorize fragile cities like an invisible
Godzilla. Loved ones have been taken from me, and so will they ever, and I too, will join them,
perhaps before my time. I blame God for nothing, because it is all part of the plan. I know that if
the good lived forever, and evil smothered itself to death in its own vile before it could ever
spread, I know that it would mean we are living in heaven. I know that here, on earth, evil exists
to separate the bad from the good. Evil reigns because Satan rules the earth. I learned it all in
Sunday School when I was a child. When we get to heaven there will be no more evil, but in the
meantime, hey, there will be sorrow, sadness, anguished tears, and no justice for the good.
There will only be wickedness, sin, and death. Okay, I get that, but THIS?
In order to get inside Wembley, Everton had to pass a crippled beggar outside who pleaded, “It's
freezing, and I'm starving to death. Just a farthing or a crumb would help...†Everton gave the
wretched soul a steak dinner, twenty dollars, a lottery ticket, two pints and a tea with biscuits,
and then passed by to attend to their business. Dalglish chucked his wheel chair aside, tore off
his hood, snickered, and ran around the back to prepare his club for the match.
Everton began the match just a bit unsteady. For a moment, they forgot that they were the
superior team. They forgot that they had the sexy streak going, they forgot that they sat above
their overspending, befuddled neighbors in the standings. They forgot that they were the better
team. However, that only lasted a few minutes, if that, and soon Everton were treating the red
team as though they were a black team of cats. In fact, Everton were showing signs that this was
not your father's Everton, but your grandfather's. Liverpool were acting like they wanted to **** a
brick, and then they did. In the 24th minute, Everton, still applying pressure, caused Dumb and
Dumber to watch the ball with their mouths agape. Did the ball hold the secret for world peace?
Dunno. Was the ball about to tell the pair how to achieve time travel? Dunno. Did the ball hold
sacred scarab beetles that would allow mankind to live forever? “Argh, no more talk!†Jamie
Carragher roared, as the demons leaped from his head and into the little rolling white ball.
Sweating now, and speaking in tongues, Jamie kicked at the demons in the ball. Alas, it was
just a little white ball. The swine were only in Jamie's head. The kicked ball smacked Tim
Cahill, and flew into the path of Jelovic. He didn't take a touch, a moment, a beat, or ask silly
questions. He just kicked the stupid ball into the kopites net. Wembly erupted, and even the
kopite goalie didn't seem too upset, because just a few days ago he was a Starbuck's
“Barrista.â€
Liverpool responded by throwing the hapless andy carroll at Everton the way fleeing stage coach
drivers used to toss boxes of women's undies from the stage coaches to slow down pursuing
Indians. It worked for a bit: Carroll got the proper hat trick of misses. Missed open net with a
header, with left foot, with his right foot, but indeed, Everton began to lose their momentum.
However, halftime arrived with Everton just gaining the upper hand again. One began to wonder
what the scoreline would be had the wingmen, Osman and Gueye, decided to take part in the
match. Indeed, Baines was missing Pienaar, and this match was missing Drenthe. The match was
proving to be too large for Gueye. It would be interesting to see if the second half contained
adjustments that David Moyes was up to making.
Halftime. Everton were poised to break this match open. Who would make the adjustments needed for a date in the final?
Sometimes I think that we humans beat each other up so horribly, while God and Satan engage in
“Gentlemens Agreements†over their quibbles. How else to explain Distin gifting a goal to a filthy
swine like Suerez in the 62 minute? When Silvain poofed a gentle pass toward Howard onto the
racing hoof of swinerez who knocked it passed Howard, the match turned from probable Toffee's
romp, into a finger-gripping-hand dagger fight. As the match progressed, the managers'
acumen was called upon as much as the players' stamina, and Moyes blinked first.
He brought the overmatched Guye off for Coleman, brought Maro up behind Jelavic, and dropped
Cahill deeper into the midfield where he could go from invisible, to completely invisible. The
move made no sense, unless you heard Satan's clever voice saying, “Fair is fair...â€
Before God could agree, Carroll skidded a free kick off his own horrible head, past Howard and
into the net, and black flies burst forth from the skies over Wembley. Three-eyed laughter and
strange music trailed behind the flies and into the skies. I curled up, and with my tongue and
will, tried to control the sick that surged toward the back of my teeth. My flesh prickled, and the
hair quivered on the nape of my neck. Then Dalglish raised his fists toward the London sky and
the tidal wave of sick burst from its dam, through my lips, and splatted my TV screen. My eyes
began bleeding, and I wiped my mouth and eyes with my sleeve. When I recovered, I raised my
fist toward heaven, and without a though as to why, I thanked God for making me a Blue.
http://www.schoolofscience.eu
