Football

Kick the ball in the goal. If you love footwork, flail your arms and rollick. This sport is played with a . . . Ten girls per team, and no hands allowed. Now your opponents get to kick off. Those who live in the United States, Spain or Australia can watch the proceedings. I appear on high with my arms draped around my fellow announcers: this is Dave Beckham, and he’s John Rocker. We’re just gonna sit here and judge ye. Start the clock.

Alright, now play. Come, pay attention: play the game now. The first one to drown loses. Go and charge in the direction of the net, and do a head-butt with your bob-cut. That’s cool — here, I’ll award you a ribbon. And I forgot to tell you the latest rule: All dads who are coaches must remain unconscionably obese. OK, back to the action. The players are shooting the football northward. “Holy mocker, she just surpassed the goalie blocker!” Now the star player, who is my girlfriend, sips a soda while the roller coaster presents her in a most offensive position: far upfield. (That’s where all the good weed is.)