Well, you did it, Robin. You helped Manchester United win the title in your first season with the club. You scored a hat trick to finish it off and you did it just in time to force Arsenal to either give you a guard of honor at the Emirates or look as bitter as Alex Ferguson after watching Nani get sent off in the Champions League. Also, it's Man United's 20th title and you wear the No. 20 shirt. That's so cute that I can taste my stomach acids leaking from my nasal passages.
It really couldn't have worked out more perfectly for you if you publicly forced us to sell you to the winningest club in the country. Oh wait, that's pretty much what you did.
By the way, how's that little boy inside you, Robin? The one you said was "screaming for Manchester United." It's been eight months since you said that and it's still the weirdest thing I've ever heard a sober, mentally stable adult say. Still, like all little kids, I can only imagine that you won the league long after he stopped caring about Man United in favor of things like cartoons and video games and bizarre drugs that aren't even illegal yet.
Anyway, your celebration after beating Aston Villa was hardly the transcendent expression of joy and breakdancing that one would expect from a man who has never won a league title in his professional career. Perhaps somewhere between seeing a shirtless Rio Ferdinand celebrate like a velociraptor and the fans go through the motions for the fifth time in the last seven years you realized that winning the league in your first season with a team that only lost on goal difference last season wasn't quite as fulfilling as it would've been if you had stayed with Arsenal and finally, one day, finished the task you had worked towards for the majority of your career. After all, Michael Carrick's presence makes everything exactly 10 percent less fun. That's just science.
As a Manchester United player, who are you, Robin? You don't have the personality of Eric Cantona, you haven't been there since you were 19 like Wayne Rooney and you don't have an unruly combover of doom like Sir Bobby Charlton. If you had won it at Arsenal, you would have evolved into a god. But there you're just another great player who helped them win a title in a long line of great players who helped them win titles. They'll win more trophies in the future and for the rest of your life you'll just be the grey-haired Dutch guy who doesn't have a name as cool as Ruud van Nistelrooy's. Unless you change yours to something like Hank von Brainstain. Which you should totally do. Right now.
It's like helping an experienced gigolo find sex instead of someone who's hit a dry spell and hasn't done it with anyone or in any form (not even hand stuff) in nearly a decade. For the gigolo it's just another notch on the bedpost. Meanwhile, the other guy finds himself humping couch cushions late at night while watching the home shopping channel without the sound on. Or something like that.
As for the guard of honor, Robin — yeah, we'll do it. In anticipation of this moment, I told all your former teammates not to wash for the last month and a half. Instead of being a moment of pride and accomplishment that holds a special place in your memory bank, it will be a gauntlet of body odor that will forever taint your sense of smell the way Andrei Arshavin taints my daily life.
So in conclusion, you'll find my eloquent congratulatory message to you written neatly on my middle finger, Robin. The words are pretty small so take a good close look. And remember: you achieved your goal while dressed like a tea towel. Congratulations. And I mean that sarcastically.
2013/14: Prepare for the Wengering.
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