Knock knock, Pep.
Who's there? Zlatan.
Zlatan who? I am Zlatan. And your chin looks like a Greek person's elbow.
How do you like that Pep? I don't mean my joke about your elbow chin -- that's genius, so of course you don't like it -- I mean the fact that I held your band of hormone-infused munchkins scoreless for the first time in their last 30 Champions League matches. On the Zlatan scale of happiness from one to Ibrafinity, I bet you're at a negative Pepteen right now. That's bad. Super bad.
Milan ran Zliot (that's a riot, but with dangerous levels of Zlatan drizzled over it) on you at the San Siro and you were helpless to fight back. But why didn't I score a goal to completely destroy you once and for all? Because like any great showman/executioner/human python I'm building the anticipation and will only strike when it hurts you the most. In the second leg. At the Camp Nou. While your friends eat gluten free ham.
But just to be clear...since I know you think highly of yourself...I don't think about you at all anymore, Pep. In fact, even as I taunt you right now, I'm not thinking about you. I'm thinking about me and my teammates. And me. And the I am Zlatan iPad app. Which, again, you really should read. It is priced equivalent to a cure for gingivitis and has not one but three chapters about how I could kick you so hard that it makes your brain forget that you were just kicked.
And how do you know I didn't just do that right now? You don't. Except now I'm telling you that I did, so you do.
Feel the confusion, Pep. Feel the confusion and let the anticipation build until my inevitable Zlatpot. Head kick!