Arsene Wenger gently gloats about beating Spurs without spending any money

Brooks Peck
Dirty Tackle

So I'm just a cheap old man, huh? Just drooling in the corner like a dental patient pumped full of too much novocaine and hoarding money as if it were Beanie Babies, right? A stubborn relic who is out of his depth and no longer has what it takes to win? "Spend, spend, spend!" they said. Waving signs at me. People crying in the streets and screaming on television and making YouTube videos just to mock me and my puffy coat. Well what now?! ARSENE. WENGER. That's what now. That is what now! I'd instruct my critics to go tell their mothers that they just got owned, but all those ladies are busy at my house. Learning responsible financial planning. WA-BAM.

To help you process what just happened here in a place called real life, let me break it down. Spurs went out and sold their golden goose. Which is fine. I know that game. I invented that game. There's no shame in it. But while it was happening, they completely lost their minds and spent more money than there actually exists in nature. They put together a Costco sized variety pack of international players and everyone couldn't shut up about what a genius their wannabe Lex Luthor chairman is. Meanwhile, I threw up and waited with the patience of a giant French ninja.

Now fast forward to Sunday. I just brought back Matheiu Flamini as my second free transfer of the summer because I didn't want him eating soup in a tree house for the rest of his life. Everyone is convinced that Spurs are better than the polio vaccine and that I am a broken car phone. It's the youngest manager in the league against the oldest. The shrewd dealmakers against the screwed dealfakers.

So naturally Spurs won 4-0 and I immediately got sacked and had to start a new life as a propane salesman in Mongolia, right? WRONG, dumbbell. Olivier Giroud. Twenty-third minute. My genius signing from last summer who only scores league goals in London scores a league goal in London. 1-0 final score. WA-BAM.

Suddenly everyone else is the idiot and the universe is giving me a golden shower as a reward for keeping it real. Nevermind the fact that Tottenham's players barely know each other's names yet, let alone how to play together. Or that I might have slipped PCP into Andre Villas-Boas' pre-match coffee. I won while Arsenal fans held up banners that said "In Arsene we trust" and sang "What a waste of money" at our rivals. Throw in a mythical creature that's half Luis Suarez and half panda bear and an actual fourth place trophy and that's my exact fantasy come true. Plus I have enough cash stashed away to smother the sun! Regardless of what happens in the last 35 matches of the season, I have now been proven right forever. Suck my puffy coat, chumps!

Seriously, never doubt me again.

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