Look who won the Ballon d'Or, Sepp. No, it wasn't your beloved "good boy" Lionel Messi, it was me — the person you mockingly said has "more expenses for the hairdresser." Well what did you think of my hair when you had to hand me the trophy, Sepp? It looks like yours is bowing to me.
I'm sure many people were surprised to see my tears of joy upon accepting the Ballon d'Or. They probably thought I was overwhelmed with emotion after all the hard work I put in to finally beat Lionel Messi to this award again. But this was not why I was crying. In reality, I was crying because I realized that I am more powerful than even I thought.
I beat you, Sepp. It started when you said you prefer Messi and marched in front of those Oxford students like a commander in the dinosaur army and then had to publicly apologize to me. It then continued when you extended the Ballon d'Or voting deadline mere days later to include a period where I was playing and Messi was out with an injury to his angel hair pasta hamstrings. And now it culminates in that extended voting period giving me more votes than your favorite even though I was the only finalist who didn't win any trophies this year. And to top it all off, you had to hand me the award while Messi had to sit there and slowly realize that when you win the Ballon d'Or, you can look cool in a shiny red suit, but when you don't win it, you just look like an overpaid cruise ship DJ.
I am now more powerful than you, Sepp. That is what made me cry those joyful tears. I defeated you and Messi and all of FIFA. I have always believed that I am the best footballer, but even I did not think I could overcome a rich and powerful international organization like yours after years of being labeled the bad guy for saying I believe in myself and not being as modest as the metallic tomato blinding everyone from the front row, whose name is used as round after round of high caliber ammunition against me.
Given the long struggle it took to get to this point, I am going to enjoy my reign at the top. As will my son, who is already a far bigger man than you (and he's three). I am in control and you are nearing a retirement in which you will work part-time applying spray tan to the wax figure in the Cristiano Ronaldo museum, which is what I plan on turning FIFA headquarters into. I am the boss now, Sepp. And I'm starting to like the sound of "Commander Cristiano."
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm headed back to the hairdresser's chair, where I will sit and admire my two golden balls while you are left with none. Gold or otherwise.
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