The disgraces for the first leg of the 2012 Champions League semifinal between Chelsea and Barcelona are as follows:
There were absolutely no f***ing disgraces in this game. And if you say that my occasional and totally reasonable telekinetic pain tumbles were a f***ing disgrace then you are the one who is a f***ing disgrace! (Looking at you, Sergio Busquets.) If anything, my goal was the exact opposite. Which, for the record, is an "asexual moment of honor."
OK. If I was going to nitpick, I would say the fact that Roman Abramovich would not agree to stroke my cat, Kitier Katba, during the match was a disrespectful f***ing disgrace. But given Kitier's incredible girth, Mr. Abramovich would've needed a pulley system to keep Kitier from crushing his lap and the necessary supplies were not immediately available. I'm still upset about it, but it's whatever.
Anyway, yes, Barcelona were unlucky with their finishing, but that was partial cosmic payback for the sins of Ovrebo. Only partial, though. We still must make it through the second leg at the Camp Nou -- where Barcelona are more invincible, Xavi and Cesc have their secret anti-suffering towel fort and Twilight vampire baby Andres Iniesta feasts on the life-force of all referees who enter.
There is still plenty of time for disgraces, so I must now wait and remain vigilant. I must also try not to make eye contact with Fernando Torres while I keep getting selected to play and he doesn't. That's an awkward f***ing disgrace.