Well hello there.
I see you've caught me celebrating one of my two goals against Bolton. I am also wearing gloves. This should all be very erotic for you.
You'll have to excuse me for not gazing directly into your gorgeous eyes in this time of titillating joy, but there are two very good reasons for this. One, you told me not to after catching my cousin Timitar and I hiding behind your bath towels, waiting for you to take a shower earlier in the week. I still don't know how you discovered us. Perhaps it was the tripod setup that Timitar had for the video camera. And the fact that I was only slightly less sweaty than I am now. Ha-HA!
The other reason I'm not dazzling you with my powerful ogling is because there are simply too many beautiful Berba-babes in this stadium vying for my attention. ... Like who? Well, there's one lovely chickadee over here who is giving me a "come hither" look and I just might take her up on her overtures. Ha-HA! ... No, that's not an old man wearing a mullet wig. It's a ... look, if you're going to get jealous, then I suggest we go somewhere more private — like an old van that boasts such features as an orange shag carpet, a poster of two wolves mating inside a library, and the Teletubbies soundtrack stuck in the cassette player — and discuss this like two consenting adults with the cousin of one of those consenting adults in the corner videotaping the entire affair. ... Why are you leaving the stadium when the game isn't even over yet? If it's because of Antonio Valencia's garlic breath, then I forgive you.
Oh-OHHH! There's a dark smudge on my sleeve! Oh, how did I not notice this before?! I really hope that's not shirt herpes.
Join us again next time for another chapter in the life of...The Continental...
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