Well hello there.
I see you've caught me celebrating my Boxing Day hat trick with one of my less talented teammates. Are you jealous that he has himself around me like a squirrel on an exceptionally handsome tree? Because you should be. ... Ha-HA! I'm sorry, but I can't hear you over the jubilant tones of my satisfied laughter. Ha-HA! I say. Ha-HA!
Yes, as I often do both on and off the pitch, The Berba has once again scored in bunches. I just can't help it. Similarly, if you decide to join me on a romantic excursion into the back of my carpeted van tonight -- which, of course, you will -- three, four, maybe five other Berba-babes will surely follow suit. ... No, I won't have to pay them. The Berba doesn't have to do much of anything to score, you see. The goals just trickle out of me like aged mayonnaise from a leather glove. ... That actually does make sense if you stop thinking about it and just gaze upon my widow's peak. Or my impressive elbow definition.
So, The Berba is once again proving himself to be Manchester United's greatest ever goal scorer when given the chance to casually stand on the pitch. And now, I'm about to make you the real winner by giving you the chance to be the recipient of a sensual Berba-bibbling. ... I know you have no idea what that is, but you'll find out soon enough. And I'll give you a hint: It involves my cousin Timitar Berbatov's dead tooth. Ha-HA!
Oh-OHH! This nameless man hanging onto me is heavier than anything I have ever carried before! Oh, this is not a level of manual labor I ever wanted to experience! Why won't he just let go? Oh, perhaps we should reschedule our evening of dental titillation.
Join us again next time for another chapter in the life of...The Continental...