The survivalist adventures of bearded Andrea Pirlo

Brooks Peck
Dirty Tackle

In the summer of 2012, sometime between Italy's 4-0 loss to Spain in the final of the European Championship and the start of Juventus' preseason friendlies, Andrea Pirlo retreated from the putrid society of man. He rose above the murders and deceit, the wars and corruption. He sacrificed all of his worldly possessions and took up residence in a fortified bunker high up in the Alps with just his axe, his wits and his beard for comfort. These are the adventures of Bearded Pirlo.

Bearded Pirlo only comes down from the pure air and angst powered espresso machines of his mountain home and into the pollution and decay of the modern world to grace us with the beauty of his football. And sometimes to stare at people who haphazardly park their cars until they eventually develop a sense of shame and refuse to talk on the telephone ever again.

For exactly one hour every night he weeps for all those who suffer under the rule of greed and stupidity. Then he collects his tears in a jar and places it on a shelf carved from stone with the others. On the day that there is no more room for tear jars on the shelf, Bearded Pirlo will hold out his index finger and unflinchingly point it at everyone who has contributed to the general horror of the world. Even babies.

But for now, Bearded Pirlo is biding his time. Winning football matches and eating the corks off old wine bottles fuels his ever-growing desire. He bounces ideas for revolution off his most trusted ally, a goat known as Davide, and uses his sponsor-issued Jeep Grand Cherokee as an outhouse. When he sleeps, he dreams only of revenge for crimes that have not yet been committed. And Davide trying to use a knife and fork with his front hooves.

At the moment, his true nemesis remains unclear. This is the only thing keeping us from the inevitable wrath of Bearded Pirlo.

What to Read Next