Zlatan Ibrahimovic welcomes Pep Guardiola to the Champions League quarterfinals

Brooks Peck
Dirty Tackle

Hello, Pep.

Remember me? I am Zlatan. The only player too great for you to tame. I see your head is still so afraid of me that it refuses to grow hair. That's unfortunate. For you.

I enjoy being the bearer of bad news, so here it is: The Champions League draw has once again dropped your Zlatanless gaggle of elves into my path of triumph and destruction. And unlike the group stage, when I let you win just to make this moment more painful, you will be crushed like the ice I use to make virgin margaritas.

By the way, have you read my book, "I am Zlatan," yet? It contains many nice anecdotes about how awful you are at pretty much everything. Including table tennis and geometry. You've probably been too busy trying to heal David Villa's leg to read it, though. My legs are strong, Pep. In fact, they are each as strong as a fully grown Zlatan. And since each fully grown Zlatan has two Zlatan legs, it creates an infinite loop of strength and power and chin hair. A diagram of this is included in the I am Zlatan iPad app. It costs more than a pizza.

What do you say we make a wager on the outcome of our climactic showdown? When I win, you have to leave football and become a bird dentist. "But most birds don't have teeth," you'd say if you had my zoological knowledge. Exactly.

And when you lose, I will take pity on you and end our blood feud, confident in the knowledge that I have vanquished you once and for all. I will then hug you. And as the comfort of that superior hug sets in, I will slap it out of you.

Note that you do not win in either scenario. Zlatzee!

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