...has hit Rasinovo Nabrezi 76. And how. I've even designed a special "World Cup" logo to mark the no doubt endless comments I'll be making on the subject.
Today, some introductory remarks: everything you need to know to discuss the World Cup knowledgably over a wine spritzer at a po-mo literature conference.
The World Cup is a giant fooball tournament (that's soccer, for you moms in suburban North America, that thing you drive your children to after their Japanese lessons and before you hide in the laundry room and drink the cooking sherry*).
This time around, for reasons no one has explained to my satisfaction, it's being hosted by Germany.
Many, many countries will participate, even Switzerland.
Teams will play until a winner emerges. If there is no clear winner, the German President will call on the side with the most shots on goal to form a winning team, which it may do with support from another team, but not from the Communists. Or the Nazis.
The winning team gets a trophy that looks like an arthritic hand clutching a doorknob.
The competition is only held every four years because it takes approximately that long to get through the preliminary rounds.
Canada has not qualified.
*Author's note: My impressions of typical suburban North American life are mostly based on John Cheever short stories, "The Ballad of Lucy Jordan," and (I've just realized) a childhood spent watching endless "Flintstones" reruns. And don't try to tell me Bedrock was a city.
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