Like this.......
"Lately, I've been looking forward to Everton matches with the same excitement I get when I see mashed potatoes. Maybe it's because our team selection is spooned out onto the pitch the same way potatoes are plopped onto cold platters in rescue missions at dinner time. Well, I tuned in to this one, just the same, except with the smug confidence that comes when the opponent is Manchester City.
Before the match Phil Neville urged the Evertonians attending the match not to boo J. Lescott, but to lob cue balls, fling sharpened pennies and spit poisoned darts, instead. City are a treat, are they not? They are a millennium of failure that were given a bazillion dollars out of nowhere. They started buying players the way a drunken homeless person spends money when he wins the lottery: "Gimme fifty-thousand chicken mcnuggets, a billion books of matches, and two-thousand bottles of your finest 'Red Dog!' Instead of hiring a real manager, they put the poor-man's Jose Mourino in charge, and after spending all that money they are now crowing that they have a chance to finish fourth and reach a cup final. Sorry, fods, been there, done that, and on less money than it takes to feed a cockroach.
Speaking of cockroaches, Jolene, quit telling that story about the knife fight. The truth is you had plastic surgery to make you look like Dionne Warwick, and when your face began to melt you made up a dodgy story about Indians, women, and knives.
Well, this match started out with tuber-like intensity, and it wasn't until the 25 minute mark that City decided they would take the three points if Everton didn't want them. Everton shrugged, so a fellow named Tourre took a pass at a tight angle and shot neatly and firmly into Everton's goal.
Everton responded like bemused, patient fishermen, lobbing the ball quietly up field without any hope of really catching anything. Oh, Rodwell let a couple get away, which is the only way to tell if he is still out there. Oh, question: What happened to Victor? He played as though City had cheated him out of an apple pie and he wanted it back! It was almost as though he drank Yakubu's patented lion blood concoction.
Well, halftime came and the sound system, as has been a tradition, of sorts, replaced "Grand Old Team" with boos.
Beckford came on after the half. Moyes stood in his way and said, "Where you think you're--" but Beckford just bumped him aside without a word, much like Heitenga on Cole during the pen shootout. Moyes tried to act like he had intended to put him on all along, mumbling, "Oh, right, I penciled him in, I see here on my notes..." And of course, once the wonderful Beckford came on things began hopping. Not for Everton, though, what, are you high? No, things began popping for City, and they held their "Festival of Corners" at the Street End, but Howard turned the motley crew away at every turn, and they faded into the evening like shriveled little Pac Man ghosts.
Finally, Everton got hold of the match and began a dangerous set of runs and passes at the City end, which Victor ended with a neat little pass to a City player who set Touray loose and it was left up to Howard to Smash a cold toilet seat down upon Touray's one-on-one scoring hard-on.
Things het-up in earnest when Tim Cahill was brought on. The difference was immense, like the difference between somebody just taking a warm bath, and somebody taking a warm bath with plugged in toasters and radios thrown in. After a little scrappity-do-dah, we got a free kick from a fair piece away that Arteta floated up like a child releasing a prayer. Distan tot into the air, and whipped the side of his face into the ball and whumped it into the net. The Poor Man's Jose Mournino barred his glistening white teeth, and flexed his dimples, but stood back as Moyes celebrated.
As we have learned, once the testicles of Manchester City have been chomped off and flung around in the air like a child's whirlie bird, it didn't take long for our next goal to cauterize the bleeding wound and end the match. Neville floated in a long, dainty, 'maybe it will, maybe it won't' cross, that Osman, from about fifteen yards out, leapt up at, and caught his head on. Leon's head hit the pitch harder than it had hit the ball, and while Leon lay face down counting stars, his header headed for the Milky Way, changed its mind and took a dump into the City net. Mancini looked as though he were about to take one of his own while Moyes made obscene 'wanger' motions at him. Not really, but it would be cool. Even more cool than the three points we took away from City's "Dream of Fourth place." When Stoke tromp them next week maybe they can have T-shirts made: "Participants, FA Cup Final, 2011, Almost Fourth, League" The slump shouldered lot of their exiting fans looked like they would take that right about now."
