Monday, July 10, 2006

The Life Dramatic with Z. Zizou

Other title ideas: "Animal in the Zizou", "Zizou See That?!" and "Making a Stink Out of the Head-Butt".

I had big plans for the World Cup finale yesterday. And when I say "big plans", I don't fuck around. We're not talking heading to a bar to watch the game with a bunch of average-salary earning plebes. We're talking hanging a plasma screen from the inside of a hot air balloon, while sitting on a cashmere-lined loveseat, with a bowl of Pirate's Booty in my lap, while flying over Ralph Lauren's pad in the Hamptons. I was excited, and like the Mannequin theme song, nothing was going to stop me now.

Then my 25th birthday party happened on Saturday night. And this year would be special, as I had the brilliant idea of inviting my parents to the bar so they could meet all my wonderful friends. They arrived at around 11, my ultra-glamorous mother, and my sweet father, who shares a birthday with me, and was turning 60. The day already got off to a rocky start when my mother called me to say that she was bringing about 4,000 Pepperidge Farm cookies to the party to feed my friends. My brain switched from kind, quarter-life crisis girl to snobby, bitchy 15 year-old in 2 seconds. "Mom! I don't want you bringing cookies to the party!! Why don't you just show up riding a pony side-saddle while a circus clown molests me with his horn on the bar?" (Rough translation obviously.)

She agreed not to embarass me and leave the cookies at home. Cue my mother walking in with an orange Hermes bag brimming with all the delicious pastries grown on the world's fattiest farm. "I BROUGHT COOKIES!" she screamed, and began handing entire bags of Chessman and Chantilly's to my friends. While I slowly crumbled to the ground in horror, I could hear people's reactions. "Awesome! Cookies!" yelled one unfamiliar looking girl. "Wow! Thanks, Mrs. C!" yelled the child actor from the Stove Top commercials.

What does this mean? It means that throughout the night, I had to put up with my mother saying in her Americanized Israeli accent "See? The cookies were a BIG hit. Everybody LOVED THE COOKIES. Right? Didn't you like the cookies? See, she LOVED the cookies. What do you say?" I then pulled out an Acme brand shotgun, put it to my head, and pulled the trigger to reveal a little flag that said "Thank you."

My parents' presence at my party also meant that I could not really relax and enjoy myself, as I wanted to make sure that they were a. having a good time, and b. not humiliating me. As usual, they were a big hit, my mother holding court like The Divine Miss M at a gay bathhouse, and my father small-talking friends about the wonders of baggage handlers, which sounds like a euphamism for something, but he literally was just talking about airline luggage.

It also means that when they left at around 1, I made it my duty to get SHIZZ. TANKED. I was already fairly tink-tanked when they left, but I turned into an effing slut-bot who needed booze poured straight down her throat. Within an hour, I downed 2 more martinis and did another shot. I don't quite remember the cab ride home, but I definitely remember coming home, derobing, and laying on my bed eating Baked Cheetos with my eyes closed and thinking "Is this what 25 is about?"

The answer is: Clearly.

Which brings me back to my World Cup plans. Which were ruined, as I woke up at 1 pm with a headache...

This big.

So instead of comfortably chaising in a hot air balloon with a box of Cracklin Oat Bran, I slumped in my roomate's bed with a Vitamin Water, bottle of Ibuprofen, panini, and a death wish.

But of course, the game was UNBELIEVES. I was rooting for Italy, as I felt a connection with their on-field behavior, histrionically speaking. The biggest thrill of the game wasn't so much the edge-of-seat shootout that was the deciding factor in Italy's victory. Moreso the insane, uncalled for, extreme head-butting incident that occurred between the French captain, Zinedine Zidane (or "Zizou") (no relation to Billy Zidane), and Italian player Marco Materazzi, in the 110th minute of the game. If you missed it, here's the clip:

My roomate and I could only imagine what words went down between these two. I combined the only two words I know in Italian to assume that Marco spat out "Va fon-gool-eh too-eh mad-reh!" Zizou was thrown out of the game, and France ultimately lost (although he was still voted Best Player), but his rash headbutting got me to thinking...

First, it got me to thinking of the famous "asses where their faces should be" episode of South Park.

Then it got me to thinking about head-butting. Not the most normal fight move. When two drunk dudes have an altercation at a bar, they don't automatically Pamplona each other in the chest -- chances are they'll sloppily punch each other in the face for a coupla minutes, until the whole thing ends up boiling down to some borderline homoerotic bear hugging.

"I am totally gonna kick your ass, bro. P.S. you smell great."

But of COURSE a soccer player would head-butt someone -- these are men trained not to use their hands. Their heads and feet are all they got, kind of like a land-bound, ball-hungry Daniel Day Lewis. Maybe this Zizou character doesn't even know how to punch someone, or even make a fist! Maybe he's such a finely tuned machine, he doesn't use his arms at all.

What is a day in the life like for that cray-cray Zidane "the Zizmeister" Zizou?

At the ATM machine.

Playing the piano.

Making love to his wife.

Playing ping-pong.

I am dyyying to know what Marco said to him to provoke such a reaction. How would an Italian sound saying "I hope your children die of cancer", I wonder? Probably sexy.

Zidane, taunted with hundreds and hundreds of waving hands, at a press conference today.

Also, Michelle's World Cup "Crush of the Game"©?

Referee Horacio Elizondo. Mee. Ow.

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