Gee Thanks, Soccer, by Mick Shaffer

Gee Thanks, Soccer, by Mick Shaffer

What’s that sound?  Is the vacuum cleaner having sex with the garage door?

Is every llama in the world being slaughtered in my backyard?

Could that be a moped gang riding to a common, holy location like motorcycle gangs flock to Sturgis, SD, only this would be a moped gang meaning it would rally to a much lamer-sounding town like Schmerken, Iowa?

Oh, no wait, that’s just soccer I hear.

Soccer is the world’s game which, apparently, means it needs to be heard everywhere in that world.  And now it is, thanks to these noisemakers that are (further) ruining the World Cup.  As it turns out, that is not a giant bee colony nesting somewhere in my tympanic membrane.  That is a giant collection of soccer fans blowing into skinny horns whenever they’re happy/sad/breathing.

Oh, sorry, South Africa, I guess I’m supposed to refer to these drone phones as vuvuzelas.  As if dressing up this bastard child of a funnel and a kazoo with a fancy name makes it any less annoying.  It hasn’t worked for Ochocinco; I’m not buying it with your meter-long siren sticks, either.

I think I speak for the entire Nelson Mandela family when I ask, “How many bad ideas can you come up with, South Africa?”

And you, soccer, we get it:  More people in the world watch you than any other sport.  So what?  More people in the world drink water from piss-filled reservoirs than from Dasani.

I’ll let you win this popularity contest.  Just please toot your own horn only figuratively.

I thought we had an understanding, soccer.  I cut down on the always cliché but uber-hilarious “can’t use your hands” jokes as long as you stay the hell away from my kids.

The only good news is that now I can hear you coming.

Tell me: What’s behind the decision to allow fans already carrying the riot-tendency gene to freely wield fight-provoking devices?  My wife can’t bring her purse into a baseball game but all 80,000 soccer fans can import trumpets into a World Cup match.

Who wants to hear this?  It’s bad enough to hear the constant buzz transferred from a boom mike to a production truck up to a space satellite down to a ground satellite through a cable and out my living room television.  Thus, I can’t imagine being surrounded by vuvuzelas for an entire soccer match.  I mean, I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think these awful thoughts … about vuvuzelas.

Here’s an idea:  Why don’t you blow your vuvuzelas when something positive happens for your team?  Which, in soccer, would be, like, twice a game.  I don’t see the need for this monotone, B-flat soundtrack to play underneath – more like over the top – of the entire sporting event.  We’ve got U2 for that.

Ohhhhh, I’d better not make fun of U2, because they sing the soccer anthem and because Bono loves kids more than me.  Oh well, U2 does Coldplay better than Coldplay does Coldplay.  And soccer does boring better than C-Span does boring.  And vuvuzelas do ear damage better than U2 does ear damage.  That’s right, I brought it back.

It’s not that I despise you, soccer.  I’ve learned to appreciate you.  Sometimes, I cop to “enjoying you.”  I may not be listening, but I’ll be watching you this World Cup.  High praise, I know.  But before you get your Umbros in a bunch, know that I watch the Scripps National Spelling Bee every year.  That doesn’t mean I’m camping out at elementary schools in the interim.  Which is more than I can say for you, sicko.

Soccer, I’ve always taken issue with how you try so hard to be different.  It’s a pitch, not a field.  It’s nil, not zero.  It’s off-sides, not a potentially exciting play that could draw more people to your sport.  While we’re on the subject, how about a clock that ticks backwards and actually stops when play stops?  I don’t know.  Just spitballin’ here.

Fine, I’ll grant you your idiosyncrasies.  Do you need more, though?  Do you really need a stadium-sized woodwind section to stand out?  I think scarves at a sporting event already make the “I’m different” case quite well.

Keep your protector shields, your collared game jerseys, and your British dialogue.  “Organise” it however you want, just give me back my ear drums and my sanity.  The sound of 80,000 vuvuzelas is like Chinese water torture, if China were in South Africa and if water torture were something akin to Fran Drescher’s laugh.

Maybe all you soccer fans could simply use your voice boxes to vocalize your feelings to your team, your sport, your fellow fans.  That way, you could provide us with different sounds depending on your mood during the game, er, match.  For instance, for a goal you could yell, “Yay!”  For a bad call you could yell, “Boo!”  And for everything in between you could just be quiet instead of spitting out fart noises through a long, plastic tube.

Oh yeah, and you could also not murder people for losing games, but that’s gonna be a much harder habit to break.

Even if you’re somehow immune to the vuvuzelas irritating hum, isn’t there a point during a two-hour soccer match when the sound gets, IDK, repetitive?

South African fan:  “Check this out.  BRURRRRRRRR.”

Mexican fan:  “Wait till you hear this.  BRURRRRRRRR.”

Uruguayan fan:  “Look at what mine can do!  BRURRRRRRRR.”

French fan:  “I don’t even need a vuvuzela.  My attitude is so abrasive that it makes this same sound.  BRURRRRRRRR.”

I want to blame France for this.  I also want to blame Obama, Brett Favre, Mighty Putty, people who don’t brush their tongue, Guinness beer, my old dog Missy, the Bronze Age for inventing instruments, and episodes 15-30 of Bumper Stumpers.

But, truth is, they’re only 49% responsibility for the vuvuzela.  The rest of the blame lies with you, soccer.  You’re now pissing off the entire world.  It’s a world that has so far put up with your silly rules, your nil-nil matches, and your shirtless celebrations.  But now, you’ve taken different too far.

Different now borders on criminal.  I would rather have fans bring sticks of fire to a match than to have them blare these valve-less cornets of hate.

The World Cup should be what you tout and toot it to be:  the greatest sporting event on the planet.  I should be marveling at the skill of the Italians, the improvement of the Americans, the haircuts of the Brazilians.

Instead, I’m oddly attracted to Schmerken, Iowa.  And I hear they hate soccer there.