I have come to accept that my personal preferences on basically all things will never match those of popular opinion. So, my hating of the World Cup was nothing out of the ordinary. Sports: no thank you. Massive numbers of jocks crammed into a tiny bar, a bar “supporting” a certain team via a polyester flag duck-taped in the window, complete with fold creases signifying its storage at the bottom of a “miscellaneous window stuff” box since last year: no thank you. Even though promotions for the mega-event have been posted everywhere from subway stations to the men’s room at the Times Square Applebee’s (so I was told from a friend, definitely not from going there), I had managed to properly avoid all ridiculous soccer squibs thanks to my dedication to re-watching the entire series of The Big Bang Theory from the beginning and all the time I needed to speculate about the upcoming Tomb Raider reboot.
But my daily internet trolling (and mildly inappropriate obsession with Reddit) led me to a World Cup promo with a preview image that was basically NSFW. There we were, me and Victoria Secret Angel Adrianna Lima, looking aimlessly back at one another. She was in a brown mini dress, a costume that is undoubtedly a contractual obligation in each and every one of her endorsement deals. I was in Star Wars pajama pants and a Dave Matthews Band T-shirt circa the 2004 “Dave and Friends” tour. I stared into her
blue green hazel, ok so I wasn’t looking directly at her eyes per se, but her, eh, face was pretty as she strategically captivated me into a trance that I’ve only experienced one other time in my life – when Academy Award winner Halle Berry slowly emerged from the ocean in Die Another Day.
Maybe everything I was led to believe about the World Cup was a lie. Maybe instead of a sporting event featuring running, kicking men from around the globe, it was some kind contest for absurdly hot women? I took to the most reliable of reliable resources I could think of to continue my search towards the truth around this international competition – Twitter. I search “Everything You Need to Know About the World Cup,” a popular headline template used by media brands for articles where they literally compile all the things about one subject they can find via Google, and this gem of a search result was top of the list, posted just three minutes earlier.
— Esquire Magazine (@Esquiremag) June 12, 2014
Okay, World Cup, you now have my full attention. In fact, I haven’t been more laser focused on a topic since Janet Jackson’s nipple popped-out at Super Bowl XXXVIII, revealing the perfect irony of using Roman numerals when there is sexual innuendo afoot. Now my perception has shifted: not only is the World Cup about Adrianna Lima, it also features this headless mademoiselle, whose body was sculpted out of brown sugar. Is this stringed bikini her uniform? Is she team Brazil? Does the World Cup take place on the beach with other women in said stringed bikinis? Is the belly-ring a requirement or just a personal flair, like bedazzling your 9th grade Homecoming t-shirt to be just a little bit cooler than everyone else? Regardless, I am now devoted to her and her team. I am team Brasil, with an “s” not a “z,” because my new headless girlfriend’s soccer ball says so.
I returned to the interweb to continue my journey for knowledge on this bikini beach world event. No wonder so many guys crowded themselves into the tiny bars on my East Village block to tune into the World Cup, and simultaneously yell things like “Olaaay Olay Olay!” It’s because there are girls in string bikinis on the beach there. My theories were proven stronger as I turned to a leading authority on male culture, GQ. Proof was granted to me directly on the homepage, where five beauties posed for their team photo.
It was exactly like I had imagined. There was a team of “Godlike” beauties, gathered together on a sandy beach in Brasil (still with an “s”), donning stringed bikinis of invariable uniformity. My mind wandered to game play, two teams frolicking through the
muddy sandy beach, spray-tanned breasts doing more bouncing than Lindsay Lohan’s checking account. The players, nay, the golden goddesses, are giggling as they chase a soccer ball with my face on it (hey, it’s my fantasy after all) saying things like “stop it, you slut” and “OMG, you’re bad.” Butt slaps are awarded for scoring goals. Chest bumps are required for assists and passes. Wet T-shirt water breaks keep everyone refreshed and hydrated. The World Cup phenomenon makes so much more sense now.
My next three hours were spent very strategically, mainly slowly scrolling the Details‘ link to “the Hottest Women of the World Cup.” What I do in the privacy of my own X Rocker wireless video game chair is my own business, but I did feel the need to publicly share my findings to help anyone else struggling with their distaste for the overly-macho mania surround the World Cup. The internet has saved me, it has shown me the light (and ass), and it can do the same for you.