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Jul 19, 2023

I brought World Cup glory to Spain, so I can kiss whomever I want

It is I, me, Loco Arrogancia, president of the soccer federation in my country and protector of men’s parts from the false feminists. I write in protest to ask: What chica would not want to be kissed

It is I, me, Loco Arrogancia, president of the soccer federation in my country and protector of men’s parts from the false feminists. I write in protest to ask: What chica would not want to be kissed by me, with my face as handsome as a piece of prime rib, not to mention the heroic line of my pants?

These false feminists see punishment in the guise of my congratulations. They seek to question a man simply for seizing himself in a moment of victorious euphoria — and then seizing a woman, too. Is this not what a machista naturally does when he savors a victory in which he has had no role — grab it and grab it now?

And anyway, what women’s World Cup incident could really be so serious? So serious that I should be suspended by FIFA for 90 days as my country considers whether to fire me, with my beautifully polished head and shoulders so strong that I can throw a woman footballer over them like a sack?

Yes, my hands found my pants in the presence of the queen and her daughter, while I stared at my friend the head coach on the field as if to say, “Even here in the midst of all these screaming women, we know we are the real kings.” But what is so wrong with that, when I know that I am the real dictador who created the triumph on the field?

Is a kiss something to resign over? Yes, so I pulled this young woman to me with an implacable press of my arms, my enthusiasm over-aroused, in an engulfing hug that would not take no for an answer. It was an embrace that said, “I too am a performer here, and I will not be ignored.” I asked her — so gently that you never see my lips move on the video of the trophy ceremony — “A kiss?” And I put my very large hands around her head and drew her in toward my very sleek head, which stood like a hormonal pillar, or perhaps a mushroom, and met her on the mouth.

Who does not like the texture of a mushroom?

FIFA provisionally suspends Spanish soccer official Luis Rubiales

I refuse to accept any wrongdoing in a momentary kiss on the mouth, so spontaneous and euphoric that it almost pulled her out of her cleats. It was entirely mutual — after all, she was completely silent, until she said no.

And then, in a post-match video, you can hear her saying something to the effect of, “That was disgusting.”

And now she issues a statement protesting my impulsive enthusiasm as a sexist act that was non-consenting on her part. She claims I invented her permission, which never took place.

I cannot comprehend her statement.

People do not realize how I and the other men of my federation have suffered from these false feminists. They are trying to destroy me — all of the players have said they will resign unless I am replaced. If I survive professionally, we will see how many of them appear for their country again. In the meantime, I and my federation have told these chavalitas that we can make them play, threatening to take legal action against them for their rebellion and their audacity against my authority.

So you can see how I always seek their consent. Anyway, who would not want to follow my orders, issued from a jaw as noble and outthrust as a generalissimo’s?

All right, yes, we men slept like we were in a coma for longer than Sleeping Beauty on the possibilities of women’s soccer in my country. But finally we awoke and bought them some jerseys. Now we have become fully aware of the revenue and glory for ourselves — and when they feel our brunt, still the false feminists complain about a lack of money and poor training methods. And about a coach who, they say, forced them to keep their hotel room doors open so he could check their bedtimes and required them to tell him who they went out with.

But isn’t that what you do with daughters?

Spain’s soccer federation is in turmoil. Here’s what you need to know.

These false feminists almost seem to think I have intentionally stomped all over their World Cup victory with my loud defense of “a little kiss” on the mouth and refusal to make any concession over what they see as conduct straight from “The Taming of the Shrew” until I appear as dumb and mean as I am sexist. They seem to scent a strong glandular musk, an unspoken message along with my physical and verbal cues, in my insistence that she is “lying” if she says it was unwelcome and that it was she who moved her body close to me. A message that says, “Don’t win; it’s not worth it because I will find a way to demean you somehow.” They have turned the World Cup celebration into a week-long accusation that there are still men ruling the game who would force women into compliance — and force them to say they liked it, too.

As for me, I am simply attempting to put everything, and everyone, in its proper place.