Well hello there.
I see you've caught me scoring yet another hat trick. Ha-HA! These goals just keep piling up like squirrel carcasses in my cousin Timitar Berbatov's traps or the citations I receive for indecent exposure. You see, since you, my dearest and most beautiful of Berba-babes, keep refusing my suave advances, I have had to refocus my erotic will on scoring goals by an obscene amount of goals.
If you would like me to once again reserve all of my attention and window-peeping time for you and you alone, I would gladly revert to doing nothing on the pitch, allowing everyone to realize just how useless Wayne Rooney is. Would you like that, my sweet? ... Ha-HA! You're still playing hard to get. But, really, who could turn down a lovely evening of earlobe massages and eating Easter candies in a McDonald's bathroom with the Premier League's leading goal scorer? ... No. You're not supposed to say "me." Did I not make it clear that The Berba is the Premier League's leading goalscorer? Why do you never just go along with whatever sexy things I say? ... Please stop laughing.
Fine. If you don't want to ride The Berba's sensual monorail, then you may sit and watch as the hordes of other Berba-beauties indulge in the pleasure. ... Who are these hordes? Well, they're hordes. They don't have names. Just, please, stop asking questions and eat these Easter candies.
Oh-OHHH! I have just realized that these candies are extremely old and seem to be covered in some kind of liquid. Oh, I've been eating these things all day! Please, look away while I dry heave. Hum a Right Said Fred song and think about all of my goals. When you're done, I will be ready to make out with you.
Join us again next time for another chapter in the life of...The Continental...
Photo: Getty Images
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