Ah, thanks natalia ! It's a shame it got locked.
Woke up feeling extra-sexi, GOATing myself in the evanescent hours when Morpheus had unleashed me from his somnolent grip, those precious minutes of half-remembered Annoconian man-breasts shielded from virginal eyes by prudently placed Rolexes, Mercedes Benz insignias and melted Lindt truffles — and then from the Moet-fueled ether, whispered words of the waking children of Basalt telling me to rise up and turn No. 18 from the specter of dreams into beautiful reality.
Oops, let me revise that …
Woke up feeling like JoelDali, in dire need of the wisdom of the Golden Eagle and realizing, with a certain amount of shame and regret, that I had not logged on to Tennis Warehouse in what seemed like years but was more realistically about six business days.
But what to my horrified eyes do I see but the insidious enshacklement of one of our great threads! Like the barbarous mujahideen standing before the majestic Buddhas of Bamiyan in befuddlement, somehow the gatekeepers of online tennis rectitude summoned the spirit of Mullah Omar and — in the blink of an eye (aptly only one in the case of the monocular jihadist) — a monument to our culture was gone. Luckily, from the grave, our thread has arisen, even if it remains a mere phantasm of its former self.
Perhaps it was time, with Nadal’s surprising physical intransigence this year. However, whatever ascent he may claim in the rankings has to be offset by his continuing decline on the issue of sustenance. It is in this guise that I address Rafa on the eve of the most dangerous food day of the year for Americans. Do the Spanish have an equivalent of Thanksgiving? If so, Rafa surely would be thankful if the silverware is plastic, the poultry bas been butchered to infinitesimal pieces and the sippy-cups have been artfully arrayed on the festive dinner table.
In that spirit, I offer Nadal Gustatory Decline Poetry:
What’s Eating the Bull?
I give thanks to Uncle Toni and this steak that he pre-chewed.
I don’t want to retire from a match for an injury due to food.
Why, oh why, can a little banana take me out in my prime?
I have to admit it — Fed is the best food digester of all time.
Novak conquered the gluten and saw his confidence grow,
but I would suffer a horrific death on a Food Network show.
With my two-handed backhand I was never great at slice,
but my latest knife attempt left me holding a bag full of ice.
I’d take that any day over the burn of a Japanese hot plate.
No wonder the priests gave me last rites every time I ate.
I sit down at the dinner table and always I am aware.
Even before I sit down: I have to be careful of that chair!
I only eat out with Andy Murray in restaurants nice and bright.
The sight of his face in full consumption will kill any appetite.
I got an invitation from Rogi — as usual going for the winner.
He’s in New York City and inviting me to Thanksgiving dinner.
But I had to sadly decline — I really fear the head-to-head,
because right now it’s a sad 1-in-0 in favor of that f-ing bread.