Step over, step over, step over, flounce, flounce, pout!
Smugness thy name is Cristiano.
Oh noes! Football! Yes, yes, stop your whining you maggots, not everyone on the internets masturbates over the wire and battlecock galacticanus you know, other things exist! Once in a while a footballer comes along who is so unashedly smug that punchable is simply not enough of a description of their face. I could build a glove made of lead, filled with mercury, with claw hammers, awls, syringes full of hydrochloric acid and panda piss, frag grenades, porcupines and chainsaws attatched to the outside, and it would still not have enough punching power to do enough damage to the chinless pock-marked show pony's charmless pouty fizzog. Not even the legendary George Foreman Cuntpuncher has enough clout!Is it the fancy Flatley-esque footwork, making him look like a riverdancing baby giraffe, or the petulant huffing and puffing when things don't go his own way? Is it the diamond fucking earring? Is it the swaggering sub Cantona goal celebrations? (well, no, in that case, what makes Manure's celebrations so fucking irritating is that you can guarantee that within secomds of a celebration starting Rio "face out of the simpsons" Ferdinand will pile ontop and gurn like a fingered simian into the camera, the cunt!) Then surely it must be something to do with the modelling, the hollyoaks lingerie model girlfriend? NOPE! It's the fact, at this particular moment, that he can write off a ferrari, and still fucking live! Where's the justice in this world? There is no God!
Let him fuck off to Real Madrid, the join the dots faced rubber necked spazzpanel.
as you were flesh pittas