It's not that I dislike soccer or competition or grass (I definitely don't hate grass). Rather, it's an ideological problem that I have with the whole endeavour. Here's an abridged view of history as I see it. If you wanna be a total loser, we can call this her-story since its mostly about women.
The great war ends.
Manufacturers of cleaning products stage large scale advertising campaigns that encourage women to get out of the factory and buy copious amounts of household cleaners. Good bye, Rosie. Farewell, vinegar, ammonia, and the scrubbing brush.
1950: Daddy works. Mommy stays at home happily getting high on bathroom cleaners and making casseroles. Daddy starts to beat mommy because he's feeling isolated and power hungry. Mommy is sad because she cannot leave him as she has no education or skills. The kids are driving mommy crazy. Mommy becomes addicted to diet pills and happy drugs.
1963: Betty Friedan publishes the Feminine Mystique. Mommy reads this book. Mommy joins a group where they look at their vagina's in hand mirrors. Mommy goes to college and gets a job. "Look at me," Mommy says, "I can do everything that men do." Mommy forgets about her children and outsources her childcare because everyone knows that any trained monkey can raise children.
(My problem with the second wave feminists-The bitches failed to disrupt the paradigm. They simply invalidated their role of nurturer and copied what men were doing.)
Things continue in this fashion for a while. Enter, those idiots the Republicans. The unions die. The manufacturing sector dies. Now, it is impossible to have a one income family. Mommy can no longer choose to stay home. She is forced to work.
1980: Ted Turner launches CNN. OMG, Iran Contra only happens once and OJ Simpson only kills his wife once, what can CNN show the rest of the time? Well, nothing captivates Americans like a blond kid gone missing. Americans become panicked that a lecherous stranger is lurking behind every bush waiting to grab their children. Now, children are forced to spend the whole day in daycare and the whole afternoon and evening locked inside away from danger. (NEWSFLASH: No one wants your children. They are 40 times more likely to die in a mini van crash than to get abducted by a stranger.)
Mama Minger starts to breed. She chooses to be po' so she can raise her own children. She sends the children outside to play. The shout into the empty abyss, and no other children answer. The po' ones are inside staring at idiot box and joining the obesity epidemic. The rich ones are busy being shuttled from event to event in their parent's giant carbon footprints. The middle class has died.
A generation of children cling to paranoia like a security blanket. They forget how to introduce themselves to each other. They do not know how to self organize. Soccer practice twice a week, hockey practice twice a week, two games every Saturday, and all day Kindergarten rape their right to play. Their brains are utterly useless. They are boring. They lack creativity.
Mama Minger's barefoot little wanna-be hippies are outside and lonely so she enrolls them in soccer. She throws up a little bit in her mouth. It subsides because (don't tell anyone this) she loves how cute they look in their little uniforms.
And there ya' go, a little tale about how the nefarious forces of second wave feminism and twenty four hour news cycles worked together to kill the sandlot, force my children into soccer, and ruin my leisurely Saturday morning hangover regime.
