If Uruguay and Mexico Decided to Tie

So, as I assume you all know, Mexico and Uruguay have essentially gotten through to the next round, with only certain absurd goal differentials rendering possibilities for France or South Africa. I have certain hopes for South Africa to pull off a four – nil win, but who are we kidding. And the French, well, I’ll only express my views on the French in public, but as a hint I was rather delighted with Thursday’s rubbing…and they were ranked two in the world…

Anyways, babbling aside, (speaking of refs who I wouldn’t mind seeing, well, cease to exist after the U.S. match, but I’ve already heard these sentiments three times in the last hour after the match and I work in an office –everyone is apparently hard at work – so I won’t bore you with more rants) I have been thinking about what might happen in the Mexico Uruguay match next week…I mean, if they tie they both move on, and what would send a better message of political solidarity from Latin America than a truce to move ahead together. So, here goes.

The vuvuzuelas have already began their deafening blare from the confetti colored stands. Mexicans are double-fisting budweisers, already two verses ahead of their national anthem. The Uruguayans eyes have become glued to the big screen where the cameramen have taken to scoping out the most beautiful girls in the audience. Mexico wins the coin toss and we are off, Dos Santos already with an early attempt up the middle, seeming to be duffed, landing right in the Uruguayan keeper’s hands.

But, instead of kicking the ball off up field, he points into the crowd and blasts the ball up into the stands, sparking a shower of blue, white, green and red confetti to be strewn over the field by the fans. Dos Santos rips off his mask to reveal he had been Diego Forlán the whole time. The fans start hopping the fence, stripping into their dance clothes, and the two DJs who had snuck up into the commentator’s booths plugged in the speakers that had been laid out around the stadium and announce the take-over. Ray Hudson, who had been hanging out in the booth, however confused at first, goes with it. The lights suddenly go out.

Shining in a spotlight that had been brought in by a spectator, Juanes falls down from roof, hooked up with cords, let down atop the Mexican side’s goal, and begins singing “Ayer me dijiste que tú me quieres, pero todo fue mentira,” as strobe lights began the party. Lions in cages appear from the locker rooms. The field has become filled with the fans and those who haven’t taken off their shirts take off their pants and once Juanes finishes they begin tangoing in unison, a seemingly odd structure amid this chaos. Doug, an American spectator, turns to his buddies and says, “Fuck it,” stripping completely naked and running into the crowd screaming. As Diego Maradona bends back to clear the limbo, Zaira Nura turns her head in disgust, whispering under her breath, “Ew, disgusting.”

At the ninety-minute mark, everyone calmly disperses out of the stadium, clearing their confetti as they leave.