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Hello, people. I am Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro. I am rich, handsome and a great football player. I have awesome thighs and am taller than Lionel Messi. I also earn more than him. My son, Cristiano Junior, has touched the Ballon d’Or trophy more times than Frank Ribery and Manuel Neuer combined. My hair gel expenses are more than 90% of the world’s living expenses.
But that’s not why I am writing this open letter.
I am not penning this letter to brag about my career achievements – how I started from scrap in Madeira to where I am now – and how many supermodels I have slept with. I am not using this letter to reveal how almost the entire world is jealous of me and that I own my own brand of awesome underwear garments. I don’t like wasting people’s time and hence I won’t praise myself – although I very much deserve it. Also, I am not a narcissist.
I am writing this letter for all of you to know the reasons for which I went all gangsta against Cordoba.
We were drawing 1-1 against a team whose reputation is more obscure than the chances of Justin Bieber composing a decent track. I was obviously frustrated. The referee was also p*****g me off – he wasn’t even looking at me while I had possession of the ball inside the box, so I was sure that he wouldn’t award me a penalty.
Let me get something straight here: I love penalties. I love them like Pep Guardiola loves playing players out of position. I love them like Isco loves grabbing asses. I love them like Pique loves Ibrahimovic (this is just an analogy, Ibra, please don’t get offended and knock me out with a taekwondo kick the next time you see me). I love penalties like pigs love poop.
I love them like Jose Mourinho loves criticising referees. I live for penalties. I play for penalties. The feeling I get after scoring from a penalty is more relaxing than what I feel after taking a dump.
Many people sleep at night hoping for a better tomorrow, I sleep at night hoping to score a penalty goal the next day (be it in training or match). So when the referee was giving me negative vibes, it made me angry. It is not easy to score penalties, you see. If it were, then there wouldn’t be a 6 minutes long Youtube compilation video of Lionel Messi penalty misses.
But that wasn’t the only thing that made me unleash my wrath.
Crespo followed me all over the field the entire game. The proximity he was keeping reminded me of Irina Shayk. And I just reacted instantaneously, just a natural impulse, and threw out a punch.
However, the punch didn’t make the impact I wanted. So the rage was still there. And the next chance I got, I kicked the Cordoba player – Edimar and certainly won’t bother enough to remember his name. Again, it didn’t make the impact, but I was sent off before I got another chance.
While going off, I was fondling the World Champions logo on my shirt. Many of you think that I did it to send a message that I am the best player of the best Club in the World – the World Champions. But I wasn’t. I did it to show how to clean off the dirt which sticks to jerseys while playing Football.
Yeah, you might think that this is a pathetic excuse since I won’t ever be wearing that shirt again. Trust me, it is not. Yes, I won’t be wearing the shirt again and that shirt will be washed, but I wanted to make the washerman’s job easier as I am a very kind-hearted guy and don’t like seeing people take extra burden because of me. I absolutely HATE it when people have to do extra work because of me.
I hate it so much that every time I see a player getting a red card for doing something stupid and completely unnecessary and over-burdening his team-mates, I break the TV. That’s just how I am (apart from being rich, handsome and an awesome player).
Although I hate apologising as I believe it affects the reputation of my club, I will do so today, maybe because somehow I now feel a little bad about what I did.
So this was why I let off my all-consuming wrath today. I am pretty sure Irina must be hiding somewhere (probably behind the Rock) after seeing what I did. She must be in his arms and I couldn’t care less. She might be happy, but I am happier than her. I am not one bit sad. Not one bit. I am pretty sure that she misses me, but I don’t. I don’t even like talking about her. She doesn’t even interest me anymore….
NO, I DO NOT THINK ABOUT IRINA ANYMORE.
I have to leave you guys here now as there seems to be some dust in my beautiful eyes (no, I am not crying, certainly not for Irina) and I have to wash it off.
Disclaimer: This letter is a fictitious work of [wicked] imagination and is only meant to be for humour. It has been written as a satire, and should be taken in that spirit.
