DC, you suck. Everybody hates you. Red Bulls fans hate you, and they support a team with Rafa Marquez on it. Irish Red Bulls fans hate you, and they support a team with Thierry Henry on it. You're the third-lowest form of life, after E. Coli and an English kid in a Cosmos jersey--and odds are you have both of those inside you right now. Death Row inmates return your letters unread. Homeless crackheads won't take money from you. Dogs won't hump your leg, and get angry when you try to hump theirs. Which you really, really need to stop doing. Meth heads laugh at your teeth. Fred Durst laughs at your penis. Lady Gaga laughs at your haircuts. Hachiko laughs at your irrelevance. André Maginot laughs at your tactics. Darfur laughs at your tragedy. Hyenas laugh at your breath, but they laugh at anything. RBNY laughs at your trophy case... and then cry, cry, cry themselves to sleep. Your MVP is named after a euphemism for ass beads. Chris Pontius is a Christ-killer. (Give it a minute.) Josh Wolff, though, is quality. I mean, he did help DC win a championship in 2004. The fact he was playing for Kansas City at the time shouldn't be held against him, because he did help Kansas City win a championship in 2000. The fact he was playing for Chicago at the time shouldn't be held against him bec Actually, no, having played for Chicago should be held against him, him and anyone else who's ever played for Chicago. Chicago is a lump of dog shit that sat in the sun long enough to melt down a storm drain and stain a discarded copy of The Sun. Chicago is also the fat kid who reaches down into the storm drain so he can wank it to page three, even though it's covered in melted lumps of dog shit. But DC is the relocated Catholic priest who got a chubby thinking about a fat kid wanking it to dog turds. Relocated where, you ask? Relocated when, you ask? Has-Ben Olsen couldn't find his ass with both hands, a Bic, 10 gallons of wax (that's 37.85 liters of wax, if all you TFC and Vancouver fans were wondering--enough to depilate 112 strippers, if all you Impact fans were wondering) and 18 MLS teams lined up to hand it to him. "Oh, but we have Najar," you say, "Oh, youth development is DC's saving grace," you say. Eliseo Quintanilla, where is he now? Santino Quaranta, where is he now? Bobby Co--no, forget that. Bill Ham--no, forget that one, too. Roy Lassiter, where is he now? Probably offside. Freddy Adu, where is he now? At Build-A-Bear. Or Orange Julius. Or Claire's Boutique. Somewhere at the mall. Stephen King, where is he now? Robbing graves. Andrew Dykstra, where is he now? At McDonald's Playplace, with a milkshake on his lap. Brandon McDonald, where is he now? What, you thought I meant that McDonald's? You wear Nazi eagles on your "black shirts." But at least the "trains" run on time. Glad I'm not in your locker room. Okay, enough gay smack. That would imply you guys could score at will. And would know better than to wear those hideous red thirds. And anyway, you only whip 'em out and rub 'em off on one another's when discussing your trophies, and the drought's been so long that memories of those bygone victories taste more of bitter salt than of bitter almond--which is what DC fans believe victory to taste like. You're an Egyptian pointing to a pyramid saying, "Once, we were great." You're a Greek, on the beach, pockets inside out, dreaming of black ships. You're a Chinese guy in a toilet stall saying, "Dammit! We invented paper!" But all of that forever ago. Except the toilet stall thing. Because you're still shitty and utterly without luck. Also our stadium is awesome and yours is RFK nana nana boo boo!