And the creation of all the four-footed animals and the birds being finished, they were told by the Creator and the Maker and the Forefathers: “Speak, cry, warble, call, speak each one according to your variety, each, according to your kind.” So was it said to the deer, the birds, pumas, jaguars, and serpents.
But they could not make them speak like men; they only hissed and screamed and cackled; they were unable to make words, and each screamed in a different way.
And so it was in South Africa in early July (too early in July!) as Tevez hissed and screamed, Demichelissss slithered ‘pon the ground as Muller skipped by, a doe-eyed Di María froze yet again in the headlights of the German juggernaut. They could not speak like men, it was impossible for them to say the names of their Creators and Makers: “This is not well,” said the Forefathers to each other.
Then they said to them: “Because it has not been possible for you to talk, you shall be changed. We have changed our minds: Your food, your pasture, your homes, and your nests you shall have; they shall be the ravines and the woods, because it has not been possible for you to adore us or invoke us.
So was don Julio Grondona, the light, the joy, the unmoved mover, the muppet master, the creator and (ahem) chief benefactor of Argieball, forced to intervene:
There shall be those who adore us, we shall make other [beings] who shall be obedient. Accept your destiny: your flesh shall be torn to pieces. So shall it be. This shall be your lot.” So they said, when they made known their will to the large and small animals which are on the face of the earth.
According to Mayan mythology, the Creators and Makers had to have several goes at this creation lark. The first few attempts included animals, mud man, then wooden man. They failed as the by turns soggy, flinty creatures were either unable to speak, or remember, or reason – they had no souls, or were unable to praise their Makers, or worst of all, they forgot they existed altogether. Equanimity is not a quality that could be said to characterise the Quichés’ Creators: each time the negative results met with a frenzy of vengeful destruction:
Immediately the wooden figures were annihilated, destroyed, broken up, and killed. […] A flood was brought about by the Heart of Heaven; a great flood was formed which fell on the heads of the wooden creatures.
Yes, a flood. Indeed one wonders if our version of old Yahweh’s fleeting artistic phase doesn’t suppress all the botched previous versions (if we were 50 years younger we might think it would be cool to wonder if this wasn’t one of the botched versions, oooh). Yahweh shuffles about His celestial studio, traipsing through the darkness of His own omnipresent, eternal mind. The murkiness not being conducive to creation, He turns on the lights: ¡Hágase la luz! Only then can it be judged whether the output of that day is for the scrap heap or Eternity. A series of sketches, of experiments that we only read once He steps back from the canvas: Y Dios vio que era bueno.
Since the ousting/self-destruction of Maradona and the eventual succession of Checho Batista as manager of la Selección, however, there has been precious little probing of the Maker’s latest attempt at Man. Both ex-pat bloggers and Argiejournos so spineless they make the Popul Vuh mud man look like EBJT have been surprisingly eager to believe the laconic, stubbled Checho is their Messiah. The usual cynicism is conspicuous by its absence. It would appear the right formula has been found, as if there’s no chance of apocalyptic bouts of cleansing in the next few years:
And as they had the appearance of men, they were men; they talked, conversed, saw and heard, walked, grasped things; they were good and handsome men, and their figure was the figure of a man.
That’s what the next few posts are going to be about: Messi, Maradona, Bilardo, Olé, Grondona, yes-men, historical revisionism, etc. Stay tuned, you handsome bastards.