Euro 2008, post-Final, the Alternate Stories

“Torsten. Dude. I know it helps you feel better about the loss, but the cameras are still rolling.”

“Thanks for the hand, man. Football doesn’t give me the upper body strength to heft this thing either.”

“Do you think anybody would notice if I slipped it down my pants and hid it there till I can stick it in my locker?”

“Whoa. You’re right. Weird. It does taste like lemon.”

“Son, it’s extremely insensitive of you to be making shadow animals on Torsten’s back right now.”

“That’s the best thing for those gas pains, Michael. Just squat and relax.”

“Those chicks in those documentaries are right! When your arms are weak, it IS easier to carry it on your head.”

“I know, Torsten. I didn’t place a bet on Turkey making the semis either.”

“I don’t know. They just appeared out of nowhere. I think we’ll be safe if we just keep walking away slowly and don’t make eye contact.”

And that was when Spain unveiled their secret weapon, Bozo the Clown.

“Oh, Bastian? Did you get those pics I sent you of me in my bathing suit?”

“The taste of sweat always helps me forget that we really sucked.”

“You stole WHAT from David Beckham?”

“If they play that Samba Gol song again, I’m gonna @#$%ing kill somebody.

“If I cover up the color, I bet people will think it’s gold.”