From time immemorial humanity has searched for meaning. Why are we here? What is the point? Where are my keys? I used to be like the rest of you. I used to be like you. Wandering aimlessly through a cruel, empty world. Then it happened. In August of the year 2013 my favorite team signed the divine oracle.
Erik Manuel Lamela is not the greatest player. In fact he’s actually pretty ok. But that’s not of the man affectionately known as “Coco”. Billed as a flashy, technically gifted winger to replace Gareth Bale, he was in fact none of that. Sure he can play a great through ball. Yeah he dribbles well. But none of it looks easy. While some players glide around effortlessly, you can see every sinew straining as he gallops around the pitch. A left-footed player I’d say his right is only good to stand on except every time he shoots he falls over.
So after all of that you may ask, why this is the man that brought meaning to the meaningless? Is someone so capable of ineptitude really worth all of this? You simpletons. Coco does not play the beautiful game for the ball. The ball is merely a concept to our king. No, Lamela plays soccer to fill the time in between chances for acts of violence.
This man is not just a master of the dark arts, but a true maestro of shithousery. Where most see a game of skill and athleticism, our liege sees the opportunity for pain. So the next time you watch Lamela and you hear the complaints about inconsistency, remember the game is not about the game, it is about life. And life as defined by Lamela, is a two footer on the keeper while on a yellow card. Also the rabonas are dope.