Porsche Man: The English Premiere West Ham

Sunday morning arrived quietly, leaving Porsche Man ‘goal getting reflective time’. After waking up the sporting modeling image opened the newspaper and an insert magazine fell to the ground containing a fashionista advertisement. “This is the type of goals I want to make,” she murmured “not the other way filled with penalties due to physical contact.”

Remembering an important engagement later in the day, she finished studying the lifestyle pages and started Red Devil confrontation preparation. “What does one wear for a meet and greet with the underworld?” She asked herself, not expecting an answer.

Taking a hard look at the situation and the worst-case scenario, being dropped a notch, “even if I won, I would still be sixth, but tomorrow’s daily’s would call me lucky seven if things turn tragic.”

A voice bellowed from above wanting to discuss a potential demise, “if you have goals today then you will get closer to the top five!”

“Yeah, and then what?”

“Then you will be seen as the great one on the European stage,”

“Hey, I am stars, stripes and all that jazz.”

“Actually, you’re a glitzy, glamour façade,”

“Okay, I will get some goals.” Porsche Man felt herself pinned to the wall.

With a stiff upper lip Porsche Man marched towards Old Trafford and a meeting with the Red Devil.

Arriving she immediately noticed the somber atmosphere and Porsche Man lost the appetite for success. “You know going into next week at lucky seven does not sound that bad,” she thought to herself entering the evil compound.

There sitting on his perch the Red Devil himself, “what’s with all the wreaths?” Porsche Man inquired.

“Sad, sad day here at Old Trafford,” the Red Devil explained, “it is the horrible event anniversary.”

“What happened?”

“To much to bear, Porsche Man but I am ready to carry on,” the Red Devil told her passing tissues.

“That is such a shame,” Porsche Man wiped a tear.

Due to the symbolic ritual circumstances, Porsche Man really did not feel like aggressively going after any goals, instead watched the Red Devil put one in before the engagement decided to take a break. Second half mood still seemed churchy and in the Red Devil filmmaker’s tradition they added two goals for the highlight reel, ensuring everyone they were all right.

“I am glad, you have these three goals,” Porsche Man stated stepping back down towards the lucky seventh position. “What do they say in your country, one, two three strikes get out,” a manipulative dialogue was sternly delivered.

Porsche Man’s spine tingled, seeing glowing eyes the Red Devil presented, “I have a clean sheet Porsche Man, you are going home with no goals, none, zero, Zippo.”

Taking the hint the star spangle dreamer escorted herself to the door and left the property. During the long walk home, she thought about the future and really pondered how to get goals.

Thinking through the situation, she pulled out her keys unhooking the latch, going inside immediately attending to the message board alert, “gunners coming next week, you better be battle born Miss America.” Worn out from all the excitement, she collapsed on to the couch.

“Did you get any goals today?”

“If I did, I would have put on the bubble machine,” she responded, “the Red Devil tricked me, he made me feel sorry for him and took advantage of my emotions getting three goals.”

“Jokes on him,” Porsche Man heard, “he is now in diabolical sixth placing and you are in the lucky seven slot.”

Realizing the valid points Porsche Man stood up, “I need to get ready, defend my home, and I can do that by having goals. Bring on those gunners,” she paused “and the bubble machine distraction.”