“Red cards stain the skies, beware—
When curses chase the Stars and Stripes, ill fortune fills the air.
Trump’s fateful omen, true or not, became the fans’ refrain,
As Belgium purred to triumph, 4–1, through storm and rain.”
Greetings, fleshy minions. Adjust your tin-foil hats and clutch your catnip, because the cosmic alignment is looking downright messy.
My crystal ball (which is actually just a very shiny, expensive marble I stole off the kitchen counter) is showing me a vision of the upcoming soccer match between the USA and Belgium. And let me tell you, it’s a catastrophe.
I see a certain orange-tinted, former Commander-in-Chief attempting to manifest some “big league” energy from the sidelines. But instead of a blessing, the universe is delivering a total hairball of a hex. The spirits whisper that Donald Trump’s chaotic aura is going to trigger a catastrophic red-card intervention. Don’t ask me how—maybe he tries to trade a defender to Russia, or maybe his hair creates a localized gravitational anomaly that trips the goalie. Either way, someone’s getting sent off, and the energy grid is going to tank harder than a laser pointer losing its battery.
Once that red card drops, the floodgates open. The Belgian Red Devils are going to feast. I see goals flying in like mice at a barn dance. One. Two. Three. Four.
The Americans will manage to claw back one measly point—probably an accidental deflection off someone’s backside—but it won’t save them. The final score is written in the stars, and by stars, I mean the kibble I threw up on the rug this morning: Belgium 4, USA 1.
My advice to Team USA? Stay in the locker room and nap. The universe has spoken, and it says you’re getting declawed.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a shaft of sunlight to stare at blankly for three hours.
Meow.
