Dimitar Berbatov isThe Continental

Well hello there.

I see you've caught me working on my fitness. With a bottle stuffed in my children's sized shorts. And a young person I hired to stand next to me and give a thumbs up wherever I go. That's how you know everything will soon be getting very sexy and that you really should take your shirt off before we proceed any further. Ha-HA!

No, those aren't drool stains on my shirt. Just ignore that and let your focus drift to the gun show you've been invited to. ... I'm going to assume that the full-bodied dry heaves you keep doing are a result of your extreme state of Berba-rousal over watching me single-handedly win the Community Shield. ... Yes, I realize I spent much of the game sitting on the bench and reading a lingerie catalog from 1993, but mere seconds after I entered the match in the 89th minute, Man City's defense collapsed and my teammate who looks like a young Michael Jackson scored the winner. Coincidence? No. It was Berba-magic. Ha-HA!

So to celebrate the new season's first piece of Berba-ware, I suggest you drink from this unmarked bottle of red liquid sticking out of my shorts and join me on a hallucinogenic journey into the erotic underworld of a nearby Burger King bathroom. As you can see, my hired friend's thumb is confirming that this is an excellent idea. Ha-HA!

Oh-OHHH! I just realized that these are stains from the raw quail eggs and mayonnaise I ate earlier as a training snack. Oh, this is terrible. Quail membrane never comes out. Now I'll have to spend another three hours cutting the sleeves off a new shirt.

Join us again next time for another chapter in the life of...The Continental...

Thanks to Petar D. (who said The Berba was quite the gentleman) for the photo.