If the soccer team is any indication of the current state in Italy, I am SO marrying an Italian man.

{{They travel in black suits.  Their captain’s name is Fabio.  Granted, the ones with longer hair appear to own several shares of stock in hair gel, but that’s easily forgiven.}}

{{Mmmmmmmm.  Does this make them eye caramella instead??}}

{{^^ Captain Fabio, debating how he will propose holy matrimony to me.}}

Me: "Not the faaaace!!"

Coach: "…And this is what happens when we mix whites with reds in the laundry!"
Player: "Dude, that so wasn’t me."

LATER...

"Whoever did this is gonna dieeeeee..."

{{Brokeback Appenines Mountains.  Believe me, there are more game-action shots like that. It could have looked much, much worse.}}

{{Talk about hurting when you fall from heaven.   I HAD TO SAY IT!!}}

"Okay, so maybe croquet wouldn’t have been that bad."

Me: "Skank, step back. They’re mine."

"…What?  I’m stretching!  ....Weirdo."

{{Unseemly amounts of sweat never looked so good.}}

{{Further proof in the power of soccer.}}

Coach: "Mussolini was an AMETEUR."

"So… When do you think they’ll find out about the laundry?"

"Uhhhhhh… Now. TOLD you we shouldn’t have separated ours out!!"