One person who also has opinions on making the game more attractive to a stone-cold business-casual observer is the lead singer of the Sheffield UK-based band Arctic Monkeys. This distinguished youth, specifically as a Brit rocker, understands the nuances in how to break into the ellusive hearts-and-minds of the American "market". After all, why wouldn't someone want a fine slice of that microwaveable American Pie, or a sweet sip of that high fructose corn syrup Cool Ade?
The matches should be announced 5 minutes before kick off, in the middle of the night. The players are woken up by a high pressure jet of ice cold lager and have two minutes to put on their boots and pads before being dosed up to the eyeballs on crystal meth and PCP.
Strobe lighting and deafening white noise in the tunnel ensures that they're hopelessly disorientated by the time they line up to sing the national anthems. Any that fluff a line or sing without sufficient gusto fall through trap doors in the pitch and are eaten alive by starving rabid heyenas. These inevitable casualties are replaced by highly efficient but wildly unpredictable mechanoids who can score from 70 yards but are often red carded for brutal sliding tackles that spoil the turf and bisect their opposition. The ball is made from tungsten and the referee's whistle is so loud it can melt lead. The referee himself is a highly intelligent genetically engineered polar bear who can see round corners and doesn't take shit from anyone. Collina's soul is trapped eternally within his pituitary gland. He has 9 different colours of card, from yellow for a caution all the way up to black for disembowelment and banning from the next 5 games. The linesmen are omnipresent.
Each half lasts for 5 hours and the pitch is 7 miles long with terrain varying from greased astroturf to full canopied jungle, interspersed with sand pits, ball pools and active volcanoes. After each goal a hundred strong troupe of naked local teenage girls the action on the pitch, preferring to focus on closeups of the cervixes of the most attractive supporters from some latin american country, even if it's Scotland vs Canada.
If the scores are tied after 10 hours of play, mutagenic chemicals stored in the players' spines is automatically released and they quickly transmute into horrendous lamprey like creatures who rapidly reproduce 7 fold and form an enormous writhing mass of suckers, slime, shredded football atire and hooked teeth. The teams are disbanded, the pitch is flooded with a 50:50 mix of stout and KY jelly. A horrific 5 dimensional game of twister then ensues, with each hideous player trying to force his way around or through his former team mates in an attempt to get as close as possible to the ball, which has now armed the tactical thermonuclear warhead within. The player closest to the ball when it detonates is declared the winner, and his vapourised remains are trapped in a canister and rewarded with the dubious honour of being vaginally inhaled by geriatric Estonian pilgrims who believe (incorrectly) that it will cure them of rickets.
This new version of the beautiful game proves so popular that 95% of the planet's workforce downs tools to spend all of their time watching it on tiny little screens directly inserted into their retinas, and the global economy collapses. With food running short, the blinded population of the planet is soon crawling around on the ground searching for a morsel of edible organic matter as parasites and diseases become pandemic. Brother is soon killing brother for a flake of dried up sm*gma as the planet consumes itself, polluted by discarded plutonium studs and overheated by constant arguments over whether or not something that looks like a giant hagfish with a number 7 on its hairy back can be declared offside when the ball exists in 11 dimensional space he has just eaten the last defender whole.