Glenderful's Shit List: Diego Costa

Diego Costa just slid into Glenderful's Shit List like he slides into defenders—hard, unapologetic, and leaving everyone shook. He's not just playing the game; he's rewriting the rulebook, and honey, he's giving gas.

Born October 7, 1988, in Lagarto, Sergipe, Brazil—a dusty street-football kingdom where legends are forged in flip-flops and fury. Named after Diego Maradona (yes, the Argentina-Brazil beef was real, but Papa Costa said, fuck it), he's 6'2 ft, with US size 12 stompers grew up kicking balls barefoot before Europe paid him to break souls. He didn't just play football—he weaponized it.

The Arsenal:

• Psychological warfare? Check. He'd stare down a defender like he was about to steal his girl and his mom.

• That permanent scowl? Anti-hero energy. Not here to be your TikTok crush—here to make you question your life choices.

• Physical dominance? Shirt-tugging, elbow-dropping, foot-stomping—he played like the referee was blind and the pitch was his coliseum.

• Loyalty? Switched from Brazil to Spain like, "I choose my vibe, not my birthplace." Power move.

• Street mentality in a billionaire league? Lower-league Portugal and Spain forged him into a survivalist with abs.

Trophies? La Liga twice with Atlético, Premier League twice with Chelsea, Europa League, Super Cups—but let's be real: the real trophy is that ass in motion.

Rich brown skin gleaming under floodlights, muscles coiled like a loaded spring. Diego charges—no mercy, no prisoners. Elbows fly, shoulders shove, and that ass—Dios mío—round, powerful, straining against those shorts like it's begging to be freed. Every sprint is a flex, every collision a tease. He doesn't just savage; he claims. Defenders? Left broken. Fans? Left thirsty.

He's the ultimate pantomime villain—booed by 60,000, smiling like he just got a love letter. That infamous "I shit on your whore mother" clapback? Legendary. Not an insult—a vibe check. He thrived on conflict, converted rage into goals, and made the beautiful game ugly-hot.

Diego wasn't content being a terror on grass—he needed to spread the gospel of absolutely no chill everywhere:

• Atlético Madrid (2010–2014, 2018–2021): Forged in Simeone's fire. Became the league's beautiful nightmare.

• Chelsea (2014–2017): Dropped 20 goals his first season, won the title, then got too spicy for Conte's taste. Iconic.

• Botafogo (2023): Came home to Brazil like a prodigal son with battle scars and stories.

His entire career? A masterclass in controlled chaos. The FA couldn't handle him. La Liga couldn't tame him. Referees feared him. Defenders respected him—even while plotting revenge.

Diego Costa isn't just a footballer. He's a statement. A middle finger to respectability politics in sports. He showed up, took what was his, and didn't apologize for the bruises left behind.

His legacy? Every young striker with an edge, every player who refuses to smile for the cameras, every athlete who says, "I'm here to win, not to be liked"—they're walking in Diego's dusty, size 12 footprints.

He's not for everyone. And that's exactly the point.

I’m obsessed with churrasco. That coarse salt crust on a sizzling piece of picanha, fat dripping into the fire, smoke curling up like his goddamn smirk. Then you hit it with the chimichurri—parsley, garlic, chili flake, vinegar. It’s not a sauce, it’s fucking magic. Tangy, fresh, it cuts through all that rich fat. One bite and you’re done. You’re salivating. It’s primal. You’re insatiable.

Diego Costa? That’s a fucking rodízio. No questions. Shit on swords, endless rounds, until I'm stuffed, rolling, in a haze of meat-sweats. I’d lick the fucking plate clean. The skewer. The ass.

Autumn on a plate? Get the fuck out of here. Diego Costa is a five-alarm chili. It burns twice—once on the way down, once on the way back up—and you’d still fucking order it again.

You lie to yourself and say it’s just football. But you know, watching him—that goal, that shove, that fucking smirk—it feeds a different hunger.

Welcome to the Shit List, Diego Costa. No crumbs left. No apologies.