The one tone the vuvuzela is capable of bringing forth is B♭ (pronounced 'bess' in Swedish). Most of the games in the world cup offered a wall of sound - a cacophony not unlike the biblical swarm of grasshoppers. Some games later the Vuvuzuelan intensity had formed itself, and a rhythm, albeit mono-tonal, was discernible. Making the language of supporters stuttering.
The use of vuvuzelas is a profoundly minor practice - it doesn't disrupt the game like the occasional streaker, or like balloons and other nonhuman actors. Instead it heats up, excites, and changes the game without breaking the rules. Sonorously smoothing out game-space; making it a pitch of intensity. Judges will make bad decisions, players will not be able to communicate verbally.
Vuvuzuelans are parasites in the etymological sense of the word, 'the ones eating next to', something Michel Serres makes us aware of. Surprisingly invisible in the live coverage of the audience (funny hats, face-paintings, and beautiful women is the perennial top-three on the producers' lists), but still painfully present, the Vuvuzuelan people much resemble itchy and scratchy worms in the rectal realm.
The rationale of the Vuvuzuelan side is not to choose sides in the all too crude dialectics of soccer. The Vuvuzuelan people is not interested in winners, losers, and other main players in the dramaturgy of history-making. Vuvuzuela reacts on intensity, or, in lack of it, creates intensity. The Vuvuzuelan parliament, wherein its tawdry micropolitics are acted out, is like a choir in an antique drama: bacchanal, emotional, and with the memory of a goldfish.
For crying out loud: May the Bbt man win!