Good evening everyone.  So good of you to join me.

Many of you in this room tonight, most of whom I recognize...hello Tim...embarked upon your sports writing career in much the same way.  Fresh out of J-School (or community college or vocational school or Mrs. Pebblebottom's eighth grade English Composition as the case, and exacting standards of your current employer may be), wide eyed and ambitious, you were ready to...Nay!  You WOULD change the world of sports and sports writing FOREVER!

From your humble beginnings churning out breathless filler copy about local Tiddle-Y-Wink tourneys or "professional" wrestling, you were determined to forge ahead, undaunted, until such time as you fulfilled that manifest destiny you just KNEW was yours for the taking.  And when the accolades and the Pulitzers and the groupies you would so richly deserve finally came rolling in, you would sit atop your giant mountains of money and publishing contracts and broken SI editors and laugh maniacally at the poor bastards you crushed along the road to the pinnacle and over whom you now hold total dominion, all the while sipping Cuba Libras and hand rolling Cuban cigars between the thighs of Mayan virgins.  Oh, how glorious it would be!

But, alas, not everyone can be Mitch Albom.

It is truly a cold, cruel business, this.  For there is such a fine line between glory, gobs of money or random appearances in the New York Times and being consigned to a lifetime of knuckle pounding for the local rag that it is to weep.

That line is called "talent".  Some have it.  Some do not.  Those who have it are not in this room.  For the rest of you wretched souls, I have come to offer hope.  I will show you how to keep your job in three easy steps.  Yes, that's right.  No matter your rampant alcoholism borne of disillusionment or your debilitating self esteem problems or your constant need for praise because Mommy didn't hug you enough, I will tell you how to keep collecting that pay cheque and stay on that expense account gravy train with a minimum of effort.

Imagine if you will, a one team town.  It is the off-season.  Not much, if anything is happening.  Your editors are getting grumpy, increasingly paranoid, and maybe just a little handsy.  Suddenly, you hear through a guy who knows a guy who has a buddy whose girlfriend overheard a client in the "massage parlor" she "cleans" say something to the effect that one of the team's star players may be unhappy following a recent and very raw playoff defeat.  Moreover, that star player has, in the past, been somewhat of a lightning rod for fan criticism whether deserved or not.  So what do you do?  Why, you run with that shit!  You run with that shit and you milk it for all it's worth, that's what.  And here's how...

Oh, hey!  'Sup?  I'm told stuff has very definitely been going down.  So where have I been?  That's a hella good question.

I'd like it noted for the record that my little corner of our Big Blue Marble has been slightly warmer than the Earth's core of late and for someone of my age and, um, "unique" physical attributes, 43C (816F) temperatures make blinking dangerous, let alone thinking up clever things to say about Sergei Gonchar.  The typing alone may well have killed me.

But then I thought "Well, shit SLC.  If you're going to hold the Sens' newly acquired defensive liability to totally unattainable goals as you squelch and splash about in your muumuu covered Lazy-Boy, then you'd better suck it up yourself!  MOVE THOSE FINGERS, LARDASS!  And maybe install some AC..."  So here I am.

After the jump, my thoughts on Gonchar, "The Decision", A-Train in Joisy, Ilya Kovalchuk, the sweet merciful release of death and anything else I can squeeze out of my frontal lobe before heatstroke sends me to the land of desert nomads and fat NFL linesman.

Come.  Our Lady of The Perpetually Moist beckons...

One blogger suggests the Senators should rid themselves of the real problem, Daniel Alfredsson. -- Tim Baines

And that's how it began.  Steve HL left me a comment to the effect of "What the hell??" and I had to go looking (as had others).  Otherwise, I'd never have known Tim Baines, Ottawa Sun sports editor of some twenty years (no, really...he tells you himself) had started a blog.  And when that sentence hit the interwebs...well, the umbrage was instant.  My inbox blew up.  Who said that?!?!  Who would dare??  Have you read that anywhere???  The answer was an unequivocal "NO" on all counts.  No one had said that.

Well, except for "John".  "John" had said that.  In fact, "John" had said that in a comment to Tim's first feeble attempt at defending whatever standards exist in the Ottawa Sun sports department.  You see, Tim had confused "commenter" with "blogger", a common rookie mistake I've noticed when old-timey MSM columnists venture into the realm of the "new media" (whatever the hell that means).

Then there was this:

Unlike some local hacks who live in their mothers’ basements and throw enough crap out there until some of it sticks, our guys have sources — GMs, scouts, management-types.

Another rookie mistake.  As I generously (I thought) pointed out to my new buddy Tim in an email exchange, times they have a changed, and falling back on the old "mother's basement" chestnut no longer marks we lowly bloggers as the pathetic attention whores of yore but rather signals the insecurity of he who hurled the insult in the first place.  Nothing screams "I'm old, out of touch and feeling threatened by unpaid amateurs who do it better than we do." louder than that hoary testicle.

But still, who am I to sneer at the hypocrisy of the Sun wheeling out their sports editor to defend the irresponsible journalism foisted upon an unsuspecting public by two (conspicuously absent) fat guys with expense accounts?  After all, I'm just a blogger.

So here's to Tim and his first tentative steps into the ether, as defensive as they may be.  Long may he scribble.

Welcome to the internets Tim.  Buckle up.

Due to the Great Super Duper Server Transplant, Untransplant, Retransplant, Reuntransplant, We-Hope-To-Christ-It-Works-This-Time-Transplant Of 2010 that has rained naught but chaos and anarchy over the length and breadth of the Bloguin Kingdom for the last four days (none of which, I hasten to add, being the fault of our Benevolent Bloguin Overlords), I have been unable to offer you, loyal reader (Hi Mom!) my usual analytic brilliance of all things drafty and for that I apologize.  To make up for it, anyone who wants to peruse my live blog of the 2010 NHL Entry Draft is welcome to come to my house and read the 612 hand written Post-It Notes now adorning my garage door.

That said, there is one thing that transpired under the bright lights reflecting off of Gary Bettman's greasy, sweat streaked forehead that deserves special mention. To wit: Bryan Murray has apparently outsourced our scouting department to St Louis.

And he's a goddamned genius for doing so.

Hop for the why.

Jason Spezza is not going to be traded.  Not now, not ever.

We all know who is fuelling this.  We've seen it time and again.  We know he delights in stirring the shit, not only to incite the knuckle-typing groundlings into a hooting, inchoate howl, but mostly to justify his own pathetic "career" as means of guaranteeing his continued access to the media buffet table.

Trade to Phoenix?  We'll take Shane Doan, thank you.  Columbus?  Fine.  Rick Nash or go piss up a rope.  Oilers? Same deal you offered for Heater (Cogs, Smid, Penner) plus that pretty 1st overall you've got there (and it damn well better be Tyler Seguin, Bryan.  I've had just about enough of self-entitled fuckwits).  Otherwise, get the fuck out of my kitchen.  Leafs?  Um...no.  That's your market, gentlemen.  That's how valuable Giggles is to our team, whether the mouth breathing trogs who invade the Sun's comment section want to admit it or not.

Also?  The Bryan needs to shut the fuck up.

I've tried to ignore this.  No, really, I have.  My position is well known, and after the absolute shittiest week in SLC history, the last thing I needed was to bother addressing what amounts to some fat fuck's attempt at saving his own evaporating credibility by pulling a maggot ridden piece of afterbirth out of his rectum and slapping a "SCOOP!" sticker on it.  And yet, here we are.  Thanks for that, asshat.

So, yeah.  Cut the shit.  Giggles isn't going anywhere.

We all have our off-season rituals.  I, for one, like to spend the time between the End of Everything (that happened last Wednesday night on the off chance your Mayan calendar is off) and that glorious October morn where all is once again right and pure and unicorn-y in the Hockey Universe by reacquainting myself spending time with Beloved, mainlining sirloin steak and setting off the sprinkler system on the llama farm up the road for shits and giggles (Look Ma!  They's pre-shrunked!).  Others choose rather more wholesome and rewarding activities.  Like these guys.

Five Hole For Food started as a hockey trip across Canada but then road hockey enthusiast, and pilot of the trip Richard Loat, thought that it could be so much more. The concept of incorporating some sort of charity to benefit local communities led to a discussion with Winnipeg game host Jimmy Mac who coined the phrase “Five Hole for Food”. From there it has evolved into a social media effort of networks and partners to create a cross country food drive where hockey fans play a variation of the game and the local community benefits.

They'll be in Ottawa rockin' Bluegrass Park, Kanata on the 30th of June, stop number two on their ten day, nine city odyssey, where they will be hosted by none other than the wily and elusive Peter Raaymakers of Silver Seven Sens fame whose mad road hockey skillz will make Puck Bunnies swoon and cause grown men to weep.  Or so I'm told.  And they'll be happy to take any and all non-perishable items for the benefit of the Ottawa Food Bank.  Oh, and cash is pretty good too.

So waddya say, Ottawa?  Come on out and support some crazy kids, have some fun and score some Ottawa 67's swag, all while supporting a truly noble cause.  Someday, Dion Phaneuf will thank you.

Al Bello/Getty Images, without permission.  And yeah, this hurts, just a little.  Shoulda been you, 2003.

And so it's over.  Once more we stare into the gaping maw that is four months without God's Game.  Oh sure, we'll have lots of things to distract us, like the draft and that annual roiling ball of insanity that is Free Agent Frenz-O-Palooza Day ("We've replaced Brian Burke's frontal lobe with wet coffee grounds and seven pounds of goat feces!  Let's see if anyone notices!").  Hell, some of us may take a gander at the CFL *gasp!* or maybe a little golf (U.S. Open coming up), or even that quaint little tournament with all the running and screaming and the hooligan-ing and the kicking of the ball with the feet until somebody falls down dealy (Heh.  South Africa.  You're just so damn cute!).  Hell, some of us may even venture outside.  Crazy, I know!

But before I waive a final farewell to Jonothan Cheechoo and the 2009-2010 NHL season, I'd like to offer a heartfelt congratulations to the Chicago Blackhawks and their long suffering fans for their Cup triumph (thanks to what was, quite possibly, the single most anti-climactic Cup clinching overtime goal ever) and, more important, for at last driving the final stake through Big Bill Wirtz's black black heart.  Somewhere in Satan's accounting department, he's screaming at the potted fens " And just HOW much did those goddamned hats cost?!?!"

I would also be remiss if I didn't thank the Hawks for handing The Drought to our most favoured of all failed states, Leaf Nation (take THAT, Kim Jong Il!).  Here's hoping that they use this as motivation to throw off the yoke of feudal oppression under which they've toiled for so long and demand better from their pension plan overlords rather than merely accept the Mantle of Suck they've been bestowed and twisting it into some kind of perverted badge of honour, a monument to utterly blind and unquestioning loyalty as some kind of misguided defence mechanism to mitigate the pain of...Whoops!  Um...yes, well this is awkward...

Sorry about that.  But if it makes you feel better, the Sens have endured a much longer dry spell.  After all, Ottawa hasn't celebrated a Cup win in 81 years.  Kind of makes your 43 (and counting) a mere trifle, doesn't it?  Pity for you then, that you seem to take such pleasure in telling us that that doesn't count.

Go Sens.  Is it October yet?

OTTAWA (SLC) -- Despite a growing public backlash against what Ottawa Senators fans are calling a smear campaign stoked by "those two fatties and the bald guy", the Ottawa Sun remains steadfast in its mission to rid the team's roster of any and all players those same fans actually like.

"It has come to our attention" today's Sun press release read, "that there remain unexplored personal stories about Senators players that, when exposed for no other reason than the production of titillating headlines, will not only allow our writing staff to continue to justify their slovenly, unshaven, sweat pants clad, free chicken wing inhaling existence, but will also ensure that the Ottawa Senators become a pariah throughout the NHL, spurned by draft picks and free agents alike, thus creating a perfect storm of negative stories that can be mined into eternity, and therefore furthering Don Brennan's quixotic quest to be seen as a real journalist when he isn't chasing Hooters girls in a drunken stupor and running out on bar tabs.  HAHAHA!  Oh, yeah, let's send that one out.  What?  No, of course that's not the official release dumba**.  Stupid fu**ing interns.  WAIT! NO! DON'T HIT SEN---"

Fuelling the debate was a story in today's edition about winger Chris Neil's three brothers screwing up their construction company and declaring bankruptcy, a company in which Chris Neil may or may not have been the majority owner.  We're not sure.  The story gets a little fuzzy at that point, truth be told.  A little.  Kinda.  But the Sun absolutely maintains that Chris Neil was totally involved.  Tenuously.  They think.  Maybe.

"C'mon now", said a Sun sports editor who asked that his name not be used.  "Do you honestly think that, under ordinary circumstances, we'd be interested in three goat fu**ing yutzes who can't pay their bills?  Please.  Chris Neil's name makes this a story."  When pressed on how this could possibly be of any concern to anyone but that of the parties involved or how Neil's reported fiduciary difficulties reflected his worth to the team on the ice, the editor replied "Fu**ed if I no.  I cover real sports, like professional wrestling" before grabbing a fifth of bourbon from his desk drawer and diving through a third floor window.

Coming, as it does, hard on the heels of Bruce Garrioch's latest hard hitting story in his ongoing campaign to drive Jason Spezza out of town on a rail, there is a growing feeling among Sens Army that the publisher of the Ottawa Sun, Montreal based Quebecor may have ulterior motives.  Namely, that by directing their idiotic minions to invade the privacy of Senator fan favourites and publishing irrelevant materiel about their private lives, no player will ever want to sign in Ottawa, thus ensuring a perpetual third place finish in the North East Division to the Montreal Canadiens.

"I stopped taking anything the Sun writes about the Sens seriously years ago.", said one obscure Sens blogger of little note and even less renown.  "Stevenson is a wannabe Cox, Garrioch is a joke, and that drunk son of a bit** Brennan still owes me sixty bucks.  Fu**ing bar tab skipping, walk-out fu**tard".

When asked for a rebuttal, Mister Garrioch replied "Malkin to the Kings.  Bank."

I try, I really do.  Every four years the World Cup rolls around and I sit down in front of my television and tell myself that this time it'll be different.  THIS time I will leave my North American sporting biases to their content fermentations in a stinking hockey bag and truly learn to appreciate the game of soccer for what it is.  I try really, really hard to see the same "Beautiful Game" 90% of the planet sees, not only because I'm incurably insecure and hate to feel like I'm being left out, but also because I consider myself a bit of a Renaissance Man, delighting in all of the meats of our sporting stew (except cricket).

By the third game of Group play, I begin to despair that, no, this time is not different.  By the fifth game, I am reminded why I loathe professional soccer.  Then I just stop watching.

But hey.  That's just me.  With the possible exception of a certain well-meaning colleague whose insistence upon regaling me with breathless recaps of the Tottenham Hotspurs weekend failures before I've had my first Monday morning coffee leaves me a little nun-punchy, who am I to begrudge others their sporting passion?  We'll just agree to disagree and go our separate ways.  You can keep your little riot inducing fun runs, and I'll go back to listening to Jim Nantz fellate Tiger Woods until the NFL season and the Sens training camp open in September and we're all good.  Live and let live, says I.

Unfortunately not everyone feels the same way.  As inevitable as a Diego Maradonna promise to do something utterly horrific, the World Cup also brings with it the usual hand-wringing and indignant prose from the learned socceratti.  It is utterly baffling to them that we colonial rubes don't seem to care all that much for the Beautiful Game to the extent that (apparently) decent, well adjusted members of the civilized world aught.

One such baffled soul is Richard Starnes, soccer writer for the Ottawa Citizen, who, in a breathtaking combination of wilful blindness and tripe of infuriating condescension manages in one fell swoop to remind me why professional soccer can go fuck itself right in the ear.

I think we can all agree that the most exciting thing about this year's Stanley Cup Final is that Detroit and Pittsburgh aren't in it.  While the dearth of airborne cephalopods may confuse and frighten the casual fan at first, this sad fact will be more than made up for by the sight of Gary Bettman doddering about Chicago in a drunken stupor, muttering "Where the HELL is Ovechkin?!?" into every microphone he happens upon.

What the hell do I care?  I have no dog in this fight.  But if you want to know who I think will win and why, then by all means, jump away.  But I warn you.  My criteria for picking a winner is somewhat...different*.