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Screw you and your fancy-pants mathematics, Harvard boy. You sit there on your loathsome spotty behind, squeezing blackheads, not caring a tinker's cuss for the struggling fans! You excrement! You lousy hypocritical whining toady with your lousy HD TV sets and your Special Tiger Woods Whoorin' Edition golf clubs and your bleedin' masonic handshake! You wouldn't let me join, would you, you blackballing bastard! Well I wouldn't become a Freemason now if you went down on your LOUSY, STINKING PURULENT KNEES AND BEGGED ME!!!*
Hmmm? What?? Oh! Right. The game. I don't care what the so-called "standings" say. I don't care if they have two games in hand. Nor do I care if they've allowed twenty fewer goals against.
The Buffalo Sabres and the Ottawa Senators are each the proud possessors of 72 precious and hard earned points. And we totally own their ass. QED, For the first time in almost exactly two years...FIRST PLACE BABY! WOOT!!
Hey, if our first round choice is between Philly/Tampa/Habs with home-ice or Pittsburgh without, it fucking matters.
More cold beers and loud televisions after the READ and the MORE:
The Dizzying Highs:
For your rare and intermittently loyal service, we present you with this Greyhound Econo-pass: Let me be among the latest to congratulate you on your 500th game, Cheech. Quite the achievment, I must say. Even more incredible than your being absolutely robbed by Kipper not once, but twice? Seeing you in a position where that could happen in the first place. When The Bryan finally wakes up and buries your useless (yet ever so nice, hardworking and well meaning) carcass in Bingo before calling up Zack Smith for the playoffs you can at least take that with you.
Finally, I can sleep at night!: For the better part of 16 months, I've been wracking my brains for a suitable nickname for Ryan Shannon. I tried "Runaway" for a while, fond as I am for clever early 60's rock and roll related puns, but that never really went anywhere. As I watched Ryan dart and speed and bang through the Flames last night, Beloved came to my rescue. Patiently (always ever so patiently) glancing up from her book after yet another of my endless exhortations to "Holy crap! Watch this!", she opined "He looks like an angry chihuahua". Rise, Sir Knight...
Missed it by THAT much!: My man-love for Mike Fisher is well documented. Watching him try to claw his way over, behind and through everybody on the ice in an attempt to avenge Matt Stajan's incomprehensibly uncalled hit from behind on K-Rok only affirmed the depths of my feelings. I'm also rather fond of one Jerome Iginla, for many of the same reasons. If Big Rig hadn't cock-blocked Iggy's attempt to get at Fish before Mike could wreak his terrible vengeance and they had actually dropped the flippers, I may not be here today. Cause of death? Exploded pants.
The Terrifying Lows:
Maybe that nice Yzerman fellow was on to something: When the Canadian Olympic Team was announced on New Year's Eve..er..eve, much was made of the fact that Jay Bouwmeester wasn't picked. After spending three hours watching him stumble, bumble, cough up the puck, put own goals off of his own skates and generally make an ass of himself, I can only say...We love you Brent Seabrook! Oh, and hey Darryl? Have fun with that albatross...er...I mean contract.
Wonder Coach Powers activate! Form of...a blender!: When The Bryan did it, I became annoyed, but we kept winning so I held my tongue. When Paddock did it, I was apoplectic, mostly because he didn't have a fucking clue what he was doing (incompetence does that to me). Hartsburg? I was usually too drunk to care. And when I look at my notes from last night and see "11-12-22? 26-43-27?? 9-19-41?!?!? WTF?!?", my only thought is "Jesus, Cory. Don't fuck it up". This is not a comforting thought.
Pithy Observation of Questionable Importance:
Well, it's nice that they replaced Eli with a competent...GAH!!: So we now have a goalie "consultant". Swell. That's, um, terrific. But honestly, where are my manners...welcome John Stevenson! If you can somehow keep the Humors of Suck away from Ells and Snoopy, you're worth every penny of whatever outrageous per diem The Emperor is paying you. But I'm with Nichols on this one. Just what the hell is that thing on your head?
The Creamy Middle:
Not the most exciting of wins, but a win nonetheless. HOWEVAH, to those of you predicting a long and glorious playoff run based on The Streak (seriously, STFU about 2007!), I'd ask of you this: watch the tape of this game and perhaps take a little pause while you reflect on how truly razor thin the margin for error really is. Without a couple of lucky bounces (hello Giggles) and Jay Bouwmeester, we're staring into the maw of two straight losses with Great Eight and The Caps That Ate The East next on the docket. Not to be a buzzkill here, but I'm not putting away my torch and pitchfork just yet.
Up Next:
The aforementioned Washington Capitals come into The Bank tomorrow night in the last home game before the Olympic break. As I type this, they've just lost to the Habs in overtime to see their 14 game win streak come to an end. So they'll be coming in angry. Splendid. On the upside, their goaltending still sucks ass. On the upside-ier upside, Pierre Maguire's natural instinct to fellate Alex Ovechkin should now be reduced by at least 20%. So that's something. (7:00pm, TSN with the hyperbole).
Behind Enemy Lines:
The grandaddy of almost all hockey blogs, there is but one Japers' Rink. Seriously, I think J.P. was posting about the Caps when the "internet" consisted of anonymous "LOLZ!!" painted on cave walls. Pay homage and be humbled.
Go Sens.
*Deepest apologies to John Cleese. Imitation being the sincerest form and all that rot...
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...uhh WHAT THE HELL are you talking about SLC???
what are these numbers?! I have NO CLUE what your getting at.