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So here's a happy thought. By going 1-7 in their last eight (sorry you listless globs of scrotum sweat, when you suck this badly, shootout losses don't count for shit), the boys are now exactly half way to pissing away that 14-2 stretch in its entirety. Yay us!
I'll leave you to ponder that while I resume the smashing. I have to tell you, in a fit of pique, there isn't a more satisfying sound in the world than that of a well swung hockey stick against an aluminum garbage can. Unless, of course, it's the sound of Alex Kovalev's spine being shattered over one's knee.
To paraphrase The Little General (glove tap MFP3)...Fuck. And. Me.
The Dizzying Highs:
Um...let's see. Those Atlanta third jerseys were pretty sharp. That's one. And uhhh...my big screen still works despite the three inch deep pile of donkey dung that mysteriously appeared around the base sometime between the hours of 7:00 and 9:35 p.m. last night, so that's something. OH! No one in my immediate vicinity was horribly maimed by the torrent of foul mouthed invective, although a bowl of Planters' Dry Roasted Peanuts did meet with an unfortunate demise and my dog won't look me in the eyes anymore. And my neighbour most definitely did NOT call the cops to report a half naked crazy man next door screaming at the moon. So, you know, there's that.
The Terrifying Lows:
An Ode Upon A Back Breaking Goal For The Other Guys. Chris Philips, auteur: Stupid, brainless, dense, doltish, dopey, dorky, dull, dumb, fatuous, half-witted, mindless, oafish, obtuse, senseless, simple, slow, thick, thickheaded, unintelligent, vacuous, weak-minded, witless, feebleminded, retarded, simpleminded, foolish, imbecile, imbecilic, moronic, ignorant, illiterate, lowbrow, uneducated, uninformed, untaught, unthinking, absurd, asinine, cockeyed, crazy, cuckoo, daffy, daft, dotty, harebrained, insane, kooky, loony, lunatic, mad, nonsensical, nutty, preposterous, sappy, screwball, silly, unwise, wacky, zany, fallacious, illogical, invalid, irrational, and pretty fucking idiotic. Next time, Big Rig, just put it deep, okay?
You tried your best and failed miserably. The lesson here is, never try: If I can see that Brian Elliott is too deep in his crease, and Dan, the owner/bartender/chief curmudgeon at my favourite Don Cherry's in the entire country (corner of King Edward and Rideau, people! Try the chicken Quesadillas. You'll step on your mother to get one.) can see that Brian Elliott is too deep in his crease and Colby Armstrong can see that Brian Elliott is too deep in his crease, and most people with a functional neo-cortex can see that Brian Elliott is too deep in his crease, why can't Brian Elliott see that Brian Elliott is too deep in his crease? Is it rickets? It's rickets, isn't it?
The Emperor would like a refund please: Alex Kovalev can die in a fire for all I care. That is all.
Pithy Observations of Questionable Importance:
The official attendance was announced as 12,718. Judging by the tomb like silence and acres of empty seats visible to an underwhelmed (and very, very angry) television audience, seventy percent of that figure was made up entirely of life size cardboard cut outs of Gary Bettman congratulating himself on the unqualified success his strategy of southern expansion has become. Now, if the Jets or Nords found themselves three points out of eighth going into the third week of March, how many empty seats would you think to find at La Colisee or Winnipeg Stadium? Obviously, it would totally be the same, right?? Otherwise, we might be forced to conclude that hockey in the south is both a failure and total embarrassment. And we can't have that, can we?
The Creamy Middle:
Welcome (back) to the suck. If the Little General ever had to prove he's worth his Big Head Whistle Blower Dude salary, it's now. 1-for-7. No goaltending, no defence, no scoring and no guts. And yet, the big secret to turning this shit heap around is no secret at all. Dump puck, see puck, crash puck, get puck, shoot puck, profit. If it were up to me, I'd carve that into each and every one of their fucking foreheads.
Up Next:
And the South shall rise again! Yippee! It's a Saturday matinee in Big D. The good news? Beloved releases your humble scribe from the tedium of Saturday afternoon chores (No! Really! She's the Best. Wife. Ever.). The bad news? Early afternoon starts have been rather, um, shall we say, unkind. The good news? On the 12th of January, we were embarrassed 6-1 by the Atlanta Thrashers. Two nights later, with the mob in full torch and pitchfork-y form, the boys shut out the Rags to kick off a streak of eleven straight wins, the same number of games, coincidentally, that now remain on the Sens schedule. The bad news? As currently evidenced, when they refuse to remove their collective heads form their collective asses, the 2009-2010 Ottawa Senators suck monkey balls. Maybe it's time to call up Mike Brodeur. So, who ya got? (2:00pm EDT, SportsNet East)
Behind Enemy Lines:
Cole Jones brings you the brilliantly titled The Other 6 Seconds. I'll let you figure out what it means on your own, but if you get stumped, he's good enough to offer an explanation. Suffice to say, sexual congress figures prominently. Well, duh.
Go Sens.
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