Well, it was fun while it lasted, wasn't it?  We were due for a stinker, but it would have been nice had the boys not decided that tonight would be the game in which to shit the bed.  But what are you going to do, eh?

Carks gets smoked (and full measure to Orr...yikes!), the air pours out of the balloon, and that's all she wrote.  No forecheck.  No backcheck.  Elliott hung out to dry.  Giggles rediscovers the stupid, and Picard and Filip Fucking Kuba revert to their usual form (that would be useless bags of crap, for those of you who haven't been paying attention).  The trick now is to not fall into the giant hole of suck we saw before the streak began.

So we'll give them this one.  They're kinda cute, aren't they, with their booing the Captain, their chants of "OTTAWA SUCKS!", Bob Cole calling the end of the game like the Leafs had just won a Cup and Glenn Healy proving yet again that he should be punched in the face often and with great force?  Yeah...They've had a tough couple of days, the poor bastards, so good for them.  They deserved it.

We'll be sure to send them a post card from the first round of the playoffs.  You know, just because we care.

All sports, at their heart, are tribal.

In the overheated and hyperbole filled black and white, "Us" vs. "Them" world of tribal fandom, it's easy to forget that "Them" are real people.  In fact, it's much more convenient for "Us" to turn "Them" into archetypal caricatures, isn't it?  Otherwise, how could we possibly justify our own behaviour?  How else would we willingly put aside the saner, more rational parts of our brain and let the lizard loose?

Dictators know it.  Every army in the history of the world knew it.  Hell, Orwell wrote an entire book about it (among other things).  Reduce the enemy to an easily pigeonholed cartoon, and you make it far easier for "Us" to put our own humanity aside as we race to the bottom in search of ever more shameful ways to dehumanize "Them".  And "Them" are doing the same thing to "Us".  It's part of why we're fans in the first place.  Above all, defend the tribe.

In a little more than two hours, the Ottawa Senators and the Toronto Maple Leafs will play a game.  Ordinarily, I would attach a vitriolic rhetoric to this game completely disproportionate to its importance.  I would spew all manner of invective at "Them".  I would rejoice in the misfortune of "Them".  I would demand blood.  I would demand vengeance.  And above all else, I would demand victory at all costs.  And I would love every second of it.  For three hours, I'd happily unleash my lizard brain and let that little fucker dance, strut and cavort all over the place.  Ordinarily.

But not tonight.  Tonight, it's just a game.  Every once in a while, it would do us all some good to remember that.

My condolences to the entire Burke family, and to Brendan's many friends.

A truncated Creamy Middle as we prepare to go ELEVEN STRAIGHT!  I know.  It frightens me as well...

• Dear Jason.  There's a reason everyone has been screaming "SHOOT!!"  Nice to see you've finally clued in as to the why.
  
  
• Lindy cannot stop The Captain. He can only hope to contain him.  Lucky for us, he has no idea how to do that.
  
  
• Some of us (ahem) owe Erik Karlsson a gigantic apology.
  
  
• It would break my heart if Ryan Shannon, UFA come July 1st, is not re-signed.  That said, how about a discount, Ryan?
  
  
• Source of tonight's title?  None other than our favourite poet Emiritus, Gary Gally.  Hi Lindy!  Nice kitchen you've got here.

Of the TEN WINS IN A ROW this was by far the ugliest, and yet, most satisfying. Two more points get deposited into the bank, to bring us ever closer to the Division lead (three points out!!) and that all important third seed, Penguins be damned.

Come with me little girl, on a magic carpet ride.

Life is grand, isn't it?

Never let it be said that I can't give credit where credit is due.  Brian Burke has giant, brass monkey-esque gonads.  On some level, I have to admire that.  And I have to admit that yes, upon hearing the news yesterday, there was a small pang of envy, not to mention a little trepidation.  Then I passed a little gas and it went away.  A nine game win streak makes for an excellent colonic.

So as the post masturbatory afterglow settles on the Nation, similar to that which followed the Beauchemin/Exelby/Komisarek/Monster signings if memory serves (so how's that working out?), let's do a little bubble bursting just because it's fun.

What, if anything, does the Phaneuf trade mean to the rest of the Northeast, and more important, to the Ottawa Senators?

The quick answer is absolutely nothing, in the short term.  In the long run?  It's fucking magnificent!  After all, brass balled monkeys are known for neither their intelligence, nor longevity.  Inanimate, anthropomorphic door stops are funny that way.

I take it all back.  My doubts about our scoring depth.  My many proclamations, both in public and in the privacy of my own minds about how the defence would be vastly improved if only The Bryan would trade for a syphilitic lab monkey.  My darkest fear that soon or later, Brian Elliott will look down, see the logo on his chest and simply curl up into a fetal ball of sobbing goo.  I take it all back.

CiCi will win the Jack Adams.  Alfie takes the Hart, Selke, Richard, Pearson, Lady Bing, Vezina, and in some bizarre accounting irregularity, the Calder Trophy.  Twice.  In order to save those poor, exhausted writers the time, the League will engrave the name "Erik Karlsson" on the next ten Norris trophies.

Eight in a row.  We're through the looking glass, people.  Up is down, black is white and the Ottawa Senators are the best thing in the history of everything.  Ever.

Well, except for Kuba.  That bag of dicks still sucks.

And the seventh Angel poured forth his bowl into the air. A loud voice came forth out of the temple of heaven, from the throne, saying, "It is done!" -- Revelations 16:17

Seven in a row.  The last time an Ottawa Senators team enjoyed a winning streak better than this came in that glorious fall of aught-seven, when the boys won eight straight between the 13th of October and the 6th of November en route to a 13-1-0 start.

Oh how life was grand. Heady comparisons to the 136 point 1976 Habs abounded.  Women swooned.  Men lost their minds.  And we all know how that ended.

And then I see this on the team's website:

With a seven-game winning streak currently in tow, this group has even started to invite comparisons with the 2006-07 Senators outfit that overcame a rash of injuries and rolled all the way to the Stanley Cup final.

Five points behind both the Pens, who we play tomorrow, and the Sabres (for the division lead, by the by).

Are we for real?  I have no idea anymore. But thank Christ I'm an atheist.  Otherwise, I might be a little worried.

I have been remiss in my posts of late, and for that I apologize to both of you (Hi Mom!).  I don't really have a good excuse, so just chalk it up to a combination of laziness and the lightheaded giddyness that naturally follows from a six (SIX!!!) game win streak.  Mostly that one.

What shook me from my SIX!!! game win streak stupor was this bit of unintentional comedy from everybody's favourite Rubenesque rumour monger, Bruce "Hey, Look What I Pulled Out Of My Ass At Deadline" "Malkin To The Kings" Garrioch.

According to the voices drifting up from Boo Boo's shower drain that only he can hear, the Sens are "buyers" in the run up to the trade deadline.  Uh-huh.  Okay.  I'll play along.

To make this easier (natch), let us forget for the moment the twin facts that a) due to a ridiculous number of injuries The Bryan would be hard pressed to slide a Brian Lee newly hatched pube between his current payroll and the salary cap without giving up a roster player (and comparable salary) in return and b) we actually possess something other teams might want.  Just forget all that.  Hey, it's easy!  No, really, Bruce did.

So who amongst our Brave Heroes must stay, could go, or be given away to the first panting whore who drunk dials The Euge's car service?  I'm looking at you, Tambellini.

Hilarity (or a totally unreasonable facsimile and lack thereof) ensues after the jump.

William Reusswig's Custer's Last Stand. Without permission courtesy: First People

There were times last night, while watching the Hawks continuously dance and whirl and dervish in the Sens' zone that I couldn't help but think of this painting.

The main difference, of course, is that the Chicago Blackhawks aren't a fearsome tribe fighting to the death to hold on to their most valuable territories in The Black Hills War, no matter what the voices in Dustin Byfuglien's head say.

And Custer didn't have Brian Elliott.

More historical inaccuracies after the jump.

My mouth hangs agape...

Coming up sometime in the next 24 hours:

• I take back every single mean thing I've ever said about Brian Elliott.  Even that bit about the monkey.
  
• Ditto Peter Regin.
• Not so much for Filip Kuba.
• Save.  Of.  The.  Year.
• Erik Karlsson may yet turn out to be a real NHL player and not the soul destroying waste of a first round pick some of us (ahem) had feared.
• Why a small minority of Sens fans are galactically stupid.
• Our Coach Killing Death Ray of Certain Doom turns slowly to gaze upon the power play.  Be afraid, Mr. Carver.  Be very afraid.
• Note to NHL Officials:  You are miles ahead of your football brethren in redundant mutterings.  This is not a good thing.

Holy shit fuck.  We're on a four game win streak.  We're in second place in the Division.  Oh yeah, and we beat the best team in hockey.   And we did it without two of our best players.  I have no idea what to do with this information.

Little help?

Please Coach, may I have some more?

It is a thin gruel indeed, but sweet, nourishing gruel it is nonetheless.

Hit it.