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Taking upon myself the heavy mantle of responsibility, so casually discarded by the Lords of Roller Hockey, to familiarize new fans with the greatest sport on the planet, we continue our educational tour of the Northeast Division with a look at the Toronto Maple Leafs. Now repeat after me grasshoppers: LEAFS SUCK!
I despise the city of Toronto, and everything in it.
I hate driving through it. If I'm moving at all, I invariably get stuck behind some putz doing eighty, weaving all over eight lanes of the 401 because he's yammering on his cell phone (here's a thought genius: Pull the fuck over! You're paying $6.99 a minute you asshat. She'll hold.), or being ass pounded at 140 by some 25 year old fuckstick rich white boy gangsta wannabe from the suburbs driving Daddy's BMW, his $400 jeans with the do-rag through one belt loop down around his ass and the fake diamond stud slightly larger than his shrivelled penis just visible beneath his NWA baseball cap, turned ever so stylishly at a ninety degree angle. HEY! TWATCICLE! We both know that if ever God smiled upon us and threw your punk ass in jail for being the road rash you are, you'd spend four hours crying like a twelve year old girl and pissing down your own leg while trying to protect that entitled sphincter of yours before Daddy's lawyers came to rescue you. GROW UP, you fucking poseur!
I hate flying over it. It happens every time. Just as I'm finishing my complimentary stale peanut and seven dollar thimble of Coors Light, the announcement comes: *kshhhht* "Ladies and uhhhhhh...gentlemen, this is your captain. If you'd...uhhhhh...care to look to your left, you'll see the tallest free standing structure in the world, the...uhhhhhh...CN Tower" No, actually, I can't see it. And do you know why I can't see it, you glorified fucking cabbie?? I'M IN AN AISLE SEAT, YOU FUCK! My knees are up around my ears because you won't give me any leg room, and you want me to muscle my way past the sweaty, mindless 400lb bible salesman from Arkansas who spent the two hours we were stuck on the taxi way hectoring me about Canadian communists and death panels before deciding my shoulder would be a swell place to take a nap just so I can look out the fucking window and cast my wondering gaze upon a giant dildo?!?! FUCK YOU!
I hate visiting it. The second you step out of the train station/airport/car/bordello an overpowering sense of smug descends upon you and settles like a crack and cordite saturated blanket. Even the smack addicted panhandlers ooze pretentious condescension. That is until you kick a few of them in the nads for making eye contact. Um...or so I've been told.
But most of all, I hate their hockey team. The Toronto Maple Leafs Hockey Club, it's owners, it's players, it's employees, and most of all...it's fans are the NHL equivalent to a syphilitic leper colony who deserve to be branded as the unclean, disease ridden vermin they are before being cast into the fiery pits of hell. And if you follow me through the jump, grasshoppers, I will tell you why.
The Owners:
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose: The Leafs last won a Stanley Cup in 1967. Since then, they've been a 42 year train wreck of mean, miserly, and hysterically incompetent ownership, interspersed with just enough success to keep a fawning Leaf Nation from finally waking the fuck up and questioning whether maybe, just maybe, there may not be a better way of going about things than grabbing its ankles and begging for more. If you laid out the history of the Toronto Maple Leafs on a map, you could draw a straight line from Punch Imlach (Harold Ballard's favourite vegetable) trading away Lanny McDonald for no other reason than to fuck with Darryl Sittler's head in 1979 to MLSE Uber Fuhrer Larry Tannenbaum's farcical attempts to find a baby sitter for a "General Manager" of such thundering stupidity it took him a year and a half to figure out he'd been fired. Then, of course, there's all of the glorious suck in between. And through it all, Canada's largest conglomerate of hapless morons continued to empty their minds and wallets to all things Blue and White. It would be a little sad, really, if it weren't so fucking hilarious.
The General Manager:
Do you presume to criticize the Great Oz? You ungrateful creatures!: You're going to hear a lot of strong, aggressive words coming out of Camp Maple Leaf this year, words like "belligerence" and "pugnacity" and above all "truculence". Lovely, exciting, literate, manly words. 97.6% of those words will emanate from the pulsing, bile spewing blow hole of one Brian Burke, MLSE's latest cock puppet whose only claim to hockey success (if you don't count running the Vancouver Canucks into the ground) came by riding The Bryan's coattails to a Stanley Cup win over Ottawa in 2007 (Dear Leaf Nation: For those of you too young to remember, or otherwise unfamiliar, the Stanley Cup Final is the round that comes after the...ah, fuck it...never mind). The other 2.4% will come from snickering opponents as they dance and whirl around, through and over the Leafs paleolithic defence on the way to yet another power play goal. Sorry Leafers, there really is nothing else behind the curtain.
The Players:
If you can't beat 'em in the alley, then sucker punch them on the ice before hiding behind the Referee: From Tiger Williams through Nick Kypreos, Tie Domi, Mark Bell, Darcy Tucker, and Gary Fucking Roberts (Yeah, I said it!), the Leafs boast a proud history of cheap shotting, chicken shit cock gobblers who won't hesitate to spear, slew foot, dive, whine, cry, or bleed on cue if it means they won't have to answer for their pussified behaviour on the ice. But enough about Colton Orr...
Personally, I blame the parents, John Brophy, Pat Quinn, and the instigator penalty. But mostly Pat Quinn.
The Fans:
Stay out of Riverdale!: Remember that dumb-as-a-bag-of-fuckin-rocks asshole back in high school, the one wasting oxygen in the back row on his third trip through Grade 10 English who thought the height of hilarity was to carve an ejaculating penis into his desk when he wasn't muttering "Aw fuck man, this is fuckin' stoopid" just loud enough to ensure he was the centre of attention? Remember him? Sure you do. He was that infuriating dingleberry strutting around like he had a gold plated scrotum because Principal Daddy threatened to fire the football coach if he didn't make his little Johnny Douchenozzle the fourth string quarterback.
And do you know what he's doing now? Now he's a forty year-old, twice divorced father of eight, dumb-as-a-bag-of-fucking-rocks asshole working drywall under the table and running 47 different scams against Unemployment (and his eight kids), while railing about "all them fucking immigrants stealin' the good jobs" to his equally dumb-as-a-bag-of-fucking-rocks asshole beer buddies as they gather for their nightly quarts at a local peeler bar, an establishment of such well regarded repute even the pregnant crack whores won't dance there. Then he spends the next four hours getting hammered on Molson XXX and telling anyone who will listen what a big shot football star he was in High School until he picks a fight with one of the bouncers "'cause he's fuckin' STOOPID!" and gets both his formerly electroplated testes and his overblown sense of victimized entitlement handed to him on a serving tray. Two nights later, he'll do it all over again.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Leaf Nation.
The Manifesto:
Man who crush Finger with chopstick accomplish anything: You've come a long way grasshoppers, but there is one last thing I need to impart. Please repeat after me:
To the Toronto Maple Leafs and the mouth breathing troglodytes that make up 90% of their fans. You're fucking pathetic. You spend your entire lives basking in the imaginary glow of some vaguely remembered and mostly legendary tales of glory, passed down from generation to generation around the campfire, as befits any preliterate tribal society. Your instinctive reaction to brand anyone born after 1967 who may have had the temerity to develop an affinity toward another Canadian team as Johnny-come-lately traitors worthy of grunted derision betrays that which you fear the most, namely that sooner or later, everyone will realize that the Blue and White isn't some holy flag flying on a crusader's staff, but the colours of a historically mediocre to comically putrid hockey team that will never, ever, win anything ever again. In other words, that the vaunted Leaf Nation will be reduced to holding it's weekly daisy chain circle jerks in the parking lot of some Mississauga strip mall.
Our mission is to make sure that happens. Truculate that, you carpetbagging porkholers.
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