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It's an odd analogy, when you think about it, to liken the aftermath of facial pulverization to beef stew. I mean, there must be dozens, nay, hundreds of other processed meat products that would better serve to convey the proper essence of what one should look like after one's orbital bone is mashed into pulpy paste.
When I was a kid, at least once a month my mom would inflict upon me a gawd awful ground beef/elbow macaroni/stewed tomato trifecta of grossness because a) she was too tired to come up with anything better and b) because it was cheap. I, ever the dutiful offspring, choked down every last bite with a big fake smile so as not to hurt her feelings but inside, my very soul cried out in dying anguish. Then I discovered the magical properties of salt in masking all manner of gustatory ills, and all was well. I never had a name for that particular culinary nightmare fuel. Until now. When I drop dead of my inevitable sodium induced stroke five or six years from now, Beloved can just blame it on the Hammered Orr.
Oh yeah. That's what I'm jumpin' about...
The Highs:
That's how we do things in Winchester, son: Forgive me for beating a dead horse (HAR!) but I have to admit to peeing myself just a little upon hearing Professional Retarded Monkey and Chief leaf Apologist Bill Watters (you remember Dear Billy, don't you?) go to great lengths explaining to a breathless nation how Hammer's decimation of his boy Colton was the result of a "lucky punch and Orr will be back". This from the same jacktard who splooged all over the studio following Colton's own one-puncher over Carks the month before. Oh, not to worry Billy. I have no doubt whatever that Colton will be back. But unless he's wearing a sign around his neck that reads "You win. I'm your bitch.", Hammer will just have to fuck his shit up again until he learns. It's the law of the jungle, Billy Boy.
Call Roto-Ruutu for all of your feces disposal related needs: If the absolutely playoff worthy performance wasn't enough (seriously, the dude was everywhere), the explosion of controlled violence on the forecheck that ended Jeff Finger's night aroused me in awkwardly homoerotic ways. I hope the rest of the boys were taking notes.
The Lows:
Oh bloody hell: The coaches and management will spin it as an "excellent opportunity for the young guys to step up". They will spin it that way because they have to. But I promise you this. By week five of Giggles' (projected) eight week absence, and with both Milan and The Captain mired in nine game goalless droughts, CiCi will be chewing the upholstery and The Bryan will be praying to the Gods of The Waiver Wire trying to replace those sweet, sweet hands. Sorry Jesse, you may be many things I admire in a hockey player, but a playmaker ain't one of them. For the record that's Jason, SheanDon and Neiler all out for extended periods with knee injuries. Throw Snoopy into the pile, and the conclusion is obvious. Baby Jesus hates us.
In case I am in any way unclear...Please. Die. In. A. Fire: Okay, I give up. What the hell am I missing? Everywhere I look, and everything I read tells me that Filip Kuba is a solid NHL D-Man we should be overjoyed to have in the line up. Here's what I saw last night: A so-called "power play quarterback" who won't shoot, a downright laughable attempt at a hip check that allowed an odd man rush to our net, three unforgivable give aways at the blue line, and a tip off his own stick to give an arch-rival the winning goal. So I ask again. Why do we like him? Or, to put it another way...Why shouldn't I run this fuckstick down with my car?
Then again everything is relative: Hammer, A-Train and Big Rig are excused. As for the rest of you, I have seldom seen a sorrier collection of useless bags of crap posing as a "defence" in my entire life. Wanna know why we might not make the playoffs? Because of no hitting, no shooting, can't-make-a-fucking-pass and piss-myself-everytime-I-go-into-a-corner syphilitic vaginas like you. THAT'S why. Picard, Campoli, Karlsson, Kuba. They should all be beaten with sacks of doorknobs and tossed into the Rideau Canal, there to float with the dead fish and used condoms. Fuck 'em.
The Creamy Middle:
We lost. We lost to the fucking leafs! Nothing else matters.
Up Next:
The magical mystery tour of the Northeast continues apace, as the Sabres come to The Bank to school our C-Team on the finer points of pwning. This one could get really ugly, really, really fast. (7:30pm, TSN2 with the excruciating Buffalo simulcast).
Behind Enemy Lines:
At some point tomorrow night, possibly triggered by Patrick Kaletta being a total douchenozzle, the bubbling cauldron of rage that has suddenly replaced your brain will threaten unspeakable destruction upon friends, family, pets and worldly goods. When you feel that coming on, go read Sabre Kallisions. Dani is just too damn sweet (and funny!) to hate. Calms me down every time.
Go Sens?
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Mich and Alfie will do just fine without Spezz. I know Fish has historically had trouble with this type of spotlight but I am looking forward to all of the remaining forwards (read: people who actually seem to give a shit) getting more minutes (save Kovalev, obviously). If I could swap Kovy out for Neil or Dono, I'd be excited about tonight's game.
I'm not ready to throw Campoli or Karlsson out yet either. They haven't inspired me, but they haven't made me spontaneously start cursing them and those that they love with the most hateful shit I can come up with very often either. . .
Just saying.