Angry Robot

Hockey Died

Hockey died last night, my friends. I watched the hideous carnage as a reflection in a broken piece of glass that had come from the pint of whiskey I had broken over my head at the end of the first period, all the while vomiting sadly, slowly onto my now-worthless Wade Belak jersey, as tears coursed down my face, wrecking the blue face makeup, as I wrote Pat Quinn out of my will for the last time, as I revised my “Ode to Hockey” never-finished chart-topper to include the phrase “it’s rapin’ season”, I simultaneously punched a small, adorable angel in the face to symbolize something, anything, anything other than what I felt, which is how I imagine Ed Belfour must have felt – hung out to dry by the overpaid athletes he depends on to be gangbanged by goon primadonnas. Hockey’s dead, and good riddance: finally an excuse not to hang out in bars! (if this phrase is meaningless, it’s because my lawyer revised it to death.) Hockey’s dead, but it frees up the schedule of a million fanatics, let’s look on the bright side: think of the good we can do with our collective powers of yelling, honking, and face-painting. Juicy Iraq reconstruction contract, anyone? These poor Iraqis have no water, food, or ice sports, no shelter or bobbleheads. I don’t think they have nearly enough sports bars. So join me, friends. We won’t stop until there’s a Leaf jersey for every Iraqi! We sure as hell won’t need them anymore, not for a year or so.