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Archive for "Dec 13 2006"

Greatest Jew in the World

I love this little Texas monkey: TBIFOC: Judge, Jewry, and Executionered

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Hog On Ice: Pizza WHORE!

My “Joe the Baker” sauce sneers–I says SNEERS!–at your sniveling constructions:

I never fully realized how dangerous it was to learn to cook. I mean, my own food has tempted me in the past, but not to this degree. I’m like Homer Simpson in hell. Remember? The devil strapped him to a table and put him under a machine that shot doughnuts into his mouth. And Homer laid there going, “More…more…more…more…”

Thank God they still charge for PPV midget porn, or I would be totally lost.

Hog On Ice: “Pizza is Better Than Crack”
(not actually quoted, but you know he meant it)


Goalies Gone Normal: A Little South of Sanity – New York Times

Once found bobbing and twitching in front of nearly every net, the maladjusted N.H.L. goaltender has gone the way of knit sweaters and $10 tickets.

Goalies no longer talk to their goalposts. Gone are most of the quirks, the bizarre rituals and the unwritten rule that goalies were not to be talked to or joked with. Their corner of the hockey world was considered a sort of mental-health quarantine.

“Goalies are much more normal now,” said Darren Pang, a former goalie and now a broadcaster for the Phoenix Coyotes. “Where did all the crazy ones go?”

First off: Who proofread that headline? The clauses on either side of the colon are negating each other. One cannot be “normal” while being “a little south of sanity.” It’s one, or the other, but together it’s rubbish.

In my eyes, Fear and Rage were the bread and butter for anyone deciding to stand between the pipes. From the first puck drop, you were involved in your own little war, combatting boredom when the action was aimed at the other guy that quickly switched to hyperattention when it was your turn. If you screwed up, a light went off, a siren screamed, and they hung a number on the scoreboard. No one else on your team faced that kind of heat, so, to a certain degree, you teammates were also your enemies, because you were the one who was gonna pay if they made a mistake.

If you were doing your job right, you were a walking bruise by the end of the night. Battered like a punching bag, you were regularly put in a position where a shot would be heading right for your eyes and every working neuron in your noodle would scream “DUCK!” but instead you’d eat the puck–maybe need to get woken/stitched up, or go to Gerry Cosby’s to get fitted for a new mask because the last one finally cracked–and keep planting your ass right back between the pipes and defy the fucking planet to put that puck behind you.

Ipso facto, you had to be a certain kind of crazy. Some of my guys were afraid to look–never mind speak–to me when I was bundled up in my gameface lunacy. No one–me included–ever knew who, or why, I was gonna swing my stick at first chance I got. One of our regular refs, Tony Meatball, told me in the middle of a game one night, “You should get you punkass locked up” after I’d hack the same guy for something like the ninety-ninth time (every trip into my neck of the woods resulted with that guy, the other team’s “garbage collector,” limping away for an impromptu player change and it never registered with Tony, even while the other team’s coach was screaming bloody murder. I didn’t get called on it until I swung at the bastard’s head and knocked off his helmet).
I told Tony his momma made shitty gravy “and you can’t put me into the penalty box, you fat wop fuck, so just shaddup.” One day it occurred to one of the fathers who were making believe they were coaches that “that little prick likes playing shorthanded.” All I ever thought was “one less body getting in the way.” Pete Karbowski, my evil little five-foot-nuthin’ Polack blonde bastard “I can cut your eyes out with the blade of my stick” defenseman/Best Friend Ever!, would practically drool at the the thought of all that open ice and when he was really lit up and wanting to haul Bobby Orr ass would tell me to “hit someone, Elton. Get me some ice and I’ll put it in the hole.” So I’d club some shlub who came near mt net and we were off to the races….

In other words: I was damn bonafide retarded. Reality consisted of a chunk of rubber that wanted to kill–and more importantly–humiliate me. Peter Puck was my personal evil.
I wanted Tim Ryan dead for the sin of sharing my first name.
There was no thought of “Them against Us.” It was “Me and Pete versus The Fucking Puck.”
and we never lost…

But now? Now, these guys are so armored-up it’s friggin’ ridiculous that they fear the puck; there’s nothing to really be worried about when leaving the crease, where it was once risking getting carried off on a stretcher. And you can pitch a shutout and still lose in that ridiculous, bullshit shootout they use to decide ties.

So of course the new breed are boring. Without the fear, you can’t call up the rage. These puppies never think that they can get killed just by playing the game, SO IT’S ALL “HO HUM.”

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