On behalf of SFG and Dawg Nation, please welcome Brian Delaney, and all the crew at GMAC Minneapolis!
Delaney
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Welcome GMAC!
It has come to our attention that we have some loyal readers at the GMAC ResCap facility in Minneapolis, Minnesota. In particular is a former hockey player named Brian Delaney, who is an "old and dear friend" of Dawgs captain Marty Richardson
On behalf of SFG and Dawg Nation, please welcome Brian Delaney, and all the crew at GMAC Minneapolis!
Delaney
On behalf of SFG and Dawg Nation, please welcome Brian Delaney, and all the crew at GMAC Minneapolis!
Delaney
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Superstitious? You Bet Your Ass
People have asked me over the years if I'm like those other goalies that are superstitious when they play. Do I talk to the goalposts, like Patrick Roy used to, or have I worn the same t-shirt for 10 years, like Pelle Lindbergh did when he was with the Flyers?
I always laugh, shake my head, and say, "Gosh, I'm not superstitious when I play hockey. I'm superstitious about my whole fucking life."
Now I'd like to think, except for the fact that I'm a goalie, I'm a relatively intelligent little fella. If I can remember that far back, I was near the top of my class in high school. All that studying by candlelight in my log cabin helped. And I did pretty well in college. I would have done better if there hadn't been an Elton John Captain Fantastic pinball machine in the student center. Missed a bunch of classes to set the scoring record on that sonofabitch. Totally worth it, though.
Today I came within one letter of completing the New York Times crossword puzzle (some asshole Japanese author's name got me). Hell, I'll go head to head playing Jeopardy with anybody. Let's go-bring your ass.
Plus, I've thought of thousands of very creative phrases to call my hockey teammates effeminate. So now I have that going for me, which is nice.
But there is a fairly large chunk of my life that is controlled by superstition. I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but it's true.
In the future, I'll tell you guys some of the ways that it guides my everyday life, but for this time, let's just stick with hockey, okay?
Hang on a second. I have to knock on wood so I don't fuck this article up. Okay, done. Here we go.
Hockey
Oh yeah, I've got a shitload of hockey quirks.
Let's start with the t-shirt. I didn't match Pelle Lindbergh's ten years, but when my Dawgs team went undefeated for 20 consecutive games, you can bet your Aunt Fanny I wore my "F The French" shirt for every one of those games. It was mostly because of the streak, but partly because I want everyone to know how much I hate the goddamn French. Arrogant, chainsmoking, no bathing, ungrateful, surrendering pricks. Fuck 'em.
I put my gear on the same way every time, but I think that's mostly so I don't forget anything. I can't tell you how many times when I first started playing that I would forget to put my cup on, and then have to take everything back off. That was before I was married. These days, it's kind of a moot point. My wife doesn't let me bring my balls to the games with me, so I don't even bother with a cup anymore.
When we win, I make sure that I wear the same sweatpants and Underarmour shirt for the next game. And yes, I get them washed. I can barely stand being around myself with my goalie stank as it is. Shit, I'm superstitious, but I want to be able to smell my grandkids' hair someday.
Right before the game, when the ref signals down to the goalies to make sure they're ready, I always raise my goal stick and wiggle it to reply. I raised my glove one time instead, and got lit up like that Elton John pinball machine. Gave up five goals in the first period. I couldn't have been that I was a sieve- it had to be that glove thing.
During the big winning streak, I had to play "When You Were Young" by the Killers every week right before I got out of the car at the arena. I don't know about other players, but I always have a song in my head during games, and it's usually the last one I hear before I get out of the car. Lately, I've been playing "Starlight" by Muse that a pal of mine loaned me, but we just got our ass kicked in the league championship, so I guess it's time to move on. Great song, though.
Yeah, I'm 50 and I like the Killers and Muse. And I know what you're thinking. Short guy is having a midlife crisis. Well, I've got your crisis swingin' right down here (you can't tell right now, but I'm pointing at my dick).
One night I wasn't paying attention before I parked, and ended up replaying this over and over in my noggin all game.
That's all they really waaaaaannnntttt!!!
Just fuuunnnnnnnnnnn!!!
When the workin' day is done
Oh, girls, they want to have fuh-unnn.
Oh, girls, just want to have fun!!
It was like in that Star Trek movie, when Ricardo Montalban put that creepy bug in Chekov's ear, and it crawled through his brain and drove him insane. Not a good night for your little buddy.
KHAN!!!!!!!
There was a time when I wouldn't drink water during the game. It seemed like every time I would take a sip, I'd get a goal scored on me. But that one didn't last, because I sweat like a moose during games, and if I don't drink water, my piss is dark orange for the rest of the week. That can't be a good thing, can it?
When I find a piece of tape or some other debris in front of my crease, I always sweep it to the outside of my goalpost, and not inside my net. I don't want anything inside my net. If the tape's in there, I know the puck will follow. No shit-I really think that.
At the start of the game, my goal feels like a virgin to me, all innocent and unpenetrated. It's my duty to keep everything out- keep her flower intact for as long as I can. But lately, by the time the game's over, I've usually let my goal get gang-banged. It makes me feel so...dirty.
After my team scores a goal, I always skate down the goal line to my left, and then turn around and skate down the other goal line. I don't know why. I've just done it for years and years. It reminds me of this chicken at Reptile Gardens in South Dakota. You put a quarter in the slot, and the chicken comes out of a cage, steps on a lever, and this mechanical bat hits a ball. Then the chicken runs around the bases, and then goes back inside the cage, where there's a piece of corn waiting for him. Put another quarter in, and he'll do the same damn thing.
That's me when we score a goal. Skate to the left, skate to the right, come back. Except I can do it without the corn. Because like I said, I'm, you know, intelligent.
And finally here's the one that most goalies have. It hasn't been an issue for me in many, many moons, but if I happen to have a shutout going late in the game, and you happen to mention the word "shutout", I will fucking kill you.
I'm serious. I'm talkin' dead. Not crippled. Not a coma. Dead.
You can say something like, "Let's keep that goose-egg on the board", or "Keep that thing going". But do not utter the "s word".
I can't tell you how many times my kid has had one going, and with a couple of minutes left, some jagoff parent will come up and say, "Hey, looks like Sam is going to get his shutout!". Then like four seconds later-bang:goal.
Those parents are no longer with us. But I didn't kill them. It was my wife. She's worse about the "s word" than I am. Sucks for their kids, being orphaned and all, but rules are rules.
Next time: Why I have a beard, gambling superstitions, and other words you never, ever say out loud.
I always laugh, shake my head, and say, "Gosh, I'm not superstitious when I play hockey. I'm superstitious about my whole fucking life."
Now I'd like to think, except for the fact that I'm a goalie, I'm a relatively intelligent little fella. If I can remember that far back, I was near the top of my class in high school. All that studying by candlelight in my log cabin helped. And I did pretty well in college. I would have done better if there hadn't been an Elton John Captain Fantastic pinball machine in the student center. Missed a bunch of classes to set the scoring record on that sonofabitch. Totally worth it, though.
Today I came within one letter of completing the New York Times crossword puzzle (some asshole Japanese author's name got me). Hell, I'll go head to head playing Jeopardy with anybody. Let's go-bring your ass.
Plus, I've thought of thousands of very creative phrases to call my hockey teammates effeminate. So now I have that going for me, which is nice.
But there is a fairly large chunk of my life that is controlled by superstition. I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but it's true.
In the future, I'll tell you guys some of the ways that it guides my everyday life, but for this time, let's just stick with hockey, okay?
Hang on a second. I have to knock on wood so I don't fuck this article up. Okay, done. Here we go.
Hockey
Oh yeah, I've got a shitload of hockey quirks.
Let's start with the t-shirt. I didn't match Pelle Lindbergh's ten years, but when my Dawgs team went undefeated for 20 consecutive games, you can bet your Aunt Fanny I wore my "F The French" shirt for every one of those games. It was mostly because of the streak, but partly because I want everyone to know how much I hate the goddamn French. Arrogant, chainsmoking, no bathing, ungrateful, surrendering pricks. Fuck 'em.
I put my gear on the same way every time, but I think that's mostly so I don't forget anything. I can't tell you how many times when I first started playing that I would forget to put my cup on, and then have to take everything back off. That was before I was married. These days, it's kind of a moot point. My wife doesn't let me bring my balls to the games with me, so I don't even bother with a cup anymore.
When we win, I make sure that I wear the same sweatpants and Underarmour shirt for the next game. And yes, I get them washed. I can barely stand being around myself with my goalie stank as it is. Shit, I'm superstitious, but I want to be able to smell my grandkids' hair someday.
Right before the game, when the ref signals down to the goalies to make sure they're ready, I always raise my goal stick and wiggle it to reply. I raised my glove one time instead, and got lit up like that Elton John pinball machine. Gave up five goals in the first period. I couldn't have been that I was a sieve- it had to be that glove thing.
During the big winning streak, I had to play "When You Were Young" by the Killers every week right before I got out of the car at the arena. I don't know about other players, but I always have a song in my head during games, and it's usually the last one I hear before I get out of the car. Lately, I've been playing "Starlight" by Muse that a pal of mine loaned me, but we just got our ass kicked in the league championship, so I guess it's time to move on. Great song, though.
Yeah, I'm 50 and I like the Killers and Muse. And I know what you're thinking. Short guy is having a midlife crisis. Well, I've got your crisis swingin' right down here (you can't tell right now, but I'm pointing at my dick).
One night I wasn't paying attention before I parked, and ended up replaying this over and over in my noggin all game.
That's all they really waaaaaannnntttt!!!
Just fuuunnnnnnnnnnn!!!
When the workin' day is done
Oh, girls, they want to have fuh-unnn.
Oh, girls, just want to have fun!!
It was like in that Star Trek movie, when Ricardo Montalban put that creepy bug in Chekov's ear, and it crawled through his brain and drove him insane. Not a good night for your little buddy.
KHAN!!!!!!!
There was a time when I wouldn't drink water during the game. It seemed like every time I would take a sip, I'd get a goal scored on me. But that one didn't last, because I sweat like a moose during games, and if I don't drink water, my piss is dark orange for the rest of the week. That can't be a good thing, can it?
When I find a piece of tape or some other debris in front of my crease, I always sweep it to the outside of my goalpost, and not inside my net. I don't want anything inside my net. If the tape's in there, I know the puck will follow. No shit-I really think that.
At the start of the game, my goal feels like a virgin to me, all innocent and unpenetrated. It's my duty to keep everything out- keep her flower intact for as long as I can. But lately, by the time the game's over, I've usually let my goal get gang-banged. It makes me feel so...dirty.
After my team scores a goal, I always skate down the goal line to my left, and then turn around and skate down the other goal line. I don't know why. I've just done it for years and years. It reminds me of this chicken at Reptile Gardens in South Dakota. You put a quarter in the slot, and the chicken comes out of a cage, steps on a lever, and this mechanical bat hits a ball. Then the chicken runs around the bases, and then goes back inside the cage, where there's a piece of corn waiting for him. Put another quarter in, and he'll do the same damn thing.
That's me when we score a goal. Skate to the left, skate to the right, come back. Except I can do it without the corn. Because like I said, I'm, you know, intelligent.
And finally here's the one that most goalies have. It hasn't been an issue for me in many, many moons, but if I happen to have a shutout going late in the game, and you happen to mention the word "shutout", I will fucking kill you.
I'm serious. I'm talkin' dead. Not crippled. Not a coma. Dead.
You can say something like, "Let's keep that goose-egg on the board", or "Keep that thing going". But do not utter the "s word".
I can't tell you how many times my kid has had one going, and with a couple of minutes left, some jagoff parent will come up and say, "Hey, looks like Sam is going to get his shutout!". Then like four seconds later-bang:goal.
Those parents are no longer with us. But I didn't kill them. It was my wife. She's worse about the "s word" than I am. Sucks for their kids, being orphaned and all, but rules are rules.
Next time: Why I have a beard, gambling superstitions, and other words you never, ever say out loud.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The Worst Songs Ever
Okay, boys and girls, I've done all the work here for the past year, and it's time that you monkeys got involved. So we're going to do a little audience participation thing, where I'm going to list my least favorite songs of all time. And then it's your turn to add to the list, or tell me I'm full of shit.
I'm talking about the songs that are so goddamn bad, you actually listen to them, just so you can scream at the end about how goddamn bad they are. I do that all the time-I know you do too.
Now these have to be songs from the modern era, like the past 50 years. I say 50 because that gives me a chance to include a Beatles song. Stop gasping- the Beatles are vastly overrated, and Paul McCartney hasn't had a good song since "Maybe I'm Amazed". That was 38 years ago. Paul McCartney sucks. There- I said it.
Plus I'm not going to include country, because I could type until my fingers bleed, and I wouldn't even scratch the surface of bad C&W songs. Holy cow, how can you people listen to that shit? Oh, and no rap, either. That doesn't count as music.
Anyway, without further Freddie Adu, here's a partial list of songs that make me want to hit myself with something heavy until they're over:
All I Wanna Do- Sheryl Crow
Now, I start out badly already with Sheryl because of her politics. If I want some singer's opinion about the world, and how I should vote, I promise I'll ask. Until then, how's about you just play your songs, and shut the fuck up? That goes for everyone in show business, on both sides of the aisle.
But this song makes me crazy. All she does during the whole song is ramble aimlessly, and none of the fucking lyrics rhyme. It's like she just wrote down a shitload of random thoughts, and then put some music in the background. Here's an example:
We are drinking beer at noon on Tuesday
In a bar that faces a giant car wash
The good people of the world are washing their cars
On their lunch break, hosing and scrubbing
As best they can in skirts in suits
What the fuck? Do you see one rhyme in there? Me either. Isn't that part of, you know, writing a song?
Plus, if you listen, during the whole song there's something making a grinding sound in the background. I really hate that. And the sonofabitch won a Grammy Award. Go figure...
Margaritaville- Jimmy Buffett
I don't like songs with an island beat to begin with, but this is really bad. Jimmy calls it The National Anthem, but I think for now I'll just hang on to the old one, thank you very much. I've never really understood the Parrothead thing, just like I've never understood how anyone could follow the Grateful Dead. Get a fuckin' job, hippies.
Yeah, I'm old. Now get off my lawn.
Yellow Submarine- Beatles
I could list most Beatles songs, but this is probably the worst. Not only is the song awful, but I'm still pissed because I watched the movie 40 years ago thinking it was going to be a funny cartoon, and it sucked so bad that it affected most of my adolescence. There were some serious mushrooms happening when they wrote that hunk of shit.
I'm still hoping for a Beatles reunion. Hell, it'll only take two more bullets. Not that much to ask, is it?
This Kiss- Faith Hill
I know I said no country, but this crossed over to pop. so there. While being exceptionally attractive, I have to believe that if you wanted to gather a pack of coyotes, you could just play Faith Hill music, and they'd come a-runnin'.
This song in particular bugs me. It sounds like she's trying to speed-talk the lyrics, so it translates like she's singing with a mouthful of shit. Plus, there's part of the chorus that I freakin' hate:
It's that pivotal moment
It's (aah...) subliminal
THIS KISS! THIS KISS! (It's criminal)
THIS KISS! THIS KISS!
That "aah" part sounds like she's faking an orgasm, and I hear enough of that at home, thank you very much. Plus she strains so hard on THIS KISS! I think someday one of her eyeballs is going to pop out.
Oh, just in case you're wondering, I'm the one faking the orgasms.
No Rain- Blind Melon
I'm putting this in because this is just one example of the lead singer, who's a dude, having this high pitched, whiny-ass voice. Here are some lyrics, just in case you don't recognize the title:
All I say can say, you know my life is pretty plain
I like watchin' the puddles gather rain
All I can do, is just pour some tea for two
And speak my point of view
Cocaine/I Shot the Sheriff- Eric Clapton
Not only does the first song suck, but it sent an incredibly poor message to kids when it came out. He seems like a smart guy, and he can certainly play the bejesus out of a guitar. He should have been a lot more responsible than writing a song that glorifies a hard drug.
That other ball of shit I think is a remake of a Bob Marley song. I've hated reggae ever since I went to Jamaica a few years ago, and discovered just how much those fuckers hate Americans. Especially if you don't buy their bullshit trinkets, or don't give them money just because they ask you to. Lazy goddamn humps. Not my favorite week, that trip to the island.
You're Beautiful- James Blunt
You ever watch this jabronie sing the tune? He looks off into space like he's on some kind of qualude, and you just want to hit him with a shovel so he'll snap out of it.
I'm not makin' this shit up
Plus it's another song where the guy sings the lyrics too quickly, so they fit into the tune. Here's just one of many examples:
There must be an angel, with a smile on her face,
When shethoughtupthatIshouldbewithyou
He sings that last line like it's all one word. Condense the lyrics, or add some more tune, Jimmy.
Handlebars- Flobots
This is a very recent addition. My kids liked this one for awhile- I really think it was written to irritate people. It breaks off into rap for a lot of the song- just awful. And somehow they find a way to include a nasty trumpet part- you sure don't hear that every day. Those of you out there with kids from 8-18 probably have heard it. Once was enough, wasn't it?
Brass In Pocket- Pretenders
I'm surprised I almost forgot this one- I've hated this song for over 28 years. This is the one where Chrissy Hynde mumbles all through the song. Wait, I'd better narrow that down. She mumbles through every goddamn song she's ever done.
Let me give you the chorus, and I'm sure you'll recognize it if you're over 40. You kids out there, just trust me- this megasucks.
GONNA USE MY ARMS
GONNA USE MY LEGS
GONNA USE MY STYLE
GONNA USE MY SIDESTEP
GONNA USE MY FINGERS
GONNA USE MY, MY, MY IMAGINATION
'CAUSE I GONNA MAKE YOU SEE
THERE'S NOBODY ELSE HERE
NO ONE LIKE ME
I'M SPECIAL SO SPECIAL
I GOTTA HAVE SOME OF YOUR ATTENTION GIVE IT TO ME
Just horrid. But at least she was good looking:
Or not...
Kiss- Prince
Okay, here's another phenomenon I never understood. What did women ever find sexy in a guy that's about 5'2" with his high heels on, weighs about a buck-fifteen, has a pube mustache, and wears outfits like this?
Jesus tap-dancin' Christ...
I'm talking about the songs that are so goddamn bad, you actually listen to them, just so you can scream at the end about how goddamn bad they are. I do that all the time-I know you do too.
Now these have to be songs from the modern era, like the past 50 years. I say 50 because that gives me a chance to include a Beatles song. Stop gasping- the Beatles are vastly overrated, and Paul McCartney hasn't had a good song since "Maybe I'm Amazed". That was 38 years ago. Paul McCartney sucks. There- I said it.
Plus I'm not going to include country, because I could type until my fingers bleed, and I wouldn't even scratch the surface of bad C&W songs. Holy cow, how can you people listen to that shit? Oh, and no rap, either. That doesn't count as music.
Anyway, without further Freddie Adu, here's a partial list of songs that make me want to hit myself with something heavy until they're over:
All I Wanna Do- Sheryl Crow
Now, I start out badly already with Sheryl because of her politics. If I want some singer's opinion about the world, and how I should vote, I promise I'll ask. Until then, how's about you just play your songs, and shut the fuck up? That goes for everyone in show business, on both sides of the aisle.
But this song makes me crazy. All she does during the whole song is ramble aimlessly, and none of the fucking lyrics rhyme. It's like she just wrote down a shitload of random thoughts, and then put some music in the background. Here's an example:
We are drinking beer at noon on Tuesday
In a bar that faces a giant car wash
The good people of the world are washing their cars
On their lunch break, hosing and scrubbing
As best they can in skirts in suits
What the fuck? Do you see one rhyme in there? Me either. Isn't that part of, you know, writing a song?
Plus, if you listen, during the whole song there's something making a grinding sound in the background. I really hate that. And the sonofabitch won a Grammy Award. Go figure...
Margaritaville- Jimmy Buffett
I don't like songs with an island beat to begin with, but this is really bad. Jimmy calls it The National Anthem, but I think for now I'll just hang on to the old one, thank you very much. I've never really understood the Parrothead thing, just like I've never understood how anyone could follow the Grateful Dead. Get a fuckin' job, hippies.
Yeah, I'm old. Now get off my lawn.
Yellow Submarine- Beatles
I could list most Beatles songs, but this is probably the worst. Not only is the song awful, but I'm still pissed because I watched the movie 40 years ago thinking it was going to be a funny cartoon, and it sucked so bad that it affected most of my adolescence. There were some serious mushrooms happening when they wrote that hunk of shit.
I'm still hoping for a Beatles reunion. Hell, it'll only take two more bullets. Not that much to ask, is it?
This Kiss- Faith Hill
I know I said no country, but this crossed over to pop. so there. While being exceptionally attractive, I have to believe that if you wanted to gather a pack of coyotes, you could just play Faith Hill music, and they'd come a-runnin'.
This song in particular bugs me. It sounds like she's trying to speed-talk the lyrics, so it translates like she's singing with a mouthful of shit. Plus, there's part of the chorus that I freakin' hate:
It's that pivotal moment
It's (aah...) subliminal
THIS KISS! THIS KISS! (It's criminal)
THIS KISS! THIS KISS!
That "aah" part sounds like she's faking an orgasm, and I hear enough of that at home, thank you very much. Plus she strains so hard on THIS KISS! I think someday one of her eyeballs is going to pop out.
Oh, just in case you're wondering, I'm the one faking the orgasms.
No Rain- Blind Melon
I'm putting this in because this is just one example of the lead singer, who's a dude, having this high pitched, whiny-ass voice. Here are some lyrics, just in case you don't recognize the title:
All I say can say, you know my life is pretty plain
I like watchin' the puddles gather rain
All I can do, is just pour some tea for two
And speak my point of view
Geddy Lee from Rush and that bunghole from Styx are others that have that voice. Hey fellas, stop squeezing your nuts, and sing like men, would you please?
Cocaine/I Shot the Sheriff- Eric Clapton
Not only does the first song suck, but it sent an incredibly poor message to kids when it came out. He seems like a smart guy, and he can certainly play the bejesus out of a guitar. He should have been a lot more responsible than writing a song that glorifies a hard drug.
That other ball of shit I think is a remake of a Bob Marley song. I've hated reggae ever since I went to Jamaica a few years ago, and discovered just how much those fuckers hate Americans. Especially if you don't buy their bullshit trinkets, or don't give them money just because they ask you to. Lazy goddamn humps. Not my favorite week, that trip to the island.
You're Beautiful- James Blunt
You ever watch this jabronie sing the tune? He looks off into space like he's on some kind of qualude, and you just want to hit him with a shovel so he'll snap out of it.
I'm not makin' this shit up
Plus it's another song where the guy sings the lyrics too quickly, so they fit into the tune. Here's just one of many examples:
There must be an angel, with a smile on her face,
When shethoughtupthatIshouldbewithyou
He sings that last line like it's all one word. Condense the lyrics, or add some more tune, Jimmy.
Handlebars- Flobots
This is a very recent addition. My kids liked this one for awhile- I really think it was written to irritate people. It breaks off into rap for a lot of the song- just awful. And somehow they find a way to include a nasty trumpet part- you sure don't hear that every day. Those of you out there with kids from 8-18 probably have heard it. Once was enough, wasn't it?
Brass In Pocket- Pretenders
I'm surprised I almost forgot this one- I've hated this song for over 28 years. This is the one where Chrissy Hynde mumbles all through the song. Wait, I'd better narrow that down. She mumbles through every goddamn song she's ever done.
Let me give you the chorus, and I'm sure you'll recognize it if you're over 40. You kids out there, just trust me- this megasucks.
GONNA USE MY ARMS
GONNA USE MY LEGS
GONNA USE MY STYLE
GONNA USE MY SIDESTEP
GONNA USE MY FINGERS
GONNA USE MY, MY, MY IMAGINATION
'CAUSE I GONNA MAKE YOU SEE
THERE'S NOBODY ELSE HERE
NO ONE LIKE ME
I'M SPECIAL SO SPECIAL
I GOTTA HAVE SOME OF YOUR ATTENTION GIVE IT TO ME
Just horrid. But at least she was good looking:
Or not...
Kiss- Prince
Okay, here's another phenomenon I never understood. What did women ever find sexy in a guy that's about 5'2" with his high heels on, weighs about a buck-fifteen, has a pube mustache, and wears outfits like this?
Jesus tap-dancin' Christ...
Amazingly, the girls went nuts for this jagoff. Then he changed his name to a symbol that I think was the chemical sign for titanium, and gradually went away. Not quickly enough for me, by the way.
But the song Kiss is really bad. Especially right at the end, when he's screaming like someone set him on fire, or took away his eye liner. In the video, he does his sexy dance without a shirt on, and every real man in America just wants to drive his fist straight through that tiny, 19 inch chest he's sporting.
Goddamn, I hate Prince. Let's move on...
My Heart Will Go On- Celine Dion
Let me start by saying that Celine Dion is maybe the greatest female singer of our generation. She has a gift like no other- just an amazing voice.
But she is also maybe the most annoying person of our generation. When she sings, especially this song, she insists on gyrating and beating on her chest when she sings about her heart. Just makes me crazy. Plus she always does the air guitar thing when she sings a rock song. She really needs to stop that. Whoever invented air guitar should be strung up by their testicles, even if it's a woman.
See? I told ya...
Anyway, add the fact that this song has been played around eight million times, and we have a winner. When I hear it, all I can think of is Leo would have survived if Kate Winslett's ass hadn't been too fat for both of them to ride on that piece of wood.
I love you, Leo. Part of my soul sank to the bottom of the sea with you at the end of the movie.
What's Going On?- Four Non-Blondes
This is at the top of my list. I'm listening to it right now so I can try to communicate how much I hate this fucking song. The lead singer screeches out the lyrics, and keeps going up and down octaves. Sing it with me, kids:
And so I wake in the morning and I step outside
And I take a deep breath and I get real high
And scream from the top of my lungs, WHAT'S GOING ON!!!!!
I think the worst part is the video, and the singer is wearing a stupid goddamn top hat while she's making my ears bleed. I can't talk about this anymore- I have to go kick my dog...
Ah, there's the hat. I'd love to slap that thing off her head
Okay, I'm back. So that's it for now. I'll probably be adding some as I think of them, but in the meantime, I want to hear from y'all. Just hit the "comment" thingy, and go crazy. We're almost at 16,000 hits on the website, so I know you're out there somewhere.
Get to work.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Finding The Archives
The two most frequently asked questions I get about my website are, "Have any of your teammates punched you in the mouth yet?", and "How can I find your old articles?"
Let's start with the first. No, I haven't gotten punched out yet, but I think I'm living on borrowed time. I figure if anyone is going to do it, it's going to be our captain Marty Richardson, who, depending on the week, I've called short (which is funny because I'm 5' 6" myself), a bad hockey player, a beastiality efficianado, and gay around 8000 times. I know one day he'll get fed up, and knock the shit out of me with his purse.
Hey, that's 8001. Thank you very much-I'm here all week.
Actually, all the boys are great sports, especially my man Cappy, and they know I only goof on the people I like, and that's everybody on the team. Plus I make sure to include myself- God knows there's plenty of material there. It's gotten to the point where a lot of the guys are disappointed if I don't mention them in the articles. Sick bastards...
Anyway, the other question is about how to navigate this website to find the old articles. They're all in the archive section on the right side of the main page.
I know a lot of you are hockey players, so I'll go real slow for you.
The key is the little black arrows next to the years and months. For example, if you want to see something from 2008, just hit the arrow next to that year. It will break down into months, and then you can hit the arrow next to the month to get individual articles. Pretty simple, eh?
My favorites to write so far have been the four part epic about our family vacation (September/October), watching the national spelling bee with my family (May), plus diaries from a day at the dentist (May), and my vasectomy (January).
We just got our 15,000th hit last week on the site, so thanks for looking in. My goal is to take all of you to Hell with me- I know I'm screwed so I'm going to need some pals down there.
Let's start with the first. No, I haven't gotten punched out yet, but I think I'm living on borrowed time. I figure if anyone is going to do it, it's going to be our captain Marty Richardson, who, depending on the week, I've called short (which is funny because I'm 5' 6" myself), a bad hockey player, a beastiality efficianado, and gay around 8000 times. I know one day he'll get fed up, and knock the shit out of me with his purse.
Hey, that's 8001. Thank you very much-I'm here all week.
Actually, all the boys are great sports, especially my man Cappy, and they know I only goof on the people I like, and that's everybody on the team. Plus I make sure to include myself- God knows there's plenty of material there. It's gotten to the point where a lot of the guys are disappointed if I don't mention them in the articles. Sick bastards...
Anyway, the other question is about how to navigate this website to find the old articles. They're all in the archive section on the right side of the main page.
I know a lot of you are hockey players, so I'll go real slow for you.
The key is the little black arrows next to the years and months. For example, if you want to see something from 2008, just hit the arrow next to that year. It will break down into months, and then you can hit the arrow next to the month to get individual articles. Pretty simple, eh?
My favorites to write so far have been the four part epic about our family vacation (September/October), watching the national spelling bee with my family (May), plus diaries from a day at the dentist (May), and my vasectomy (January).
We just got our 15,000th hit last week on the site, so thanks for looking in. My goal is to take all of you to Hell with me- I know I'm screwed so I'm going to need some pals down there.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Ranting About Raving at Red Rocks
(story originally written in June, 2008)
So a couple of weeks ago Mrs. Short Fat Goalie and I had an interesting Saturday. We’ve been working the Philly Cheesesteak stand at Red Rocks Amphitheater for soccer fundraising purposes, and we were scheduled to be there together later that day.
For those of you not from around here, Red Rocks is a beautiful natural amphitheater for concerts. If you've ever seen the "Under a Blood Red Sky" video from U2, it was filmed at Red Rocks. There isn't a better venue in the country to see a show.
Anyway, before going there in the afternoon, my boy Mike’s soccer team was having a hike in the foothills early that morning. It was kind of a teambuilding exercise, where they could hike together, build some rapport, and get some conditioning at the same time. It was nice and casual, and the parents were invited. So we thought we’d just take a leisurely stroll on a nice summer morning, come home, rest a bit, and then head out to the Rocks in the afternoon.
Great plan, right? Well, not so much…
We should have hired a fuckin’ sherpa before we went on that hike. There was a lot of climbing on rocky terrain, and what was supposed to be a 90 minute jaunt turned into a three hour death march for us old people that brought little kids along.
The most fun part was coming down the hill. One of the moms, thinking like us that this was a stroller hike instead of an expedition, brought her baby along. I carried her up part of the climb (the baby, not the mom), but now she was back with her mother. Mom weighs around 68 pounds, and they were walking along an unstable path. I was kind of worried, so it was time for SFG to man up, take control of the situation, and carry the baby the rest of the way.
“Macho, Macho Man…”
Well, Macho Man takes about 10 steps and hits a patch of loose gravel. My left leg goes out from under me, straight sideways, and we go boom-boom. I could have put my arm down to break most of the fall, but the mom would probably get defensive if I chucked her kid to save myself.
So the baby never touches the ground, but I scrape a lot of the meat off of my left leg, from knee to ankle. At that very moment I swore revenge on Willie, Mike’s coach who set up this goddamn hike. You don’t know where or when, son, but vengence will be mine.
Now, why am I telling you all this? Bear with me- it will all come together soon. Just a few hours later, we have to report to Red Rocks to work an event called "Global Dance Fest". Annie signed us up for it, and tells me that it will be maybe some polka, some clog dancing, or perhaps some salsa. Old people, like me, would be there to watch the festivities. No biggie- we’d put in our 4-5 hours, and head home. We were both pretty worn out from the hike, the scrape on my leg looked like ground round and had a heartbeat, but we figured we could sack up for the shift.
When we got there, we discovered that my girl wasn’t even close. We were informed that Global Dance Fest is what’s called a “rave party”, and it would be unlike anything we’d ever seen before.
This just screams for a running diary, so here we go…
4:00- We check in, and head to our stand. When we get there, we find a new twist to the normal Red Rocks format. Our concession stand is at the top of the stairs, and usually all the music is on the stage below, and far enough away where noise isn’t much concern. We look, and there is a giant bank of speakers about 25 feet from where we’ll be. Some dickhead with a sideways hat (just hate that look, by the way) is setting up a turntable and some other sound equipment, so it looks like we’ll have music right nearby. Isn't that just bitchin’?
But what kind of music will it be? I’d ask Annie, but I think she’s still clinging to the clog dance notion. Dumbass...
4:15- One of the security guys comes over, and starts to brief us about how the evening is going to go. He goes over procedures concerning what happens when a fight breaks out, how to deal with a fake ID, how not to sell to someone who’s eyes are so dilated you can’t see anything but pupils, and who to call if someone overdoses, and starts choking on their own tongue.
Uh, excuse me- what the hell is about to happen here?
4:30- Sideways hat-boy fires up his sound system and puts on some tunes for us enjoy before the gates open up. We then find out what kind of music it is. Well, what do you know! It's techno!
Fuck....me...
On a 1-10 scale, I’d say he has the bass turned up to approximately 19. We don’t know it yet, but that’s the way it’s going to be for the rest of the evening. The music has a thumping, pulsating beat that my kids refer to as “oontz, oontz, oontz”. If I refer back to that, you’ll know what I’m talking about.
5:00- The gates open, and the early crowd starts to parade in. Hey, the Catholic schools in the area must have gotten a great deal on tickets, because about 300 teenage girls just entered in complete uniforms (pleated skirts, knee socks, etc).
Wow, the nuns must have relaxed the rules on the hemlines of the skirts since I was a kid. Not sure the belly-button rings and visible thong-ass are regulation either. I’ll have to check the manual on that.
5:30- The next wave comes in, and its just more knee socks, pleated skirts, and thongs. The one tiny wrinkle is- they’re dudes. Well, this is going to be interesting, now isn’t it? Somewhere, the Pope just shivered a little, and I’ll bet he doesn’t know why.
5:45- C’mon, kids, say it with me: oontz, oontz, oontz…
6:00- The Red Rocks staff just brought in a bunch of earplugs for the concession workers. I’m cashier-boy, so I can’t use them. I’m already straining to hear people, and using my fingers like Marlee Matlin to tell these fucklumps how much they owe for their munchies. We’re only two hours into this. At this very moment, I swear revenge on Annie, who signed me up for this shit. I imagine clog dancing on her lifeless corpse when we get home. It makes me smile…
7:00- Now the hardcore partiers start to arrive. The closer it gets to being dark, the stranger the outfits are becoming. Now we’ve moved on to nylons, garters and tiny undies. Plus a bunch of them are wearing those furry “Ug” boots that look like a yak died around their ankles.
And you should see what the girls are wearing…
7:15- A dude just walked by wearing blue nylons and a matching blue dress. Nice and clingy. Plus he had wings on his back. No shit- wings. I would have loved to be in the room when he passed his dad on the way out the door tonight.
“Don’t wait up, dad. Oh, dammit, I have a run in my nylon! And I have a crease in my wing! Hey, dad? Why are you putting a gun in your mouth?”
7:25- Okay, now this is getting ridiculous. A girl made a skirt out of a furry shower mat. Plus, she had another mat wrapped around her legs like the Ugs. Later tonight, her mom is going to break her goddamn neck stepping out of the tub, just so this little nymphette can be fashionable.
7:30- Now here’s something worth mentioning. A bunch of the girls, and some of the guys, are walking around sucking on pacifiers. Yep, I said pacifiers! This is already a degenerate’s dream with the schoolgirl outfits, and the stockings with garters. Do we really have to throw pacifiers into the equation? To put this in medical terms, it’s getting really icky around here…
7:45- Now, just to be different- oontz, oontz, oontz…
8:00- M.C. Sideways Hat just played a kicky little tune, not only featuring the never ending “oontz, oontz, oontz”, but five minutes of a girl making, let’s say, “orgasm noises”. Really loud orgasm noises. At least that’s what I’m told they were. I’ve never actually heard those sounds in person before. Is that bad?
8:30- The area where we are working is a mass of humanity. It looks like the barroom scene in “Star Wars”. Muscle shirted dudes with badass glares on their faces who look like they’re ready to throw down at any moment (selling them a ton of Red Bulls). The cross dressing fellas, that can really dance up a fuckin’ storm, by the way.
And I’m just not sure that some of these outfits that the girls are sporting are legal. They are almost all wearing thongs, or half-undies that might as well be thongs. The ones that are even bothering with a skirt have the damn thing hiked up so high, it looks like a belt.
Now, here’s the part where I know for sure I’m an old man. Thirty years ago, I would have been too dizzy to work, because all the blood in my head would have rushed south, camping out in my dork for the evening. Or maybe it’s because I have a daughter, because all I can think is:
“Girls, put some freakin’ clothes on, and for the love of God, could you please get that pacifier out of your mouth?”.
9:00- Now this is really bad. There is an old man standing right in the middle of the party, drinking a beer and just looking at the girls. He’s sticking out like a sore, perverted thumb. Somehow, I don’t think he’s here for the music.
I get the feeling I’ve seen him before, but I can’t tell because he has his back to me. Wait a second, he’s turning around now. Let me get a closer look.
Oh, hell no. Dad?
9:45- Just to review- oontz, oontz, oontz…
10:00- Going into hour six of our fun evening. Let’s take a quick inventory, shall we? I’ve controlled my heart rate, so that my scraped leg is throbbing to the beat of the music. By the way, the music has not stopped, even once, since 4:30. The bass has penetrated my body to a point that I think I may be sterile, so I can now ignore that court order to get a vasectomy. Plus any kidney stones I may have had are all dissolved by now.
Between the mountain climb earlier and standing on concrete for six hours, my knees feel like they’re going to explode. Plus I’ve already made plans to enroll in sign language classes, because there’s no fucking way I still have my hearing at the end of the night.
10:30- A kid just came up to me and asked if I wanted to see his “Prince Albert”. I told him tobacco wasn’t allowed in the park. He laughed, asked exactly how old I was, and then explained to me that a Prince Albert was a piercing on a part of a dude’s anatomy that should never have a giant needle go through it. Thank you, son, I’m going to have to decline your nice offer.
Uh, I’m a little lightheaded. Can I please take my break now?
10:45- While we have a moment, let’s review some of the messages that have been written on the half-underwear of the girls tonight:
“Juicy”
“Perfect”
“Yes”
“Bad girl”
“Dora the Explorer”
Okay, I made that last one up. Geez, when I was a kid, having the day of the week on underwear was as daring as it got. Come to think of it, I used to date a girl that wore underwear like that. Except it said, “September”. That probably wasn’t good. Let’s just move on…
11:00- There are a bunch of guys that are carrying neon glowing lights at the end of strings, and spinning the lights around their bodies like nunchuks. Pretty fascinating, but some passer-by is going to take one upside their head soon, and then all hell’s going to break loose. I’d call security, but I think they’re all partying with the girls by now.
11:30- Still going strong, and selling lots of bottled water (at $3.50 a pop, they should make me wear a mask while I’m selling it). The crowd has been surprisingly well behaved and polite, considering there are more pharmaceuticals here than at the Bristol-Myers factory.
Here’s the only problem I have with this group. Everybody is giving me money wadded up in a sweaty ball- I imagine it’s from all the dancing. I have to almost wring it out before I can put it in the drawer. With the lack of clothing around here, I'm sure I don’t want to know where they stored the money before they gave it to me.
I’m positive I have a case of the Rave Cooties. When I get home, I’m going to dip my hands in battery acid, just to be safe.
12:00- Eight hours. This is lasting so long, I’m starting to feel the same way as when I play hockey with Marty Richardson. Just wanting to look around for something to plunge into my goddamn heart. If I wasn’t looking so forward to killing Annie when we get home, I would have offed myself by now.
1:00- Hey, we have a special guest DJ that is supposed to close out our night. I didn’t get his name, but let’s call him M.C. Pottymouth, shall we? The first thing he says is, “Somebody scream!!!”. That is officially the 1200th time I’ve heard that phrase tonight, and I go ahead and scream for the first time.
Pottymouth then proceeds to actually turn the volume up on the speakers (I was sure we were at full throttle), and then rattle off 30 minutes of sewage that includes some words that embarrassed me, and I’m a hockey player. His favorite appears to be that 12 letter phrase that starts with “mother”. I know it’s his favorite because he says it 453 times.
At this very moment, I swear revenge…aw, fuck it. I’m too tired.
2:00- Well, the party finally ended in the park, and now they’ve all retired to the parking lot. I’ll bet they’ll have to bring in the National Guard if they want to break this thing up. What matters to me is that I get to go home and ice my knees. This may be the longest day of my life- scaling the Matterhorn in the morning, scraping my leg to the point that it’s currently oozing some kind of mystery fluid, and then dealing with the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen for 10 solid hours. And it’s going to take a week before I get this sound out of my head:
Oontz, oontz, oontz…
So a couple of weeks ago Mrs. Short Fat Goalie and I had an interesting Saturday. We’ve been working the Philly Cheesesteak stand at Red Rocks Amphitheater for soccer fundraising purposes, and we were scheduled to be there together later that day.
For those of you not from around here, Red Rocks is a beautiful natural amphitheater for concerts. If you've ever seen the "Under a Blood Red Sky" video from U2, it was filmed at Red Rocks. There isn't a better venue in the country to see a show.
Anyway, before going there in the afternoon, my boy Mike’s soccer team was having a hike in the foothills early that morning. It was kind of a teambuilding exercise, where they could hike together, build some rapport, and get some conditioning at the same time. It was nice and casual, and the parents were invited. So we thought we’d just take a leisurely stroll on a nice summer morning, come home, rest a bit, and then head out to the Rocks in the afternoon.
Great plan, right? Well, not so much…
We should have hired a fuckin’ sherpa before we went on that hike. There was a lot of climbing on rocky terrain, and what was supposed to be a 90 minute jaunt turned into a three hour death march for us old people that brought little kids along.
The most fun part was coming down the hill. One of the moms, thinking like us that this was a stroller hike instead of an expedition, brought her baby along. I carried her up part of the climb (the baby, not the mom), but now she was back with her mother. Mom weighs around 68 pounds, and they were walking along an unstable path. I was kind of worried, so it was time for SFG to man up, take control of the situation, and carry the baby the rest of the way.
“Macho, Macho Man…”
Well, Macho Man takes about 10 steps and hits a patch of loose gravel. My left leg goes out from under me, straight sideways, and we go boom-boom. I could have put my arm down to break most of the fall, but the mom would probably get defensive if I chucked her kid to save myself.
So the baby never touches the ground, but I scrape a lot of the meat off of my left leg, from knee to ankle. At that very moment I swore revenge on Willie, Mike’s coach who set up this goddamn hike. You don’t know where or when, son, but vengence will be mine.
Now, why am I telling you all this? Bear with me- it will all come together soon. Just a few hours later, we have to report to Red Rocks to work an event called "Global Dance Fest". Annie signed us up for it, and tells me that it will be maybe some polka, some clog dancing, or perhaps some salsa. Old people, like me, would be there to watch the festivities. No biggie- we’d put in our 4-5 hours, and head home. We were both pretty worn out from the hike, the scrape on my leg looked like ground round and had a heartbeat, but we figured we could sack up for the shift.
When we got there, we discovered that my girl wasn’t even close. We were informed that Global Dance Fest is what’s called a “rave party”, and it would be unlike anything we’d ever seen before.
This just screams for a running diary, so here we go…
4:00- We check in, and head to our stand. When we get there, we find a new twist to the normal Red Rocks format. Our concession stand is at the top of the stairs, and usually all the music is on the stage below, and far enough away where noise isn’t much concern. We look, and there is a giant bank of speakers about 25 feet from where we’ll be. Some dickhead with a sideways hat (just hate that look, by the way) is setting up a turntable and some other sound equipment, so it looks like we’ll have music right nearby. Isn't that just bitchin’?
But what kind of music will it be? I’d ask Annie, but I think she’s still clinging to the clog dance notion. Dumbass...
4:15- One of the security guys comes over, and starts to brief us about how the evening is going to go. He goes over procedures concerning what happens when a fight breaks out, how to deal with a fake ID, how not to sell to someone who’s eyes are so dilated you can’t see anything but pupils, and who to call if someone overdoses, and starts choking on their own tongue.
Uh, excuse me- what the hell is about to happen here?
4:30- Sideways hat-boy fires up his sound system and puts on some tunes for us enjoy before the gates open up. We then find out what kind of music it is. Well, what do you know! It's techno!
Fuck....me...
On a 1-10 scale, I’d say he has the bass turned up to approximately 19. We don’t know it yet, but that’s the way it’s going to be for the rest of the evening. The music has a thumping, pulsating beat that my kids refer to as “oontz, oontz, oontz”. If I refer back to that, you’ll know what I’m talking about.
5:00- The gates open, and the early crowd starts to parade in. Hey, the Catholic schools in the area must have gotten a great deal on tickets, because about 300 teenage girls just entered in complete uniforms (pleated skirts, knee socks, etc).
Wow, the nuns must have relaxed the rules on the hemlines of the skirts since I was a kid. Not sure the belly-button rings and visible thong-ass are regulation either. I’ll have to check the manual on that.
5:30- The next wave comes in, and its just more knee socks, pleated skirts, and thongs. The one tiny wrinkle is- they’re dudes. Well, this is going to be interesting, now isn’t it? Somewhere, the Pope just shivered a little, and I’ll bet he doesn’t know why.
5:45- C’mon, kids, say it with me: oontz, oontz, oontz…
6:00- The Red Rocks staff just brought in a bunch of earplugs for the concession workers. I’m cashier-boy, so I can’t use them. I’m already straining to hear people, and using my fingers like Marlee Matlin to tell these fucklumps how much they owe for their munchies. We’re only two hours into this. At this very moment, I swear revenge on Annie, who signed me up for this shit. I imagine clog dancing on her lifeless corpse when we get home. It makes me smile…
7:00- Now the hardcore partiers start to arrive. The closer it gets to being dark, the stranger the outfits are becoming. Now we’ve moved on to nylons, garters and tiny undies. Plus a bunch of them are wearing those furry “Ug” boots that look like a yak died around their ankles.
And you should see what the girls are wearing…
7:15- A dude just walked by wearing blue nylons and a matching blue dress. Nice and clingy. Plus he had wings on his back. No shit- wings. I would have loved to be in the room when he passed his dad on the way out the door tonight.
“Don’t wait up, dad. Oh, dammit, I have a run in my nylon! And I have a crease in my wing! Hey, dad? Why are you putting a gun in your mouth?”
7:25- Okay, now this is getting ridiculous. A girl made a skirt out of a furry shower mat. Plus, she had another mat wrapped around her legs like the Ugs. Later tonight, her mom is going to break her goddamn neck stepping out of the tub, just so this little nymphette can be fashionable.
7:30- Now here’s something worth mentioning. A bunch of the girls, and some of the guys, are walking around sucking on pacifiers. Yep, I said pacifiers! This is already a degenerate’s dream with the schoolgirl outfits, and the stockings with garters. Do we really have to throw pacifiers into the equation? To put this in medical terms, it’s getting really icky around here…
7:45- Now, just to be different- oontz, oontz, oontz…
8:00- M.C. Sideways Hat just played a kicky little tune, not only featuring the never ending “oontz, oontz, oontz”, but five minutes of a girl making, let’s say, “orgasm noises”. Really loud orgasm noises. At least that’s what I’m told they were. I’ve never actually heard those sounds in person before. Is that bad?
8:30- The area where we are working is a mass of humanity. It looks like the barroom scene in “Star Wars”. Muscle shirted dudes with badass glares on their faces who look like they’re ready to throw down at any moment (selling them a ton of Red Bulls). The cross dressing fellas, that can really dance up a fuckin’ storm, by the way.
And I’m just not sure that some of these outfits that the girls are sporting are legal. They are almost all wearing thongs, or half-undies that might as well be thongs. The ones that are even bothering with a skirt have the damn thing hiked up so high, it looks like a belt.
Now, here’s the part where I know for sure I’m an old man. Thirty years ago, I would have been too dizzy to work, because all the blood in my head would have rushed south, camping out in my dork for the evening. Or maybe it’s because I have a daughter, because all I can think is:
“Girls, put some freakin’ clothes on, and for the love of God, could you please get that pacifier out of your mouth?”.
9:00- Now this is really bad. There is an old man standing right in the middle of the party, drinking a beer and just looking at the girls. He’s sticking out like a sore, perverted thumb. Somehow, I don’t think he’s here for the music.
I get the feeling I’ve seen him before, but I can’t tell because he has his back to me. Wait a second, he’s turning around now. Let me get a closer look.
Oh, hell no. Dad?
9:45- Just to review- oontz, oontz, oontz…
10:00- Going into hour six of our fun evening. Let’s take a quick inventory, shall we? I’ve controlled my heart rate, so that my scraped leg is throbbing to the beat of the music. By the way, the music has not stopped, even once, since 4:30. The bass has penetrated my body to a point that I think I may be sterile, so I can now ignore that court order to get a vasectomy. Plus any kidney stones I may have had are all dissolved by now.
Between the mountain climb earlier and standing on concrete for six hours, my knees feel like they’re going to explode. Plus I’ve already made plans to enroll in sign language classes, because there’s no fucking way I still have my hearing at the end of the night.
10:30- A kid just came up to me and asked if I wanted to see his “Prince Albert”. I told him tobacco wasn’t allowed in the park. He laughed, asked exactly how old I was, and then explained to me that a Prince Albert was a piercing on a part of a dude’s anatomy that should never have a giant needle go through it. Thank you, son, I’m going to have to decline your nice offer.
Uh, I’m a little lightheaded. Can I please take my break now?
10:45- While we have a moment, let’s review some of the messages that have been written on the half-underwear of the girls tonight:
“Juicy”
“Perfect”
“Yes”
“Bad girl”
“Dora the Explorer”
Okay, I made that last one up. Geez, when I was a kid, having the day of the week on underwear was as daring as it got. Come to think of it, I used to date a girl that wore underwear like that. Except it said, “September”. That probably wasn’t good. Let’s just move on…
11:00- There are a bunch of guys that are carrying neon glowing lights at the end of strings, and spinning the lights around their bodies like nunchuks. Pretty fascinating, but some passer-by is going to take one upside their head soon, and then all hell’s going to break loose. I’d call security, but I think they’re all partying with the girls by now.
11:30- Still going strong, and selling lots of bottled water (at $3.50 a pop, they should make me wear a mask while I’m selling it). The crowd has been surprisingly well behaved and polite, considering there are more pharmaceuticals here than at the Bristol-Myers factory.
Here’s the only problem I have with this group. Everybody is giving me money wadded up in a sweaty ball- I imagine it’s from all the dancing. I have to almost wring it out before I can put it in the drawer. With the lack of clothing around here, I'm sure I don’t want to know where they stored the money before they gave it to me.
I’m positive I have a case of the Rave Cooties. When I get home, I’m going to dip my hands in battery acid, just to be safe.
12:00- Eight hours. This is lasting so long, I’m starting to feel the same way as when I play hockey with Marty Richardson. Just wanting to look around for something to plunge into my goddamn heart. If I wasn’t looking so forward to killing Annie when we get home, I would have offed myself by now.
1:00- Hey, we have a special guest DJ that is supposed to close out our night. I didn’t get his name, but let’s call him M.C. Pottymouth, shall we? The first thing he says is, “Somebody scream!!!”. That is officially the 1200th time I’ve heard that phrase tonight, and I go ahead and scream for the first time.
Pottymouth then proceeds to actually turn the volume up on the speakers (I was sure we were at full throttle), and then rattle off 30 minutes of sewage that includes some words that embarrassed me, and I’m a hockey player. His favorite appears to be that 12 letter phrase that starts with “mother”. I know it’s his favorite because he says it 453 times.
At this very moment, I swear revenge…aw, fuck it. I’m too tired.
2:00- Well, the party finally ended in the park, and now they’ve all retired to the parking lot. I’ll bet they’ll have to bring in the National Guard if they want to break this thing up. What matters to me is that I get to go home and ice my knees. This may be the longest day of my life- scaling the Matterhorn in the morning, scraping my leg to the point that it’s currently oozing some kind of mystery fluid, and then dealing with the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen for 10 solid hours. And it’s going to take a week before I get this sound out of my head:
Oontz, oontz, oontz…
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Late Miracle Gives Dawgs 6-5 Win
During the Dawgs I recent run of success, including a record 20 game unbeaten streak, there have been several times where the boys have come back late to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
But it's never happened quite like this.
Down two goals with three minutes remaining, the Dawgs exploded for three scores, and then held off a furious late power play surge to snatch a remarkable 6-5 win against the team that broke their streak, the Ice Pack.
The Dawgs, now sitting at 12-3 and riding a new four game winning streak, control their own destiny in their quest to win the first regular season winter EAHL title in team history. They hold a two point lead over the Sublixators, who improbably lost Tuesday night to the Misfits, and also have played one less game than any of their nearest competition. If they can win three out of their final four games, they will clinch the top seed for the EAHL playoffs.
"Defenseman" Tito Pijanowski, who missed the Dawgs game at Pepsi Center due to a mysterious non-hockey injury, had a huge night with two goals and two assists. Matt McGarvey and Shaun Hollis, reunited after Hollis' brief trip down to the minor leagues, combined for three goals and three assists. And Captain Marty Richardson tipped in the late game winner to cap off the giant comeback.
The Dawgs opened the scoring around the middle of the first period, when Pijanowski tapped in a rebound in front of the Ice Pack net. Though still "technically" a defenseman, the position Pijanowski plays now has been changed to "freelancer".
In didn't take long for the Ice Pack to answer. Defenseman Chris Henrichsen's shot from the point glanced off of a Dawgs defender, and baffled goalie Al Sterner to level matters, and then a couple of minutes later forward Brandon Cleveland took a centering pass in the slot and beat Sterner again to give his team the lead.
Before the end of the first, Hollis stuffed in his 20th of the season past Ice Pack keeper Scott Megan to equalize again. It was easy to tell that this was not going to be a defensive struggle. There would be lots of goals before it was over.
Just a few minutes into the second, a routine shot came towards Sterner that he tried to deflect to defenseman Ben Ziff. Instead, he placed the puck, along with an engraved invitation to score a goal, right onto the stick of Ice Pack leading scorer Kyle Gramley. Gramley one-timed the gift into the net, and the bad guys had the lead again.
Sterner
But it's never happened quite like this.
Down two goals with three minutes remaining, the Dawgs exploded for three scores, and then held off a furious late power play surge to snatch a remarkable 6-5 win against the team that broke their streak, the Ice Pack.
The Dawgs, now sitting at 12-3 and riding a new four game winning streak, control their own destiny in their quest to win the first regular season winter EAHL title in team history. They hold a two point lead over the Sublixators, who improbably lost Tuesday night to the Misfits, and also have played one less game than any of their nearest competition. If they can win three out of their final four games, they will clinch the top seed for the EAHL playoffs.
"Defenseman" Tito Pijanowski, who missed the Dawgs game at Pepsi Center due to a mysterious non-hockey injury, had a huge night with two goals and two assists. Matt McGarvey and Shaun Hollis, reunited after Hollis' brief trip down to the minor leagues, combined for three goals and three assists. And Captain Marty Richardson tipped in the late game winner to cap off the giant comeback.
The Dawgs opened the scoring around the middle of the first period, when Pijanowski tapped in a rebound in front of the Ice Pack net. Though still "technically" a defenseman, the position Pijanowski plays now has been changed to "freelancer".
In didn't take long for the Ice Pack to answer. Defenseman Chris Henrichsen's shot from the point glanced off of a Dawgs defender, and baffled goalie Al Sterner to level matters, and then a couple of minutes later forward Brandon Cleveland took a centering pass in the slot and beat Sterner again to give his team the lead.
Before the end of the first, Hollis stuffed in his 20th of the season past Ice Pack keeper Scott Megan to equalize again. It was easy to tell that this was not going to be a defensive struggle. There would be lots of goals before it was over.
Just a few minutes into the second, a routine shot came towards Sterner that he tried to deflect to defenseman Ben Ziff. Instead, he placed the puck, along with an engraved invitation to score a goal, right onto the stick of Ice Pack leading scorer Kyle Gramley. Gramley one-timed the gift into the net, and the bad guys had the lead again.
Sterner
Later in the second, after Ben Ziff was called for an infraction, the Dawgs were getting ready to go on the penalty kill. At that very moment, defenseman Rick Zimmat's medication wore off, and he had one of his patented Vietnam flashbacks. Thinking that the referee was "Charlie", he fired the puck right at his head. The surprised and understandably pissed off referee then sent Zimmat to the box, or "Hanoi Hilton", leaving the Dawgs to kill a five on three for two full minutes.
What Zimmat saw
During his entire time in the box, Zimmat kept saying over and over, "Zimmat, Richard. Rank: Private. Serial number: 546251. You won't break me, you Commie bastard!" It scared the living shit out of fellow prisoner of war Ziff, who spent the two minutes trying to claw his way out of the penalty box.
The Dawgs survived, but before the end of the second, the Ice Pack threatened to double their lead. After Sterner shockingly made a save on a tough shot, the puck was desperately cleared out of the Dawgs zone. It looked like it would be an icing call, and a faceoff in front of Sterner.
But instead, there was Matt McGarvey camping out in his "office", at the Ice Pack blue line, patiently waiting for the other Dawgs get done playing some defense. He gathered the loose puck, cruised in on Megan, and slotted it home for his 12th of the year to knot the game at 3-3.
McGarvey, playing that shutdown defense
The Dawgs had several chances to break the deadlock early in the third period. Dan Pham, given another opportunity to play forward because he hurts the team so badly on defense, had several breakaway chances on Megan. Every time, he gagged like he was trying to perform oral sex on Secretariat. He then went to the bench in shame, and sat for several minutes with a real stupid look on his face.
What a boner...
Then rookie Michael Heaton got his own breakaway. He also missed, but was hooked from behind by an Ice Pack defender. The referee had no choice but to award a penalty shot.
Having never taken a penalty shot as a member of the Dawgs, before the attempt he skated to the bench to seek advice from the closest teammate he could find. Unfortunately, that teammate was Matt McGarvey. Heaton didn't realize that McGarvey's last successful penalty shot was in 1990, when he was in Mites, and the opposing goalie had just crapped her Wonder Woman panties. Heaton would have been better off asking for guidance from the high school girl running the scoreboard.
Needless to say, Heaton never stood a chance. It wasn't even close, and the score was still tied at three.
The game stayed level until around seven minutes remained. Because of Zimmat's earlier antics, the referees were calling every possible foul they could against the Dawgs, and they were once again on the penalty kill. During the power play, a shot came in from the point, and was tipped on goal by Ice Pack forward Cleveland.
Sterner made the first save, but the puck bounced away from him and right back to Cleveland. Sterner could have gotten back in position to make the second save had it been 1998. But since it is indeed 2009, Cleveland easily put the puck back in while Sterner flopped around on the ice like an old, arthritic walrus.
Sterner
A couple of minutes later, Ice Pack forward David Rodgers broke away from the Dawgs defense, and skated in alone on Sterner. Sadly, Sterner still hadn't been able find the energy to stand up from the previous goal, and was beaten like a Saudi woman with an opinion. It was now 5-3, and the good guys were in big, big trouble.
The referees must have thought that the game was out of reach, because with four minutes left, they actually called the Ice Pack for a penalty, and then another. Now the Dawgs had a five-on-three advantage, and one last chance to make a game of it.
With seven seconds remaining in the first penalty, McGarvey found a loose puck and banged it home to make the score 5-4. Since the goal came during the five-on-three, the Dawgs remained on the power play.
Thirty seconds later, the Dawgs gained possession in the Ice Pack zone, and the puck was fed back to Pijanowski at the right point. He launched a wrist shot that went through several defenders, past the right skate of Megan, and into the net to tie the game.
"Tito make score. Tito do good."
There were still two minutes left, and the Dawgs, who moments earlier were staring at a costly loss, were now actually thinking about winning the game.
But they'd need a hero. Someone with great hockey skills and instincts. Someone with so much talent that he could take a team on his shoulders, and come through when his mates need him most. Who was this hero?
Marty Richardson? You've got to be shittin' me...
With just over a minute left, defenseman Mike Abdella, still sporting that faggidy soul patch, fired a limp-wrister towards goal from the left point. Richardson was standing just left of the cage as the shot came in. The puck was knee-high for most players, which made it chest-high for the diminutive Richardson.
Richardson closed his eyes, and stuck his stick out. The puck somehow tipped off the blade, and past a stunned Megan for the game winner. It was what the French describe as "chance du toilette", which loosely translates to "shithouse luck".
Richardson, finding a nut
Now the Dawgs remarkably had a one goal lead, but the referees weren't going to let the boys get away that easily. With a minute left, they called Abdella for a holding penalty, and the Ice Pack had one more power play chance to even the contest.
They spent most of that last minute putting major pressure on the Dawgs goal. At least 5 of their 40 total shots for the game came in that last 60 seconds, and caused an exhausted Sterner to have a small conniption. The last three shots hit his lifeless body, but stayed out of the net. The Dawgs had their incredible win.
This week, the Dawgs have a chance to take giant steps toward the top seed in the playoffs, as they play the Skanks on Tuesday and then their Pepsi Center pals Cobra Kai next Monday night.
In other Dawgs news:
After months of negotiation, this week defenseman Ben Ziff was able to enroll his daughter Little Ziffer into his former school. Said Ziff, "It's like a dream come true, my baby going to my alma mater."
Little Ziffer, right
The team finally revealed this week why Tito Pijanowski was unable to play at Pepsi Center last Sunday afternoon. While having sex with his new girlfriend, he got overly excited, went much too fast, and left painful skidmarks on his penis.
"Tito hurt pee-pee. Tito need better lube..."
Playing on Dawgs II last Monday night, team captain and former gonad gobbler Marty Richardson got into his first fight ever, tangling with six-footer Sean Lieske of the Swarm. Drawing inspiration from Karate Kid III, he flipped Lieske like a cheese omelet, and pinned his face to the ice until referees could pull him off. Getting his ass kicked by a much smaller man didn't sit very well with Lieske.
Lieske
Richardson encountered more problems this week, when he discovered that there is a warrant for his arrest in Orlando, Florida. He is being charged with animal cruelty following a "date" with a cartoon legend during his vacation. Said Richardson, "It was consensual- I swear to God!"
"Uh, garsh, my ass still bleeds when I fart."
Monday, the team found out that Shaun Hollis will miss at least the next several games. During a practice session, he took an errant puck to the face, breaking his jaw, and pushing back his front teeth. Though it's an incredible loss for the team, there is one silver lining to Hollis' injury: it will be easier to make sweet love with Matt McGarvey.
"His teeth fold back now? Thank you, God!"
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