‘Twas the Night Before Krzyzmas

‘Twas the night before Krzyzmas, (though we didn’t know that)
And not a creature was stirring, not even a rat.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugarplums danced in their heads.
And Mama in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

But with its little old driver so angry and gay,
I knew in a moment it must be Coach K.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he shouted and cursed them, and called them by name!

“Now Wojo! Now, Singler! now, Redick and Curry!
On, Paulus! On, Shavlik! Melchionni, please hurry!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now flop away! Flop away! Flop away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of douchebags, and their Leader too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the ceiling
Their prancing and pawing and loud girlish squealing
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Coach K came in with a bound.

He was dressed like a pallbearer, from his head to his feet,
And his haircut was tidy, his dark suit was neat
A sack full of cheese he had flung on his back,
Likely Gouda, Romano, and Monterey Jack

His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples had merit!
His cheeks were like roses, His nose like a ferret!
His smug little mouth was drawn up and droll,
And the hair on his head was dyed blacker than coal.

He was sickly and gaunt, a right creepy old elf,
And I gasped when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A snarl of his lip and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to worry I had something to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And took all our presents, the rotten old jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
Blew out a big wad of snot on my clothes!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, as they sang “Hark the Herald”,
“Remember the real victim in all this is Gerald!”

Luke Warm Linkage

Premature celebration at it's finest. 13-2 anyone?




The Case Against Hockey

In 2005, there was an NHL labor dispute, and hockey went away.  That was like an 8-month orgasm.  I miss that feeling.  And I bet you do too.

Look, I’m not here to just say hockey sucks.  You already know that.  What I am here to say is (a) why it sucks, (b) that we don’t have to take it anymore, and (c) what we need to do to rid God’s Earth of this scourge once and for all.

Why hockey sucks:

It’s just not fun to watch.

Watching hockey on television is slightly more entertaining than watching a nude septuagenarian apply roll-on deodorant.  Attending a game in person is admittedly a better experience, much in the same way I would imagine that attending a Maury taping would be more interesting than simply watching it on TV.

But that’s not to say that either activity is something normal, healthy adults should be engaging in.

Hell, hockey is so boring that the greatest blog in the world didn’t even know when it started.  That should tell you something.

The fans

This is what ALL hockey fans look like.  Even the women.

This is what ALL hockey fans look like. Even the women.

Hockey fans make NASCAR fans look attractive.  (At least hockey is a sport, though.  More on that in a future post.)   Look, I realize there’s not much to do besides drink beer and eat bratwurst on those 10-month winters way up North, but seriously, push away from the trough now and then, Olaf.

And hockey blowhards always want to act like hockey is the noblest of pastimes, when in reality it’s nothing more than Roller Derby on Ice.  But instead of fat chicks beating each other up, we get undertoothed douches beating each other up.


Anything that originates or is wildly popular in Canada automatically sucks.  Consider the following:

Bryan Adams

Socialized Medicine

Anne Murray, Canadian sexpot.

Anne Murray, Canadian sexpot.

Ham posing as bacon

Ham posing as bacon

The Metric System

The Metric System

The Puck

Most legitimate sports have a ball as the central item in play.  A puck is a ridiculous object, and any sport centered around said ridiculous object cannot be taken seriously.  Even the badminton birdie looks at the puck and says “Dude.  What the hell?”

We Don’t Have to Take it Anymore

We don’t have to take it anymore.

What We Can Do

Fortunately, you are not alone in your disdain for hockey.  By harnessing the powers of the internet, we can finally make our unified voice heard from Winnipeg to Calgary.  From Minneapolis to Anchorage.  We’re not going to take it.  No, no.  We are not going to take it.

Some have called for the murder of hockey players and fans.  I am not one of those people, as I am not an extremist.  However, if you are a doctor and the opportunity presents itself, performing the occasional inconspicuous unauthorized vasectomy on hockey fans now and then would probably be a good idea.  I’m not sure how realistic that is, since I’m not a doctor.  But by all means, try it if you can get away with it.

A more effective countermeasure to fight the great hockey insurgency is to place Canada (the very source of this foul hockey infestation) on an unofficial trade embargo.  Let’s hit those Canadians where it hurts and cripple their little economy.  Instead of sneaking Viagra across the border, prop your member up with a homemade popsicle-stick splint.  Chances are your lady won’t even notice.  Rather than gamble across the border in Windsor, stay in Detroit and play the “try not to get murdered” game.   That’s the best kind of gambling, anyway.  And instead of buying that Barenaked Ladies CD, get good taste in music.

Now for the coup de grace.  We finally have an African-American president.  A sport-loving African-American president, at that.  Approximately thirty-one African-Americans actually enjoy hockey, unless one of them died this year.  This is our big chance.  Obama isn’t afraid to go after Humana, Fox News, or even PriceWaterhouseCoopers.  Who’s to say he wouldn’t be ready to go after hockey?  Yes we can.

And yes we will.