27 Nov 2011 @ 12:28 PM 

I’m going to turn this into yet another liveblog tonight, from my husband’s computer, and this post is a placeholder for that.

Caniacs and others, feel free to hop on and participate. Festivities will start at 4:30 with pre-game. I’ll bring the Rumple Minze.

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Posted By: The Acid Queen
Last Edit: 27 Nov 2011 @ 12:39 PM

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 08 Oct 2011 @ 8:08 AM 

OK, so I started the evening off with a trip to my local ABC store to get a fifth of my favourite schnapps. I figured I would have some fun and play a Tripp Tracy drinking game.

A Robert Burns quote about the best-laid plans of mice and men comes to mind right now, but I’ll get to that further down.

My setup:

Sun Tzu and my drinking setup

Yes, I channeled my inner redneck by drinking from a Mason jar. What can I say? The little kitty in the picture is Sun Tzu Liao–he just got done inspecting everything to make sure it was OK, because that’s what he does.

So I’m here getting started watching the game, when my large orange cat Terrence decided to come over and ask me to give him some love:

Mr. Camera-Shy

Yes Terrence, you’re a handsome cat–but Mommy wants to watch the Hurricanes game.

That game. Man. I took my first drink when Tripp called us “Toronto South”. Which is fair, but still damn wrong. Finished off the mini, and cracked the seal on the big bottle. I commenced to drinkin’ and spamming facebook with crazy updates. Steve Downie got up to his usual bitch-ass punk cheapshotting, but sadly the linesmen saved him from the furious fists of Jay Harrison. And, of course, no call. The refs are clownshoes. Tripp said that the game had reached a “pivotal point”, and I took yet another drink.

Bob Harwood had a chat with Great Leader–and I had this horrible sense of impending doom. Every time Pete Karmanos opens his yap to a mediot, bad things happen. He’s like a magnet for trouble. I mean, I’m just pointing this out here.

Then that little bastard Marty St. Louis scored in the second, just after Bob Harwood spoke to Pete Karmanos–breaking the defensive shell that the Hurricanes collapsed into just after Skinner scored. I just knew at that point that the game was about to go (in the words of Denis Leary) “STRAIGHT to fuckin’ hell!”

Facebook update: STOP SCOTING ON US, UOU LILLTE VONTZ!

And it was time to pour some more schnapps, because clearly I wasn’t misspelling things enough:

Yep, that be schnapps in thurr

So I drank more. And the Lightning scored more. I do not think there was a correlation in either direction–it just kinda worked out that way. Somewhere along the line, the Tripp drinking game got lost in the shuffle of suck that was the Hurricanes after the score got to 3-1. I didn’t get piss-drunk, though–I got a little sleepy, and decided it was a good idea to just stop and go to bed as soon as the game was over. Really people, who’s going to think poorly of somebody who wants to keep at least some of her wits about her?

My penultimate facebook update of the night was: Yzerman just called. He told #jimrutherford “now you see that evil will always triumph, because good is dumb!” And of course, I followed it up with Mo must go, again!.

For serious–I really don’t think the problem is the players here. It’s Mo Hockey. It’s the defensive shell, which STILL sucks. It’s the 3-2 forecheck and the Musical Lines and the excusemaking, which we’ve had to put up with for years. You’d think that it would have become that much more apparent to everyone when Toronto went through the same thing with Chairman Mo behind the bench. But nooooo, Great Leader would rather keep nickel-and-diming everything while the fans get ready for yet another season of Mo-diocrity.

Mo Must Go, Again–and I’ll have another game night post after tonight’s game agin the Capitals.

 03 Apr 2008 @ 8:42 AM 

So let’s recap:

Yesterday morning, everyone in the Caniac Nation was all up in teh dramaz about the Caps pwning face on us. I slapped around some dumbass who got all up in the whiny because I said that Alex Ovechkin can be a dirty bastard–and yes, he can be–and then I took a shot at people that were claiming that there’s some kind of Sooper Sekrit Conspeerohsee going on to get the Caps into the playoffs at our expense.

Yesterday afternoon, EJ Hradek decided to clown on my coach’s meltdown behind the bench in DC. And, admittedly, it was funny–though really my coach is far less nebbishy-lookin’ than EJ is (not, yanno, that there’s anything wrong with being nebbishy-lookin’. Just saying.)–but I knew that the ‘Canes were going to get it together against the Lightning that night…and my favourite Spicy Italian, John Tortorella, gave us a lil’ hep by putting Mike Smith in goal.

Mmmm…..Spicy Italian. *ahem* sorry.

Then a friend of mine leaves me a ticket at Will Call–and my car is out of gas. Hubby was at work, clear out on the other side of the Containment Area for Relocated Yanquis. So I was stuck in my “AQ has no cash and can’t call a cab to take her to le jeu” living room for the night, which didn’t make me very happy–but what can you do, right?

So I settle in to watch the game–and 32 seconds in Eric freakin’ Staal shows why he is The Chosen One by scoring on a breakaway while practically wearing Vinny Lecavalier. I knew then that it was going to be a fun night. Merlin decided, at that point, to decamp to the foyer for some odd reason. The rest of the cats (including Jasmine the Feline Mute Button), however, parked their furry butts on the couch and watched the game with me. Martin St. Louis scored a few minutes later while Keith “Tater” Aucoin was in the box for tripping, and I bellowed “STOP SCORING ON US, YOU LITTLE VONTZ!”

Jasmine, tiny little dainty kitty that she is, then jumped on my chest and nipped my chin to let me know that I was too loud and needed to be quiet.

Then Chad LaRose, the Chuck Norris of Hockey, scored at 16:10 to put the ‘Canes up 2-1–and on to intermission we went!

Now, the second period was kinda surreal. Rosie scored again (and there was much rejoicing. YAAAAAY!), Andreas Karlsson hooked Trevor Letowski in the wedding vegetables, and then a few minutes later there was a knock at my door. I opened it, and there was Scott Walker. “Hey there, Your Infernal Majesty,” he said, “Mind if I come in for a moment?” How could I refuse one of my tribesmen, right?

I let Remo in, and–after paying the Pet Tax to Merlin–he ripped off this shot from atop my coffee table while Mike Smith was off at the Cook-Out on Western Boulevard to get a huge Cheddar-Style with double extra onion and a side of hushpuppies. “Thanks,” Walks said merrily before reaching down to pick Merlin up. “C’mon little buddy, we’re going to need you later.” Then he left, and I went back to watching the game just in time to see Jeff Halpern attempt to use Ryan Bayda as a missile weapon against his own goalie…and then try to re-enact a scene from “OZ” while poor Mike Smith is dopeslapping both of them with his blocker and hollering “GET OFF ME WITH THAT SHIT MANG, THAT AIN’T MAH SCENE.”

Then the phone rang. It was my husband. “As your lawyer,” he said to me, “I advise you to keep the noise level down so that we don’t get tossed from our apartment.” And Jasmine nipped my chin again, punctuating it this time with a meow. And the neighbours upstairs started trying to loudly remind the world that they like to engage in conjugal relations from time to time. Point taken, I turned down the TV in the living room and ChuckandtheletterK in the computer room.

Tuomo Ruutu went off for hooking, and I wondered ‘How long can we maintain?’* The answer was “as long as we have to”.

Vinny Lecavalier got dinged for a double-minor at the end of the period after he got called for interference and then decided to tell the refs what he thought of their parentage, and I knew that it was about to get surreal. More surreal. Something like that.

I was not, I assure you, disappointed.

Bishop Ruutu canonized a shot from the faceoff circle that beat Smith like a rented mule, Halp thought he was a Cap again and managed to score, and then the Chuck Norris of Hockey, Chad fuckin’ LaRose, got his hat trick.

It was at that point that I saw Merlin firmly ensconced on the top of John Tortorella’s head, and I decided that fatigue had definitely gotten the better of me and that it was time to go to bed. I walked over to the TV set and turned it on to a dead channel-white noise at maximum decibels, a fine sound for sleeping, a powerful continuous hiss to drown out everything strange*. Then I went into the bedroom and collapsed into bed surrounded by four furballs and seeing my team as monster reincarnations of Horatio Alger: men on the move and just sick enough to be confident*.

(This post inspired by (and the asterisked lines cribbed from) Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Good night Hunter S. Thompson, wherever you are.)


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