MID SEASON: We definitely need more holidays where raw egg drinks are served.

Yesterday I woke up from a terrible dream. I had dreamt that we had played two games back to back with Andrew Raycroft in the net. In my dream we lose both games. First I dreamt that we lost in overtime to the Isles. With that male-on-top-of-a-wedding-cake Mike Comrie scoring the overtime winner. Off a Blake turnover, and did I mention with Andrew Raycroft in the net…with a moustache no less. I'm sure I had cold sweat pouring down my face most of the night. And then my dream continued and we lost to the Flyers, in a game that could only be described as lifeless. The game against the Flyers was like I can’t believe it’s not butter. Or a Mr. Mister album. Worse yet, the Leafs were celery salt.
I don't mind waking up to find that both games weren't some horrible dreams but in fact reality. I can even forgive the mustache...what I cant forgive is how Andrew Raycroft can make ordinary players look like they have soft hands.

Mike Comrie.






I know I’m all spazzed out on tryptofan and tray after tray of Pot of Gold and Turtles, extra cranberry sauce. Giblets. (My family do the traditional bird: swan. Done up with stuff that goes with the big bird...can I have more neck? I won’t lie, I’m a fixins man, walking that fine line where gravy becomes beverage.) My point is this....even with that weighing heavy on my belt and conscience…I know an .882 save percentage isn’t exactly sizzling.
The Todd Ford, Justin Pogge, Scott Clemenson domino that leads to Andrew Raycroft is troubling. With yet another reason to hate men's groins: number 1 goaler Tosakala and his tenderoni zoni are day to day. Andrew Raycroft as our number one is about as good an idea as the Black Snake Moan video game (for PS2).
‘Kay I’m out of jokes.
Two weeks ago my team, your team: the Toronto Maple Leafs were a team on the road to recovery. On the impressive wingspan of Mats Sundin it began to look like a team with an identity. Secondary scoring, first rate defense, A+ goaltending…the holy trinity right there.
You always hear about captain of captains, the Moose, Messier, calling guys out in the dressing room. Like the roll call at the beginning of Hill Street Blues: Blake, Tucker, Bell, Wellwood, Kilger, Ponikarovsky? Uh...hello...what are you guys doing? Finish a play…injured, not injured…I am not giving a shit.


As the year comes to an end...I would just like to thank my three fellow posters: Greener, Moose and Washingtron (see below) for posting with me and making me look good post after post after post.