WE NEED A PITCHER, NOT A BELLY ITCHER

Are you fucking kidding me? Last night I watched a UFC fight and a hockey game broke out. It was amazing to watch the New Jersey Devils ground and pound Vesa Toskala. Somewhere Tito Ortiz is smiling.

Let me tell you how pissed I am this morning. Sadly I am not talking about being drunk. I am so pissed off that I have to warn you – much to Father Greener’s chagrin – I use the C word in this article. And before you start shaking your head and telling me about Martin Brodeur stopping 42 saves last night…or how in the four games (against the Leafs) this season he stopped 143 or 149 shots or how his save percentage against the same Toronto Maple Leafs is a cheap .960 or with a 1.50 GAA…blah de frickin blah....

We didn’t not win last night because of Martin Brodeur (although he is a remarkable goalie – who else in the world can turn a kick save rebound into a pass?), we were beaten last night, twice, on calls so egregious that I am shocked that Kerry Fraser and his coiffered cunty-ness wasn’t on the ice.

And you might ask why didn’t McCabe or Colaiacovo clear the front of the net? Because clearly these two refs wanted the Leafs playing a ringette game.

You want a byline? How about Two Blown Calls and More Posts than Moose And Washingtron put Together.

Now saying that…I also know hockey well enough to know shitty defense when I see one. Without a clear checking line it was left to Tucker, Blake and Stajan to shut it down. And with a minute left to play…well…not to oversell it…but it cost the Leafs the Season.
49 seconds left to play. And another giveaway.

...you know what? Fuck off. Fuck off right now. No, not you. I'm not mad at you...I'm just mad. And typing is making me feel weltschmerz, the likes of which I haven't experienced since my individual subjectivity was given free expression in response to the confines of rationalism imposed by the Enlightenment and other associated aesthetic movements.