Everything Else

You fucking fuckwits.

One of the reasons that most everyone hates the Patriots is that the path always seems to make itself in front of them. Not only are they ahead of the game, but their division has had unmatched and an almost incomprehensible incompetence and asshoolery for over a decade. Which means the Pats get six wins every year automatically to start, which means they only have to find five or six out of the other 10 to play at home through the playoffs. Just their aura has turned everyone closest to them into unidentifiable goo.

That’s what befell the Bruins here. Must be a Boston thing. The juggernaut in their own division broke all their ribs trying to fellate themselves in the first round, while the Bruins drew the one team that has such a mental block about them all they have to do is stand still and watch the doofuses on the other bench speak in tongues and break their backs doing some sort of seance. From there all they had was playoff neophytes through to the Final, ones that were getting nosebleeds from the rarified air they hadn’t experienced before. All too easy.

And then all it was in the Final was a team that didn’t belong. That didn’t know what they were doing there and kept turning around to find the relief of someone telling them to get out of there. The Bruins had 11 days off, a gift this time of year for nothing else but to stuff Patrice Bergeron’s organs back out of his legs where they seem to keep falling during any playoff run.

And yet they kept making it harder. Long stretches of trying to do the Humpty dance at the offensive blue line instead of just getting it deep and seeing if the Blues defense could get it out, which they can’t. The false impression that Zdeno Chara can do anything any more, which he can’t. Another Brad Marchand disappearance (and we’ll get back to this fraudulent shit weasel in a second). Bergeron injury. We’ve seen it all before. It’s the script.

And yet the Bruins had it in their hands. They’d engineered what should have been the Blues-iest moment in history, deflating that sweat-stained and illiterate balloon and party they were so ready to have. Game 7 at home, after pulling the pin. All they had to do was basically show up and not fuck up. All they had to do was bury the puck in a three-quarters open net instead of firing it back into the guts of a scrambling Jordan Binnington.

But that’s what the Bruins, and Marchand, did. It was easier to score, and would have changed the game and series. But this is June, which means it’s when Brad Marchand turns into a gaseous cloud.

Here’s Marchand’s record in his last two final appearances. One 5-on-3 goal, one empty net goal. That’s it. 13 games, and the supposed best left winger in the game can’t be found when it matters most with the a space telescope. Here, let’s revisit his coup-de-fuckstick:

I don’t know what’s best/worst. His Roger Dorn Ole bullshit at the blue line or his “Fuck it it’s your problem now” shuffle off to the bench with all of seven seconds left. This is Brad Marchand when it counts. Enjoy paying him until he’s David Backes II.

Here’s a list of teams to lose two Finals since the Great Lockout of ’05: Boston.

Congrats, it’s what you’ve always wanted, your own exclusive club where you can chew a truck-full of Skoal, pretend the Dropkicks are good and represent you in anyway, and talk about how Cam Neely could still score 50 in this league (that is if the league hadn’t been “pussified,” which is definitely how Bruins fans and execs described it). We know what happens here. You’ll learn all the wrong lessons because you still let Mike Milbury hang around for some godforsaken reason. Despite your success the past two years based on a quick defense and playing as fast as possible, along with Bergeron’s genius, you’ll conclude it’s because you’re not tough enough. You’ll let your BarfStool fandom bully you into thinking this. You know it to be true. Here comes Wayne Simmonds and Braydon Coburn. Fucking book it. This is the only organization that could double-down on a Backes signing, and they will.

You’ll blame Tuukka Rask, and finally break him when he gives up three goals in a period in the first week of October. If he has any sense he’ll pull a Patrick Roy right after Kevin Paul Dupont belches up his column questioning his heart, and then he’ll go on to win a Conn Smythe with the Flames. It’s what he deserves. It’s what you deserve.

It couldn’t have been any simpler, and you could have saved us from this great plague. You made every mistake possible and yet it was still there for you. The Blues kept tossing you the Cup, the one you kept chanting you wanted, and the Bruins kept receiving it like a person seeing a 16-inch softball for the first time.

I’ll tell you what happens now. You’ll lose to the Leafs next year. Everything’s broken, and you broke it. The gates are open, and everyone is coming for theirs. That’s if you don’t return to your natural state and getting fetal for the Canadiens in the first round. And then Krejci, Marchand, and Bergeron will be too old. There’s nothing behind them. This was it for you. You can’t fuck up a chance like this and think you’ll ever get another one. Hockey may be random and weird and stupid, but it doesn’t allow for that kind of compassion. It will exact its pound of flesh.

Also your biggest celebrity fans are either the leader of the most racist, misogynist sports empire in the world, a comedian who stole all of his stuff from Bill Hicks, or some dipshit actor who somehow keeps drugging Emily Blunt into believing he’s either talented or handsome. How perfect.

So in the words of Jon Hamm, perhaps the only good thing about St. Louis:



Everything Else

Once again, we were asked to give a eulogy for Yahoo!’s Puck Daddy Blog. We drew the last straw, and got the Predators. Here it is. Enjoy. 

Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve come here once again to bur….you know what, it doesn’t feel right this time. Because… is this really a funeral? In most ways, it feels like the Nashville Predators were born this spring. As we all know, you’re not actually a hockey town, or even a section of civilization, until Canadian hockey media discovers that you’re a better place to watch a game than a freezing barn in Guelph, if that’s even a real place. Welcome to the big time, Nash-Vegas. You’re now officially on the sanctioned list for Globe and Mail writers to come and get drunk and fall down.

(Other areas on the list include Bob McKenzie’s lake house, Winnipeg and Tony Twist’s St. Louis-style hot dog stand. Congrats, everyone. You’ve made it.)