Bizarro Night

Thrilled beyond measure for my Washington Capitals, who are a quarter of the way to a Stanley Cup that they won't win.

Crying for Baltimore. How completely fucking awful. Cops' Tweets (60 percent of them include the words "violent criminals") not helping. People burning down new affordable housing constructed by a church not helping. Governor insulting Mayor not helping. What a horrible fucking night for Baltimore and for my state.

Two Days In A Row

I know, right? Just a tiny bit of awesomeness (hat tip to The Bog) preceding the upcoming Winter Classic. Reebok has chosen Joel Ward as one of its faces, to wit:

Wardo always bathes this way.

Your sister asked for some firewood.

You can cut a throat with one of those things.

Click to embiggen, of course.

Quick reminder: Ilse claims Chicagoan heritage and is overjoyed that Jay Cutler will return to the Bears' helm this weekend. Let's Go Caps.

Whack This Mole

Olsen on Boswell: "He could talk a dog off a meat truck, that guy."

I have to admit that's quite excellent. Fire Saint Benny anyway.

In other news, why the fucking fuck haven't I read yet that Adam Oates is fired? I mean, seriously, why didn't I read this two days ago? What the fucking fuck, Leonsis? I mean, based on what amounts to gossip*, I've mutated to the point where I won't mind if I read that you fired George McPhee, but I'm counting, Teddy Internet, and the number of days between last Sunday and the day you fire Adam Fucking Oates is no less than one half the number of days between the next time your team is playing hockey and the time I give you a fucking dime, you lying sack of dissembling horseshit.

*It is said that the Caps are on many players' "Please Massa don't trade me there" lists based on GMGM's allegedly draconian policies toward players and their agents. I have no idea whether it's really true, but based on some stuff I read and Leonis' recent publicizing of the Caps' policy on player-agent contacts after games, the story has the sweet stench of a relationship with reality. Given that GMGM has spent years walking a fine line because those years embodied his wandering horseshit on the player acquisition front (this year was the potentially saving exception, imhoe), he is no longer endearing. But Oates first, last, and always, though it pains me to say that of a guy who brought RPI a national title, even though he has no personality and no passion, and very clearly dyes his hair.**

**You may or may not recall, because you were or were not in the room***, that the first words out of my mouth after the horn for the first intermission of Adam Oates' tenure were, "Fire Oates."

***Or on the phone.

UPDATE: United news, while I'm here today (courtesy of Goff):

-Chris Pontius and the Hamstring of Doomitosis:

In his absence, United (2-2-1) has utilized Nick DeLeon, Davy Arnaud, Lewis Neal and Chris Rolfe on the flanks and relied on secondary forward Fabian Espindola to influence the attack. 

Fucking shoot me. Pontius, on whom the club has staked the future for I've lost count of how many fucking seasons now, is going to be playing in a fucking wheelchair soon.

-Bill Hamid's big toe, Chris Korb's knee injury (who the fuck cares, other than Korb and his girlfriend?), Luis Silva's giant Latin tonker (or maybe his ankle).

-Fucking shoot me some more:

With a victory Saturday, United would equal last season’s win total. Last year the club needed 22 games to achieve that — and then didn’t win again. Success in Columbus, though, does not come often: four consecutive defeats. A victory, combined with other results around the league, could also thrust United into a first-place tie in the Eastern Conference.

For 10 minutes. Fucking shoot me, again and again and again. People ask me why I gave up my season tickets. Check the last four bolded names in the Pontius blockquote. There's your fucking answer. Goddam team full of number twelves (which was once a badge of honor, but no more--in fact, the last honorable true Twelve went off to coach the fucking enemy). Am I fucking shot yet?

By Jingo

I have a hard time with the Olympics. Some of it is just fucken cool. But it's painfully obvious that, while most of the athletes are there for the best of reasons sincere (if nationalistic), the thing is a boondoggle that's not of any real value to improving the world condition.

Unfortunately, so's the World Cup. So suck it. Bring on my bread and circuses.

There are some things that are self-evident. One is that my local nation is better than yours. It just is. Especially, in this season, if you're my friend from Canada, for whom I shall not make up a name, so that when Purple sends him this post through the Faceybookz in an obvious effort to discredit me and Obamacare, I can pretend that I have lots of friends from Canada and it's not actually about him.

Another piece of self-evidentia is that even though my local nation is better than yours, especially if yours is Canada, other nations are not to be disrespected (unless they're Canada). For example, the skip of the British womens' curling team is pretty hot, as are a number of Russian women hockey players, some Italian skater chick I happened to notice because Ilse is obsessed with figure skating in all its forms (a million deaths are not enough for Porcelain Face) in addition to unicorns and the Olympics in general, and, also according to Ilse, Henrik Lundqvist and some guy on the Norwegian mens' curling team. Note the absence of anything Canadian on my Hot List. And hers. I said note it, bitchez.

By the way, if you're concerned that I'm not getting to the point, don't be. There isn't one.

Specifically not to be disrespected: the Russians. You wouldn't know it from watching the endless American rainbow fairy tale that is NBC's coverage of these Olympics (and every Olympics), which spent the entire opening ceremonies telling us how Russia equals Soviets equals bad and brutal and horrible and Stalin, and did we by the way mention Stalin? Of course, they did a really shitty job of reconciling that to guys in spiked coal-scuttle helmets who torment Russians, as well as reconciling math concerning a certain major conflict between said guys and Russians. Nor would you know it from the world journo community, which appears to be convinced that Russians are shitting in its water and feeding it cockroach borscht.

I thought the Russians did a really cool pageant about their history and culture. Was it an obscene waste of money? Of course it was. See Rule One. But their pageant was every bit as awesome as every other country's Olympic opening pageant, and a damn sight better and more entertaining than the pasty white (and Anglo) pageants thrown by the last two pasty white (and Anglo, despite the vague mists of froggification and First Nationsization that Vancouver 2012 tried to pimp, and you are totally not getting a break from me at all in this post, you fucking Canadian fucks) nations to throw such galas.

Full disclosure: Tschaikovsky innately trumps anything Anglo. Suck it, we lose.

I've been fascinated by the Winter Olympics since I was a kid. Especially the hockey, which was my first true sports love. So I have this jingoism problem. You see, in a hockey sense, I really, really hate some other countries that, on the face of it, probably don't deserve it. I'm looking at you, Sweden. And you, Finland. The very notion of disliking Sweden or Finland for any reasons beyond spoiled fish in skunk mustard sauce or their craven national behaviors in the aforementioned major conflict should be a pretty serious clue that I have a serious need for antipsychotics here (and in case you don't know: Sweden was a neutral that profited from sales of war materiel to both sides, while Finland sided with the Germans, because they were terrified of the Soviets, until the Soviets kicked their asses and made them change sides).

Subsequent Olympics have only exacerbated the problem. When Vladislav Tretiak was revealed as one of the torch-lighters in Sochi, I recognized him and almost involuntarily hissed, to Ilse's great puzzlement (fucking GenXers, and fuck also my generation's upbringing with hammers and sickles populating our duck-and-cover dreams). I cursed vividly when I saw today that the Czechs (minus the Slovaks) will be the United States' opponent in the quarters. And you will have no trouble guessing who I detest first and best among hockey nations.

This is difficult, because who I detest second and second-best among mens' hockey nations this time around is us. There are maybe 6 guys on the US Olympic hockey team who don't make me want to slit my own throat in disgust. But my country's laundry is what it is. Contrast Sweden, whose hockey team I've hated since I was about 7; it includes three of my favorite Olympians (Backstrom, Marcus Johansson, and the aforementioned suave, debonair, and blindingly awesome King Henrik Lundqvist, if you're curious).

It gets worse. Of course I despise the Canadian mens' team. But I reserve the most spittle for their womens' team, who fundamentally cheated to beat the US women in group play (which doesn't matter--the final will be US-Canada). It appears I have a bit of a problem with Canadian women playing goal-scoring sports. But I'll just try to stick to nationalism here without hauling out the misogynist artillery.

Friend Jim has done his best to provide fine and healthy counsel on my larger sports hate problem (but ask him about Duke). My jingoism transcends even my routine homerism. Therein, of course, lies the rub when I try to make sense of the Olympics. Best for me to just eat the bread and roll with the circus, I think. And to play Civ V or FM when my television is showing Ilse her tiny ice ballerinas.

Earl Weaver

You are not ambivalent about Earl Weaver, who died early this morning while on an Orioles fantasy cruise. You either have no idea who I'm talking about, or you didn't care about baseball at the time, or you loved him, or you were an American League umpire, or you're a fucking Yankees fan or a Sox hump and I have no further use for you (with two notable exceptions).

I left the church of baseball in 1996, the day Peter Angelos fired Jon Miller, and didn't go to another ball game until about two years ago, when I went to see Nationals Park. I've since found that baseball is too fucking slow for me to really enjoy, though I credit the leisure of it, the opportunity to talk for hours while the game unfolds, the relaxation and submission to the spectacle. I personally do better standing for two hours, leaning forward, yelling spasmodically at whichever outfield player is not shooting the fucking ball, and cracking wise with BFF and Ilse. But that's me, and I don't judge those who love the game and the church.

Before my apostasy, though, I spent an awful lot of time on 33rd Street, and was an Oriole fan for the last two years of Earl's reign, and his out-of-retirement year. This was also no small thing; I had been a Senators fan as they flamed out of existence, and childhood bitterness is hard. But places to go get stoned and slam brews weren't, and Memorial Stadium was a fine such place. I was there.

I can no longer sort out what happened while Earl was managing and what didn't, in terms of the big picture, or, for the most part, what happened while I was there and wasn't. I know I was there the night Tippy Martinez picked off three guys in one inning. I was there for a three-homer Floyd Rayford night, and I remember that as being on my birthday. It was on the ride home from Memorial on a bus that my brother, 32-Ounce, got his name.

And it doesn't matter that I'm pretty sure that all three of those things happened in 1983, so Earl wasn't managing; it was Earl who symbolized the era, whether or not he was the club's active manager. Earl is the manager I associate with those things (there was always a suspicion that Altobelli, who guided what was essentially Weaver's team to a World Series win, was just a puppet anyway). What, you thought this was about you? Or Earl?

Earl Weaver: King of the three-run homer, pioneer of matchup statistics, defiler of umpires' shoes (and on another shoe note, say the words "Earl" and "shoe polish" to any O's fan of the time, and you will get a broad smile), battler for the common fan, a man who recognized that by 1982, Jim Palmer dressed better than he pitched, Hall of Fame manager, and the last great thing about the Baltimore Orioles. Until Peter Fucking Angelos drops.

Wow. What a Fucking DICK.

Meet Alexander (Sasha) Semin. Erratic sometime goal-scorer. Moody European skating fairy who fights like a girl:



Former Washington Capital. Pissy little emo bitch who signed with a division rival.

Fuck you, Sasha Semin. Headhunting in hockey is despicable and wrong, but it'll be worth the 10-game suspension that Ovie will get for destroying your poncy ass the first chance he gets.

Dick.

A Coach I Didn't Hate

Maybe he can regrow the 'stache now that he doesn't have to be all coachy and shit.

You may have noted that I sometimes tend to be a little hard on the coaches of my favored teams. I have herein thrashed, at various times, two DCU coaches, a Caps coach, every Redskins coach ever, a Maryland football coach, and a US Mens National Soccer Team coach. I hate the present Maryland football coach so much I won't even acknowledge that Maryland has a football program, and I'm not much more kind about the incumbent mens' basketball coach, either. There are, in fact, on all my teams and sports about which I can be said to care, precisely three coaches who don't piss me off by simply existing, or at least there were, until about 11:45 AM today. The two that remain are Brenda Frese of the Maryland womens' basketball team, because she's five feet four inches of awesome and snarl and kicking your motherfucking non-Terp ass, and Saint Benny of Olsen, for reasons obvious to anyone who knows dick about me.

Which leads us to 11:45 AM today. I rejoiced the day Dale Hunter was appointed coach of the Washington Capitals, and I have rejoiced even more every single day since about April 2. Dale Hunter, a Caps hero whose number sits in the fucking rafters for reasons best evidenced by the videos accompanying the linked post, turned around a team that hated itself (and with good reason). Dale Hunter took a team that would've never made the playoffs with the fat man at the helm, and made it earn the seventh seed in the playoffs. Dale Hunter was at the helm, in fact, for all of the things I cited here yesterday.

Today was breakdown day for the 2011-2012 Caps, and Dale Hunter chose to go home to his family and his other business interests. There are people who fault him. They're dicks. There are people who fault George McPhee (a consummate hockey management guy), the general manager who hired him knowing that it might be temporary. They're dicks. There are still people who are whinging about their ungrateful point of view that the season was somehow a failure. They're ignorant fucking dicks who should go pay attention to something else.

Dale Hunter salvaged something for the Caps' season; of course, it was the players who salvaged the season, but Hunter's system, Hunter's passion, Hunter's drive, Hunter's will pushed them into salvaging what smelled like an actual failure. It's like I said yesterday; if, by now, nearly 48 hours after game 7, you feel anything other than gratitude toward anyone on the Capitals, you're a fucking piece of shit and you should, seriously, shut the fucking fuck up and go be a fan of something or someone else.

It's breakdown day. There are Capitals I want gone. Dale Hunter was not among them, but like any sane person, I respect his choice and remain grateful that he did us the favor of six months of coaching. Thanks, Dale.

In Which I Am Struck By The Incredible Meanness Of Humans

So the Caps lost to the Rangers last night in game 7 of the second round of the playoffs, and there's a lot of whinging out there, a lot of namecalling, a lot of superiority from people who've never donned ice skates, who've never even paid money to see this team play. Let's review some facts.

The Washington Capitals were the seventh seed in the East Conference bracket. They beat the two seed in seven games, and they took the one seed to seven games. 13 of the 14 games they played were one-goal games.

The Caps were missing a star defenseman, Mike Green, for a third of the season, and their best all-around player, Nick Backstrom, for over half of the season. Backstrom and Green represent something like 20 percent of the Caps' salary structure (together, they are like 8 or 9 percent of the Caps' team). Webtards who ignore these key facts should die, painfully.

The Caps fired their coach in mid-season and hired as coach a retired player who had enjoyed success in one of Canada's minor leagues. He implemented a new and defensive approach to the game that recovered the season and was, more than any other factor, responsible for the Caps' playoff run.

The Caps did not guarantee themselves a playoff place until the penultimate game of the season.

The Caps spent a lot of money on a well-regarded goaltender in the offseason. We haven't seen him in uniform since sometime in March, when he was skating off the ice after one period, having reinjured his aging and ridiculously overpriced vagina.

The Caps' young goaltender (whose vagina is a much better value), who was going to be the man after the team traded  another young goaltender last season, was also hurt for much of March and part of the playoffs.

The Caps went through their last four or five regular-season games, and 14 games of the playoffs, with a rookie goaltender, Braden Holtby, who had fewer than 10 games of previous NHL experience. As I said, 13 of the 14 games were one-goal games. He bested a probable Hall-of-Fame goaltender (Tim Thomas will absolutely make the Hall of Fame of Famous Tea Party Fuckwits, and is probably an even-money chance for the hockey HoF), and nearly bested a goaltender who is a finalist for (and should win) the Vezina Trophy (season's best goalie). Holtby's play was brilliant. He gave up two late goals in what was essentially the keystone game (game 5) when the Caps took a double-minor penalty with under two minutes left in the game. I read one comment suggesting that the entire series loss was Holtby's fault. The person who wrote it should die, painfully.

By the way, Braden Holtby's fiancee gave birth to their first child on Thursday, two days before game 7.

The player who committed the double minor is a forward named Joel Ward. He is black, which is of course a little unusual in hockey. The penalty was unintentional, accidental, but still a legitimate double-minor penalty. Ward scored the game-winning goal in game 7 of the opening series against the Bruins. Certain elements of the Boston fan base flooded social media with racial abuse after that win; some, according to news stories, suffered pretty severe personal consequences as a result. Some Webtards are now blaming the series loss on Joel Ward. Those commenters should die, painfully.

It goes on. If you think the Caps choked, you're really too fucking mean and stupid to live. If you have anything to say to this team (as a whole, and to the 26 guys who played in at least one playoff game) other than "Thank You," just shut the fuck up, then die. Painfully. Preferably on teevee so I can watch and tell you what a lousy job you're doing of it.

And to any Cap who might trip over this: Thanks. Please come back, although if you're Mike Knuble or Roman Hamrlik, I respectfully request that you consider retirement (but thanks for all the fish, Mr. Knuble, you worked out pretty damn well for a former Flyer, and nicely recovered, Mr. Hamrlik); and if you're Dennis Wideman, I don't like you very much and I think you turn the puck over way too fucking much for someone who makes money to play hockey, but thank you very kindly anyway, and congrats on your All-Star selection. Oh yeah, and if you're Tomas Vokoun, please stop reading now. Gone yet? Good. Go steal someone else's money. I'd say fuck you, but since your fitness issues and outright theft of a nontrivial portion of our salary cap allowed us to experience the glory that is Braden Holtby, the best part of politeness and valor demands that I thank you as well.

Let's Go Caps.

Maybe I'm Just Not Objective

I've complained before about the NHL's administration of supplementary discipline. I was pretty sure I had complained, specifically, about the present uberreichsfuhrer's predecessor, who stepped down (was removed) from his post after documentably showing favoritism toward his son, who is a piece of shit, a condition that seems to apply to NHL players named Campbell (and I have erred in the past; the latter is not Colin Campbell's kid). But I digress, and Whispers and fish, I apologize for not warning you about my sudden and entirely provoked assault on a Bruins enemabag, not that those two concepts are severable.

The point, it comes: Brendan Shanahan has relentlessly doled out suspensions to Washington Capitals. I posit that this is because he hates the Capitals, though of course I recognize the likelihood that this is partisan conspiracy theory. As I pointed out in the January post, though, it's pretty objective fact that he treats similar offenses very differently. The Ovechkin/Michalek mashup was classic and damning; Michalek admitted that his offense was revenge-driven, and Ovechkin was, under the NHL's unarguably stupid rules, a redeemed repeat offender. Ovie sat down for three games, Michalek sat for two minutes (literally).

Another example was delivered yesterday. Mike Green of the Caps just completed a 3-game suspension for what was probably a pretty nasty hit on Tampa Bay winger Brett Connolly. You can watch lying cocksucker Shanahan's video on that disciplinary action. The Green hit was uncool, and probably fine-worthy. Shanahan turned it into a deliberate elbowing...of the sort for which he didn't touch Zbynek Michalek, whose elbow was considerably more apparent, more deliberate, and admittedly revenge-driven. You're a fucking pile of shit on a summer sidewalk, Brendan Shanahan.

But that's not even the point. Here's the fucking point:

That's Mark Stuart of the Winnipeg Jets, hammering Marcus Johansson's head into the boards on Friday night. Johansson's helmet came off, and he spent most of a period in the quiet room, being assessed for a concussion. Just like, say, Brett Connolly did. The hit was late--Johansson had disposed of the puck a good two seconds earlier. He was already down when Stuart hit him. This is far more blatant, and far more dangerous, than what Greenie did to Connolly a week earlier. Oh, and a ref was about six feet away, on the unseen right side of the picture; no penalty was called (that's another matter entirely--it's a fast game, but NHL refs are seriously inept and driven by factors not related to game play).

Shanahan's verdict? A $2500 fine.

So yeah, maybe I'm just not objective, and maybe someone out there would like to point out the subjectivity in my assessment of the above photograph (there's probably video of the Comcast feed; I read in a comments thread somewhere that the Jets' feed didn't show a replay, though most Jets fans who commented expressed relief and no small surprise that Stuart didn't get suspended).

I have some suggestions for you, Brendan Shanahan, and I'm moderately troubled because they're fairly similar to my suggestions for middle-aged male state legislators. But I've said before that the best hate is reserved for hockey.

You're a fucking fraud, Brendan Shanahan. I don't know if you're inept, criminal, or both, but it doesn't matter, because you're pretty much just stealing the NHL's money by accepting a salary that you don't deserve. Go the fuck away, you cheating piece of dysenteric shit. Maybe there's a job for someone as stupid and base and fundamentally dishonest as you somewhere, but it's not in administering discipline for the NHL.

Followup Hypotheses Designed Solely To Piss Off My Friends

Exhibit: Tim Thomas.

Monday, makes a flaming unsportsmanlike jackass of himself, letting his team down. Team patiently--and unnecessarily--doesn't fine or otherwise punish him for putting himself above the team by refusing to visit the White House, then spewing batshit fucking crazy excuses on his FB page. But wait!

Tuesday, gets benched in favor of Tuukka Rask, a goalie with a vastly inferior winning percentage against the opponent of the evening (do you even need to ask?). Coach Claude Julien did not give a reason for Thomas' benching, at least not that I could find, though it may well have been part of a normal rotation (Thomas has played about 2 of every 3 games this season) and Rask has a very good save percentage this season.

But let's not let facts get in the way of flagrantly abusing correlation/causation logic. Obviously, Tim Thomas' politics caused the Bruins to lose 5-3, a humiliating defeat for one of the hottest teams in the league, on a night when the Caps' three best players weren't dressed and a midget named Scrappy snagged his first career hat trick.

What more evidence do you need? Hypothesis confirmed, it's a theory. Just like gravity.

A Three-Way Dead Heat for Asshole of the Day

In chronological order (of when I saw each story):

Senator Rand Paul (R-Kentucky and Mars) was not allowed to board his flight at the Nashville airport this morning after he declined a patdown (known in TSA parlance as "secondary screening") to resolve a scanning anomaly. He (and his father) characterized the incident as "detention" and set about making as much noise as they could about it. The noise continued through the day, with nutters claiming he was being illegally arrested en route to Congress (he was heading to a Roe v. Wade anniversary anti-abortion rally in DC), the Pauls repeating the word "detained" to anyone who would listen, and a statement from the Senator implying that white people shouldn't be screened (that wacky, not-at-all racist Paul family!). The capper comes from Sasha, who sent this lovely demonstration of what a total fucking wackjob Senator Paul is: he thinks that TSA has rigged the machines to trigger random false positives to give TSA an excuse to pat people down. Holy fuck, this man is a United States Senator?  Fuck you, Rand Paul.

Next up is Boston Bruins' goalie Tim Thomas. Full disclosure: I make no bones about seriously despising the Bruins. That river runs real deep. However, Thomas declined to join his Stanley Cup champion team in a visit to the White House today, because he hates Obama. Puck Daddy Greg Wyshynski gets it as wrong as it can be gotten, claiming that Thomas shouldn't be demonized because this is a free speech issue. Holy fucking crap, Wyshynski. No one's passing a law restraining Thomas' freedom of speech. They're correctly noting that he's an unAmerican asshole, a shitty team player, and a graceless twat. Of course he's entitled to be all of those things, each of which has the consequence of making him look like a fucking jerk. Wyshynski is an idiot (and a unabashed Devils fanboy); Thomas is, in essence, a fucking traitor--by his own side's standards. Fuck you, Tim Thomas.


Finally, the NHL's uberreichsfuhrer of discipline, Brendan Shanahan. In the Capitals' overtime loss to the Penguins yesterday, Alex Ovechkin crushed the shit out of Pens defenseman Zbynek Michalek, leaving the ice by a few inches to do so. No penalty call (it probably should've been called as boarding, and it's stunning that it wasn't, given that midget bitch referee Kelly Sutherland demonstrably despises the Capitals). About 5 minutes later, Michalek crushed the shit out of Matt Hendricks, not quite leaving the ice to do so, but elbowing Hendricks in the head. Two minutes, elbowing. After the game, Michalek admitted that the penalty call was correct and that his state of mind was such that the infraction was related to the uncalled offense of a few minutes earlier. Ovechkin and Michalek had disciplinary hearings today, with Shanahan the deciderer. Guess who got a three-game suspension and who got no supplementary discipline? Fucking Shanahan even admitted that Ovechkin got slammed because he's a repeat offender--even though, under the NHL's rules for administering supplementary discipline, Ovechkin had accumulated enough good behavior time to be outside of the window for increased supplementary discipline. Fuck you, Brendan Shanahan.

Shorter NBC Sports Ice Hockey Broadcasting Crew

My goodness, the Pittsburgh Penguins' cocks certainly are tasty. Slurp. Yum.

(It's 1-0 Caps at the first intermission, the Pens down on an abysmally dumb turnover by Yevgeni Malkin, whose cock is apparently the yummiest, since poor Cindy Crysby was tragically and brutally struck down in his prime by a Washington Capital, and yet Doc Emrick and Eddie Olczyk still can't shut the fuck up about how fucking primo mega-alpha dominant Malkin is. And don't fucking get me started on that egregious can't-die-hard-enough asshole Mike Milbury. Furthermore, Marc-Andre Fleury has bobbled the puck on easy handles four fucking times, two of which almost resulted in goals, one of which was denied only by the graceless turdery of Alexander Semin, and yet these NBC fucks can't stop picking on Tomas Vokoun--who is wretched and should leave my fucking city on the first stagecoach, but who is playing reasonably well thus far tonight. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck NBC Sports.)

But Wait There's More

If you don't love the Downfall thing, avert your eyes.



Awesome. Wildly misdirected, but really funny. Thanks to beloved friend Purple for sharing.

Jolly Men

So I was going to say that my penchant for calling for the termination with extreme prejudice of chunky sports coaches didn't apply to Bruce Boudreau, but in doing my self-absorbed research for this post, I found that this would be a lie (first paragraph, "this guy" link). Because, you see, I have no idea what I've said and not said on this blog over the last six freakin' years.

I had a conversation with Sasha some while back about why I wanted Dale Hunter to coach the Caps. I had another conversation with her (and Whispers, I think) on Saturday about why I wanted John Tortorella to coach the Caps ("Because you like the way his cock tastes," chimed in Ilse, which is only notable because it's more or less true), completely forgetting the obviously very realistic Hunter option, which is much better. I was momentarily stunned by the gut-punch of Boudreau's firing this morning--the conversation over the weekend focused on why the Caps probably wouldn't fire Boudreau. But that stunned-parrot reflex passed very quickly. Dale Hunter? WOOOOOT!!!!

I was talking earlier to BFF about the visceral impact of this; he won't get it, because he doesn't get hockey, which is okay. This move asks the whole team--which is slumping, badly, and was acting like it didn't want to play for Boudreau any more--if they've got the balls to be as good as they are. While I suspect that the answer is "No," this move is the one that will out the players once and for all. I don't have a lot of deep analysis on this; let's do a simple but effective demonstration here.

Don't Steal The Puck From Dale Hunter, Then Score:

Don't Be A Flyer. Just Don't.:

Don't Be A Flyer, Redux:

The Undisputed Greatest Goal In Caps History (Also: Don't Be The Flyers):

Read the comments on the attack videos for some extra insight into...well, everything.

I have no more words. Go Caps. Fuck the...well, here you go:

Bonus: Landru's Irrelevant Descending Pyramid of Levels of Hockey Hatin' Codified At Last:

1. Montreal Canadiens
2. Boston Bruins
2.5 Whoever We're Playing Tonight, But Then Again:
3. Philadelphia Flyers, New York Rangers, Pittsburgh Penguins, New York Islanders
4. New Jersey Devils; rest of the Southeast Division (Tampa, Carolina, Florida, and Atlanta Winnipeg)
5. Detroit
6. Ottawa and Toronto (Canadian) and Buffalo (Canadian but too chickenshit to admit it)
7. Anaheim (they're fucking Ducks), Dallas (come on), and the Rest Of Canada
8. The Rest of The West (pointless), Except
9. Colorado, beloved of friend Jon; and
10. The Black Hawks, who I hate because they're an Original Six team, but who escape serious hatin' because Ilse's from the Faux Side of Chicago

Zombie Marie Curie

Geeks rock.

That is all.

Update: No it isn't. I haven't said anything about this yet because I'm still fuming, and I recognize that fuming unstoppably about the outcome of any sporting event--even a 7-month season that should've been an 8-month season--is not the mark of a great mind, although it's probably the mark of the level of sophistication you've come to expect of this blog. I even uncharacteristically allowed myself to be diverted for a few days by some sad but good news. So I'll keep it brief³, because there are only a couple of key conclusions here.

1. Someone isn't qualified to discuss this, and I am grateful to him for thus far shutting the fuck up about it. I'll give you two clues; he knows who he is, and he isn't Tony Fucking Kornheiser (although to Kornheiser's limited credit, there is something to be said for tradition).

2. I really hate to say this, a lot, but a few days of brain-chewing hasn't changed my conclusion: Fire Boudreau. I hate it hate it hate it hate it hate it. He seems, by all evidence, a great guy, and he seems to be a good hockey teacher. And I can't even articulate the mechanics of how he's a shitty playoff coach. But he is. Math don't lie. And a 4-0 waffle-stomping in a playoff series, by a team from fucking Florida, coached by the youngest coach in the league and manned by some of the oldest, Frenchest, douchebaggiest shitbirds in the fucking league (and truly, I could easily have gone on linking for a dozen more adjectives, adverbs, and nouns, had I only the energy)¹, is powerful math. Fire Boudreau. This is absolutely not forgivable. It is not acceptable. It is slow, miserable choking canine death, it is an abomination, it is a travesty of a mockery of a sham. Fire Boudreau.

¹ Let me be clear about this, because I don't think you've quite got the picture. I hate hockey teams from south of our own with the blazing, blinding passion of a thousand million white-hot exploding suns, and the hockey team from the south that I hate most of all is the motherfucking, cocksucking, douchetard frogface wetfart motherfucking Tampa Bay motherfucking Lightning, especially those two ass-pirate Frognucks Vinnie LeCavalier and Martin St. Pierre. This was so before this year's playoffs, and it will remain so when the sun has risen and fallen its last, presumably completing a cycle of millions of years of setting upon Stanley Cups won by Hurricanes, Panthers, and Thrashers (but not, I emphasize, by Capitals, because the thing I fear most, yes, the little kernel of fucking fascist fear at the core of my tiny little being, is that I will live another fucking 60 years and not see a fucking Stanley Cup in this fucking city, and do you know what that will make me? Do you know? THAT WILL MAKE ME A MOTHERFUCKING RED SOX FAN², or even worse, a fucking Cubs fan, the Red Sox fans of the new millennium, so just fucking kill me now. Jeebus.).
² And I cannot suggest strongly enough, at this point, that certain of my closest friends refrain from math right now. Yes, you know who you are, too.
³ I lied. Get over it.

Sports Day

All in all, if you told me at the beginning of the day that I could have only one win out of the three sporting events about which I cared enough to watch, I'd probably have chosen the win that I got. But the United win should've been laying there, and it's infuriating that an incompetent little prick gave that win a bloody abortion for reasons that need not advance beyond his own incompetence.

But I rush the game. It all started with a college hockey game. This is a pleasure I don't get to indulge a lot, because most of the college hockey on TV is Western hockey, and the college hockey I like is decidedly Eastern. Once upon a time, John the Daftist taught at RPI, when little boy Landru was but an impressionable tyke of 7 and 8 years old. I was learning to like sports, and hockey at RPI is something you can get real close to. In fact, some of the hockey players were in John's classes, and in their desperation to pass a course taught by a man who only gave multiple choice tests authored by Coyote the Trickster, graded on a rigid curve, young Landru acquired a fine stash of official NCAA sticks and pucks. Every kid has his secret post-bedtime vice (oh, stop); mine was burrowing into the covers in the harsh upstate New York winter and listening to RPI hockey on the radio. They were my first sports heroes.

This led to consequences both fortunate and unfortunate. I didn't understand the nature of loyalty in professional sports, and if I did then, I'd still be a fucking Rangers fan. Good thing, eh? When we moved to the DC area in 1969, I left the Rangers behind and reverted to my family's Pennsylvania roots. Yeah, I was a Flyers fan until 1974. I didn't know any better, and I didn't have an alternative. I get this much credit; I learned early on to hate the fucking Habs, who acquired one of their most famous goalies from another, much hated, ECAC school. A delicious hatred of both the Habs and Cornell continues to spice my life.

Anyway, NCAA hockey didn't start to enjoy the same sort of cable exposure as even Australian rules football until shortly after the millennium, and information was hard to come by before we invented the Internet. I drifted from NCAA hockey, because for a long time it wasn't even on The Ocho, and then when The Ocho and its cousins started to show hockey, they were focused on Big Ten hockey, along with its bastard cousins at Denver, Bemidji State, and various places in the Dakotas. The Web made it possible to find out what's going on, but RPI's been in a lull for a number of years, and it's hard to burrow into the covers and listen to RPI radio on my laptop.

This year, RPI finally made the dance again, after a long absence. They lasted one game, against a powerhouse of a North Dakota team, which had them on size and speed and Canadian Midwesternness. It was a bit of a depressing watch, but a thrill to see the RPI logo on hockey sweaters again, and it's not like I was connected to the Engineers like I used to be. So I can take it like a man.

Yesterday's other hockey event was much more uplifting. You may remember last spring, when the Caps vomited on their own shoes and horked up a 3-1 series lead against the fucking Habs, culminating in two games in which the Caps couldn't get a shot that didn't run into somebody. That, of course, did nothing to diminish the hating. Now, a badly injured Caps team (Ovechkin, Green, and recent acquisition Jason Arnott are all down with injuries), backstopped by rookie wonderkind Braden Holtby (gave up 8 goals over 5 games in his last trip up with the Caps earlier in the month, then gave up 8 goals in 2 games upon his return to Chocotown), shut out the froggy fucks. The Caps are setting a nice pace headed into the playoffs, and it does not look like they're planning to win the fucking President's Trophy again (best overall league record), so they shouldn't have to face that curse. And as much time as I spend bitching about referees (those in Ottawa on Friday night were appalling, allowing a Senator to tomahawk Matt Hendricks in the head, with blood drawn, with no call, and calling Matt Bradley for boarding for a clean but solid hit he administered from the bottom of the faceoff circle, essentially a mathematical impossibility under the rules), I'd be remiss if I didn't note that the Caps certainly had the better of them against the Habs. It was a good thing to see, especially after spending two hours on this.

I'll not pretend that United played particularly well against the Rev. They were missing two key players (Clyde Simms and Jed Zayner) from the win over Columbus last week, and Dax McCarty still looked like a very poor personnel decision, showing absolutely nothing for the second consecutive game. Josh Wolff was, according to Ben Olsen, bothered by a hammy, and didn't look anything like the sneaky little bitch that he is (and was, last week). Joseph Ngwenya continued to be useless, and--brace for this--Shut the Fuck Up Kurt Morsink was one of the most useful players on the field, bodying and mouthing up on The Asshole Shalrie Joseph to the point where Joseph wasn't particularly doing the Rev any good. Overall, the team looked lackluster and reverted to the same Hail Mary bullshit that made last year's offense such a massive display of ineffectual pissantry--long balls to the other team, airy crosses to short men, clueless attempts to retain possession with backs to the goal. Meanwhile, there's absolutely no clue about why DP Branko Boskevic wallows on the pine, but he must've really pissed Benny off somehow.

All of that is true. But it's hard for a team to show any luster in the face of early and awful decisions by yet another incompetent MLS referee. Baldomero Toledo is a run-of-the-mill incompetent MLS referee. He's not corrupt, like Jair Maruffo; he's not a pussy, like Alex Prus; he's not simply biased against particular teams, like Kevin Stott (and it remains to be seen how Stott will treat United now that Jaime Moreno, a player Stott clearly couldn't stand, is gone), and he's not even as overarchingly and consistently incompetent as Terry Vaughn. But he sure had a bad day yesterday, aided by his bench-sideline assistant (the other AR seemed to be fine, or at least not impactful).

Toledo started by missing (with the lino's help) an egregious handball by Zach Schilawski, one that clearly helped the kid score a goal; he unmistakably handled the ball onto his foot before firing it past Pat Onstad from close range. This happened in the eighth minute. BFF often (and correctly--and oh, look, he's got a post up, but he didn't see the second half, which makes no difference whatever in his post, actually, but I do wish he'd fucking quit posting images that obscure his fucking links) makes the point that we can't predict what would or would not have happened had a particular call been or not been made. I often (and correctly) counter, that when such a call or noncall puts a soccer team up by a goal, especially early, that the effect is profound. That's what happened here, especially after Toledo awarded the Rev a penalty for Pat Fucking Phelan jumping into a play at the edge of the 18 with the clear intention of trying to draw a foul from the aforementioned soulless Ginger. That was in the 17th or 18th minute, and the geriatric and hairstyle-impaired Onstad actually got a hand on the penalty kick, but to no avail. Down 2-0.

After that, it doesn't matter much. You've already had it broken off in your ass twice by an incompetent sack of shit. What the fuck are you playing for? Benny made what was probably the right move at halftime, taking out the ailing Wolff and putting in Davies, taking out a defender and adding a midfielder (no comment on the man selected--didn't matter, in the scheme of things). Goff tamely noted of the formation change that "United was exposed in the back and fortunate not to slip into a deeper deficit." Well understated, Goffinho.

And Toledo tried to make amends in the 88th minute, whistling a fucking ridiculous penalty on the Rev on a Ginger free kick into a mad scramble in the box that resulted in Ngwenya and Davies piled on top of Matt Reis, who's gotten certificates of merit for far more egregious and impactful fouls--if, in fact, he even committed a foul in this instance. Toledo blew this moment of evenhandedness a few minutes later by red-carding Dejan Jacovic (who very clearly deserved it for lashing out at Matt Reis, who also deserved a red card and didn't get one).

Just another day in MLS, really, at the bottom of it, and a reminder why it's best not to get too fucking giddy about United's future, but to enjoy the moment for what it is--when it is.

Oh--I can't find a still image, but the line of the night goes to Ilse, and you'll see what she meant if you watch some of the highlights here: "Matt Reis looks like an uncircumsized penis." While I embellished with some fluff about disease and scabrousness (because, you see, I really don't fucking like Matt Fucking Reis), she has the fundamental right of it.

CanadaBlog

This post is about a month and a half overdue, but Ilse took some great pictures, so I wanted to post something (not least because I promised Sasha). I've forgotten a lot of what I intended to write--in fact, I've forgotten a lot of what happened. So you get what you get.

We went to Canadah back in August, taking the long drive up through western Pennsylfuckingvania, through Buffalo, and into the land of our friendly northern neighbors, so polite and shining and worthy full of high lawful good purpose. They really are friendly folk--look at this picture from Niagara Falls, ON:

What a Helpful Country!

I go round and round with Sasha, who usually wants to know what's to hate about a country so peaceful and strong and free and maple-flavoured. Few things save Canadah from a response of "all of it," but Toronto, at least, has some charms, most of them related to food. It's also pretty fucking clean, except for the gum on the sidewalks (why can't people who actually use their litter and recycling bins manage to not spit out their fucking gum on the sidewalk?). In our experience, the food in Toronto, coupled with the ease of getting around on their beautifully functional subway and streetcar system, just barely eclipsed the self-righteousness, the nanny statery, and the awesomely ridiculous projection of broad-shouldered self-reliance from a country that sucks the Queen's dick (and ours, when the profit outweighs the shame).

Niagara Falls is a nightmare. It's like what helpful Canadians expect Americans want from a tourist shithole. That aside, the falls themselves are perfectly cool, as we found on the obligatory boat ride.

American Falls and Bridal Veil Falls, from the Maid of the Mist Docks in Canada

All photos by Ilse, unless we say otherwise. I think I took the beaver shot, though. Movies, too:

Awesome vids shot by Ilse as the boat driver powered up the boat and pointed into the current while we were surrounded by Horseshoe Falls. Brave, brave videography.

Then we went to Toronto. See above. Below: why I hate Canada.

This is a monument to war dead. From the Boer War.

You people think I'm just a mean little fuck who makes up shit like "they suck the Queen's dick." Wrong.

Actual proof that it's all about the Boer War.

See?

Bronzed corpses of Canadians who died in the Boer War.

Okay, that caption's a lie.

So there's a reason we chose Toronto.

A cathedral.

The Hockey HoF is a really cool thing, embedded in a 19th-century Bank of Montreal building, with a big mall/office complex built over and around it. They actually did a pretty good job.

Native Canadian architecture

On the other hand, Canadians are a little odd. But you knew that.

Statue of Canadian children awaiting the short bus in front of the HoF

It really is a cathedral of hockey. I don't mean to overblow this, but I really had to work to not wet myself. This is the dome of the trophy vault, inside the old bank building.

Actual 19th century bank architecture

Fat tourist with bloodied head at shrine of St. Mike Gartner

And above, some guy worships his underrepresented team.

Okay, that's it, because the rest is trophies and stuff. Thanks to Ilse for the photography.

Inflectionlessness Rules

Inflectionlessness Rules

You Thought I Was Kidding

Woe

I Must Henceforth Blog Thusly

I Must Henceforth Blog Thusly