SomethingSoWrong
Funniness Negates Wrongness
Friday, October 14, 2005
Huh...That's Interesting...

Click to enlarge
Thursday, October 13, 2005



Garth Butcher and Derian Hatcher as a d-pair. Now there's a menacing sounding duo. Butcher and Hatcher. Hatcher and Butcher. Just the names would make an opposing forward pee his little hockey pants if he was told to stand in front of the net. At least they might in the old NHL. Now a defenseman gets 2 minutes for squinting his eyes and taking an aggressive posture.

Daryl Reaugh
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
My Name is Wayne...
The Stars took on Phoenix last night, winning 3-2, so yay. But more important than winning the game, we embarassed The Great One--Wayne Gretzky, who is quickly proving that he's not that great of a coach. Case in point: Last Thursday, the Coyotes played the LA Kings. Coyote Petr Nedved was out injured, so Gretzky decided to replace him in the lineup with Fredrik Sjostrom. Unfortunately, the so-called-Great One didn't include Sjostrom's name on the official lineup card. Kings coach Andy Murray pointed out the violation in the first period to the officials, who ruled Sjostrom was ineligible to play, leaving Phoenix a man short for the rest of the game.

It's simple mistakes like that that makes one question Greatness. Also, that 1-3-0 record so far this season doesn't help. It also doesn't help that I feel like Gretzky owes me money. Why? Because of the crap-tastic chicken wings at his Toronto restaurant. You'd think that, being only a metaphorical hop, skip, jump from Buffalo--birthplace of the buffalo wing right there at the Anchor Bar on Main Street--that they could make decent wings. But they can't. Or at least not on the cool August night I was there. The other food was good, but those wings weren't all that great. I've had better wings out of a bulk bag from Costco. So, yeah, Wayne, you own me $11.95 Canadian.

So what does this mean? Okay, Wayne, you've won one game, but it was against Minnesota and they're already proving to be a bit mediocre this season. Oh sure, they beat Calgary and Florida, but that doesn't mean all that much. I think your hubris is starting to catch up with you--just because you're part-owner of the team and hold a veritable shitload of NHL records doesn't mean you can make yourself coach. In fact, if you don't start improving, I'm hoping that the other owners of the Coyotes will wake up, buy out your share, fire your ass and move the Coyotes back to Winnipeg. Because no city in the Great White North deserves to have an NHL team more than Winnipeg. And they'd get to have their old, groovy logo back:



So where does this leave Gretzky?

Out on the streets, having squandered his money and fame. Perhaps one day, I'll walk into a restaurant and hear something like "Welcome to Ruby Tuesday, my name is Wayne and I'll be your waiter..."

Dammit, Wayne, I want my money back.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
I (Heart) Road Rage


A man was being tailgated by a stressed-out woman on a busy boulevard. Suddenly, the light turned yellow, just in front of him. He did the right thing, stopping at the crosswalk, even though he could have beaten the red light by accelerating through the intersection.

The tailgating woman hit the roof, and the horn, screaming in frustration as she missed her chance to get through the intersection with him. As she was still in mid-rant, she heard a tap on her window and looked up into the face of a very serious police officer pointing a gun at her. The officer ordered her to exit her car with her hands up. He took her to the police station where she was searched, fingerprinted, photographed, and placed in a cell.

After a couple of hours, a policeman approached the cell and opened the door. She was escorted back to the booking desk where the arresting officer was waiting with her personal effects.

He said, "I'm very sorry for this mistake. You see, I pulled up behind your car while you were blowing your horn, flipping the guy off in front of you, and cussing a blue streak at him.

I noticed the 'Choose Life' license plate holder, the 'What Would Jesus Do' bumper sticker, the 'Follow Me to Sunday School' bumper sticker and the chrome-plated Christian fish emblem on the trunk.

Naturally, I assumed you had stolen the car."
Monday, October 10, 2005
Dem's Fightin' Words
Hockey--you can fight on the ice, but not in the stands, the concourses or the ramps. We would've found out if you can fight in the parking lot, but the dick had to get the cops involved.

We arrived at the AAC an hour-and-a-half before the Stars were to take on the former Quebec Nordiques, who are now more popularly known as the Colorado Avalanche. To get us going, 'Shank and I proceeded to drink a six-pack each of Molson Canadian (a good hockey beer, eh?) in the 45 minutes before we wandered into the arena. Nothing gets you in a good mood like an instantaneous stupor.

And here's where I pause in the main story to sidestep to a quick anecdote. You'll appreciate this even more if you're familiar with my "Jelly, jelly, jam" story about the McDonald's in Mississauga, ON. At any rate, I'd decided that I needed a Dallas Stars tuque (aka toque, but the correct spelling is the one I used), so 'Shank and I wandered into the fan shop at the AAC to see what they had. We looked around, finally spotting one behind the counter. So I waited patiently in line before it was my turn. Finally, the girl asked if I needed help and how she might provide it.

"Yeah, can I get a tuque?" I asked.
"Excuse me," she replied.
"A Stars tuque?"
"Huh?"
"A tuque," I said, pointing.
"What?"
"A beanie?"
"Oh..."

Humourous, yes, but not the purpose of this story.

I guess the real start of the whole thing was right at the beginning of the game, when 'Shank had returned from the concession stand with a giant beer for each of us as well as a big bag of salty peanuts. We were eating our peanuts and found ourselves having to lean forward in our seats to see the on-ice action because the motherfu--err...guys in front of us were leaning forward in their seats. If you've ever shelled peanuts while leaning forward in your seat at any kind of arena, then you know that you might inevitably lets some of the shells fall into the seat behind the patron in front of you rather than on the floor. Of course, being the fine, upstanding gentlemen that we are, we apologized for said transgression as well as made a drunken attempt to not do it again.

The game carried on, though at some point, the assh--err...guy in front of 'Shank leaned back in his seat and--horrors--his back briefly touched 'Shank's hands. No big deal, eh? Wrong. At the end of the period, this suddenly became the sort of thing that major international incidents are made of. As we rose to go relieve our quite full and somewhat aching bladders, the cock in front of us stood up, turned around and said something to the effect of "You need to keep your hands to yourself..." or something like that. Personally, I don't really remember, as I had a large amount of beer coursing its way through my veins. I do remember thinking "what a fucking little piece of shit motherfucker" or something along those lines.

As we left the mens room and headed back to our seats, we encountered said fuckface again. And wouldn't you know that cocknose started to run his mouth. Once again, I don't remember the details of what was said, only that it was something about how 'Shank needed to learn to stay in his own seat and that we were dicks or something like that. I do remember calling him a pussy at some point, but who knows?

The game carried on. We started to sober up, but were still buzzed enough that we decided to be obnoxiously loud, just to fuck with the shithead. We yelled loudly. We clapped loudly. We said things like "you know what I really hate? Pussies that complain about your hands being behind them" and shit like that. Tensions were rising. the vas deferens kept turning around and talking shit. At one point, 'Shank asked him "Where are you parked so you we know where to meet you after the game?" to which cunt replied "your mom's house". This caused 'Shank to say "Good, I know where to find you to kick the shit out of you after you finish fucking her".

Things deteriorated from there. In the third period, the cocksucker took a new tactic of standing up, forcing us to stand up to see. We profusely apologized to the people behind us in the last row, and they understood our dilemma, one even offering to go kick the asshole's ass for us. We stood our ground. We were seething with rage. But we weren't going to do anything unless the catamite threw the first punch. We started yelling at the guy to sit down. He yelled back. A bystander tried to intervene, but then sort of acknowledged that he was on our side.

Back-and-forth, the final period was a verbal tug-of-war. A tension filled the air, with no sign of détente to be seen. 'Shank and I decided that we certainly weren't going to do anything, but it'd be fun if we engaged in one last intimidation. With 30 seconds left in the final period, we left our seats, went down the stairs to the bottom of our section near the exit, and waited. As the fans exited, we said goodnight to many of them as they wished us luck, apparently knowing that we might have to do some ass-kicking. We made sure not to make eye contact with the asswipe, but as soon as he passed us, we turned to follow.

And this is where the pussy showed how much of a pussy he really was. As we exited, he motioned over a cop and mouthed "these guys", pointing to us behind him.

Fucker.

The cop stopped us, asked us how we were doing and wanted to know what was going on. We told him our story and he explained that he was only doing his job keeping the peace. Being somewhat of a supporter of the police, I don't have a problem with this. And, mainly, I wanted to avoid a trip to the Lew Sterrett Justice Center. So the cop, while obviously siding with us, and no doubt--had he not been in uniform--willing to let us go about our intimidation, kept us back a bit so the pussy and his pussy friends could leave. So we made small talk with the cop for a couple of minutes before he let us go.

Dammit.

Instead of taking the escalators at the end of a game at the AAC, it's advisedly quicker to take the fire stairs, so that's what we did. As we went down the stairs, people from our seating section asked how it went. We explained the cop and whatnot. They seemed sad for us. I remarked to 'Shank how it'd be funny if we went out the door at the bottom of the stairs and ran into the motherfucker.

We did.

We laughed. But--and here's the part that kept us from getting a trip to Lew Sterrett--we just watched him and his friends walk by.

Oh, we were still enraged, but we're also--for the most part--law-abiding. Mostly.

But goddamn I hope the cock has season tickets.