While the rest of the NHL is dealing with the mumps, the Fake Winnipeg Jets seem content to spread moose herpes among themselves. Their brown acid-fueled dreams of making the playoffs (like seriously, do they really think it’ll happen) are in jeopardy because their top defensemen are on IR till at least January. Not even Itchy’s special drugs can help them now.
The Blackhawks had been steamrolling over everyone with the minor speed bump along the way, but hey, this is good. Tonight wasn’t just a speed bump, but a giant gaping pothole that will break an axle and laugh at you. The Blackhawks broke both axles and lost the transmission in this game, for fuck’s sake.
Every time the Hawks play Team Twuntbucket, I want to light things on fire and throw them. If Chris Thorburn or Bryan “I love it when I’m mobbed at the grocery store” Little ignite, so be it.
Marian Hossa was in Pissed Off Beast Mode, scoring the only Blackhawks goal on a breakaway. Unfortunately, Hoss is only one man, and the rest of the team did fuck all to help out.
Happy birthday to Hall of Famer and perpetual drunk Pat Foley. I hope your birthday cake was soaked in Jameson.
How many Fake Jets had points tonight? Who the fuck cares. How many ex-Blackhawks? Same answer. I miss Taters, but Dustin Byfuglien is having his annual Hockey Position Identity Crisis. Andrew Ladd can do the tongue-on-a-cold-metal-post thing with his dick, for all I care.
Johnny Oduya was active on the majority of the Fake Jets’ goals. As in: screened Donald Hutchinson on one, deflected the puck into the net on the second, tried to swat the puck away on another. If anyone deserves to be stapled to the press box, it’s him. I wonder if he’s really a Fake Jets double agent.
Nice of Michal Rozsival to try to amputate Patrick Kane’s foot with the puck. At least Kane still skated, but Ol’ Rozy gave him a nice Christmas present of a huge bruise.
I’m sorry, but the Fake Jets are going to burn out before long, and then they’ll succumb to the Thrashers legacy that they actively try to deny. See that little flash in the corner of your eye, asshole Fake Jets fans? That’s the team’s season dissipation light, and it’s just went into overdrive.
How about this whole damn game? It was like throwing lit bags of dog shit into an already flaming dumpster while someone shoots a flamethrower at it. The entire Blackhawks roster caught a raging case of moose herpes tonight.
Gorilla Salad fought Donald Harrison and got thrown around like Samsonite luggage. Sure did wonders on the game’s momentum, yeap. Assbasket.
After Blake Wheeler’s empty netter, which came after Q pulled Antti Raanta with five minutes left in the third:
Finally, it’s the last night of Hanukkah, and I hope my fellow Jews have had a head banging eight nights. For all the Gentiles, I have a special gift of song. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals.