I’m sure you’ve seen that the Fake Jets are doing well in spite of my nightly voodoo doll spearings. You know how I love to spork the Fake Jets. It’s like a comforting blanket and a hot cup of tea when you’re feeling like death. It’s uplifting. Their success won’t stop me. In fact, I’ll still point out that Ondrej Pavelec has a contract that would make mimes laugh out loud.
Tonight was the last time the Fake Jets will infect the United Center with their illicit drugs from sketchy sources and myriad combination of diseases this season. Did you know that they replace their Gatorade with an Everclear and moose piss cocktail? They think it makes them invincible. I guess they slipped the same cocktail into the Blackhawks’ water bottles, because they fell apart like a cheap toy from the dirty old dollar store. Aside from a slobberknocker of a first period and OMGHEFINALLYSCOREDHISFIRSTGOAL, this game was shit.
Let’s get it on.
Teuvo. Motherfucking. Teravainen. The kid on fire tonight with a fuckton of chances, and he got his first goal to pull the Hawks within one. And not only was that a beautiful fucking goal, it came off a pass from Michal Rozsival, of all people. Blackhawks Twitter creamed their collective pants. I screamed and scared the cats and I give no fucks. We will remember this day with tears in our eyes when people ask “Where were you when Teuvo scored his first goal?” I saw it, man. It was glorious.
So Anthony Peluso can eat a giant bag of moose dicks. I don’t know what’s worse, him going after Ronald E. Pickle, or Pickle folding like a withered slice on a McDonalds hamburger.
Everyone sticks up for Patrick Kane when they think he’s been wronged, and then dumb shit happens. Case in point: Brent Seabrook didn’t like the clean hit Jim Slater put on Kane, so he decided to slash him and got tossed around. Nice jorb, no nachos for you.
Donald Rundblad felt the wrath of Q after his turnover that led to the Fake Jets’ goal. Which means he was stapled to the bench for the first period. No dumbass deed goes unpunished.
That embellishment penalty on Bickell? To quote our fearless robot captain, it was a fucking horseshit fucking call.
Speaking of dumbass deeds, raise your hand if you were genuinely surprised by Gorilla Salad’s display of ass nuggetry. Yeah, me neither. Shmegegge.
They let Chris Thorburn and his nose score, and I had no alcohol to deal with that.
I am thoroughly sick and tired of everyone riding the collective dick of the Fake Jets. “They’re so good right now! They’ll make the playoffs!” And you know what will happen? They’ll match up with a really good team that will either sweep them to death and beyond or toy with them, like when my cat Sam kills a mouse and then spends half an hour tossing it into the air and watching it plop down wherever repeatedly.
You know what? Step away from Itchy’s blue meth. Things will only go downhill from here if you don’t.
The next time these two teams meet, it’ll be in Hellhole, Manitoba. Warm up those middle fingers and be ready to launch them quicker than you can say TRUE NORTH.