DAC wrote:
Dewskie wrote:
I was celebrating at my desk at work when Boston forced them to eat a plate of dogshit, and their pussy city began to riot - it was the storybook ending for a bitch-ass team that deserved nothing less than to be a national embarrassment on the highest stage the sport offers.
Love the vitriol!
Happy to provide it. They like to posture as if they're the hockey/Canadian version of the Cubs (pre-Epstein), some charming hard-luck franchise with a cute look and these oh-so-hockey-crazed funs. I give a fuck.
They played with combinations of wimpy embellishment, dirty hits, and enough jerkoffs on the roster to nearly fill a McDonald's PlayPlace. They nearly blow a 3-0 series lead to a pretty pedestrian Blackhawks team that was barely interested in competing up until Bolland and Frolik decided to TryHard the team back into form. If it wasn't for Campoli sloppily spraying the contents of his ass in their own zone, it very well could've caused a larger riot in downtown Vancouver - ahead of schedule, anyway.
Instead the pieces of shit made off like bandits, celebrating like Christ had been reborn and playing "Chelsea Dagger" in a major fuck you move. The Blues were recently guilty of this too when they beat the hollow corpse of the Blackhawks and St. Louis' celebrations made neighbors wonder if area whites were celebrating Ferguson being converted into a Whole Foods/Banana Republic combo, where their custom Cardinals-ified grand wizard cloaks can be made guilt-free.
Anyway, Vancouver instead gets to face the Bruins of the time, which I don't really have a problem with except
Drunk Squirrel wrote:
Yeah.. that was a year of hate cheering. Not so much the sedins for me but the rest of that team. I actually like Marchand that series.
...I fucking hate Marchand. I get that Bolland was essentially the same player (or at least Marchand is the lovechild of Bolland, Shaw, and Burish), but something about Marchand boils my piss with aplomb. Every time I look at Marchand I see an origin story where a rat is rooting through a Southie curbside garbage trough, picking bits of corn and dried vomit out from between piles of broken needles and wet junkie feces, when a vial of ooze is dropped onto him. Over some months, the mutagen eventually forms the hockey equivalent of a Krang disciple; a hunched abomination that lives primarily to pester and annoy the fuck out of opposing teams until some merciful God smites him from the mortal plane.
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When it comes to the Bears, America is just a slobbering shitwagon. Every single opinion of his regarding this team is the most pristine of doomsday horseshit.