Isles 3, Sens 1 -- You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry

I'm not a bad person. Really, I'm not. I try to be nice. I hold doors open for little old ladies. I'll help somebody pick up that pile of papers they've just dropped, even though they aren't one of those "hot secretary types" who only exist in commercials for men's body wash. Hell, I'll even help get a cat out of a tree (but only if the owner really is of the "hot secretary" persuasion. I have a terrible fear of heights and surprisingly weak ankles). But sometimes....sometimes...ya know? I just...GAH!...I just...get so mad...UGH...ME GET ANGRY!!! COJONES SMASH!! COJONES SMASH ZEBRA MAN!!!

The Highs:

• We now take you live to the Ottawa Primary. Or was that the Kanata Caucus?: I am hereby declaring Five For Smiting as the official party headquarters of the Alfie For MVP Campaign. On a night when everybody else wearing the condom logo came out flatter than my first girlfriend (HEY-YO!! Thank you. I'll be here until Thursday), the Captain was all over the ice. Not content with tying the Islander D in knots for most of the night, he played mean, scored our only goal and crushed 6'6", 245lb Andy Sutton along the side boards. Twice. Sing it with me folks: EM-VEE-PEE!! I fully expect to hear that at the next home game, Sens fans. Vote early, vote often.

• Excuse me sir. I believe I may have removed your spleen: We may have witnessed the birth of a line, the likes of which we've never seen in Ottawa. A genuine, bona fide Crash Line. A line to strike fear into the hearts of lesser mortals throughout the league. I am referring, of course, to Coach P's latest experiment in social engineering, Mike Fisher between Christoph Schubert and Chris Neil. Ho. Lee. Shit. The Islander shaped impressions in the boards, to say nothing of our opponents numerous flinches, cough-ups and just plain "get me the hell off the ice coach!" tell me that this can't possibly be a one-off. Make this happen John.

The Lows:

• I'll take "How To Get One Of Our Best Players Killed" for $500, Alex: Hi Wade. You knew I'd come to see you didn't you? Do you know what they call a pass from a defenceman to one of his forwards who is skating parallel to the blue line, in the middle of the ice, with his head down so as to receive said pass? That's right. It's called a "suicide". Good boy. And do you know WHY they call it such? No? Really? GO ASK JASON, YOU IDIOT!! Jesus Christ! What the fuck man? What, you figured that 6 weeks without Heater wasn't quite challenging enough, so maybe turning Golden Groin into Golden Rutabaga would spice things up a bit? You've been in the league for 802 games! Don't EVER do that again.

• Egads! If only there were some way to deter our opponents from such brutish behaviour: Coach, you've just seen the second of your "big three" go down. You've seen a punk ass Sean Avery wannabe by the name of Freddy Meyer hack, slash, run at and basically maim most of our top talent. What are you going to do now? Here's a hint: stapling Bryan McGratten's ass to the bench for the last 58 minutes of the game is the wrong goddamn answer.

• They all ran after the farmers wife. She cut off their tails with a carving knife: I'm sorry Dan. In a fit of pique brought about by, what to me seemed incredibly baffling, utterly inconsistent and downright incomprehensible officiating (a stick blade across the arm is a hook, but running the goalie and a baseball swing to a prone player's neck is perfectly fine. Got it), I posted that you were an incompetent embarrassment to your chosen profession, and that I wished for your sexual violation by a hydrophobic rodent. I was wrong. I apologize, and I hope you'll forgive me. What I should have said instead was "may you be anally raped by a syphilitic goat". I'm glad we could clear that up and put this whole unpleasant business behind us.

The Creamy Middle: Look, we can bitch about the referees all we want (and boy-howdy, do we want to), but the truth of the matter is, we were never in this game to begin with, The Captain's attempts to carry everyone on his shoulders notwithstanding. Whether it was the hangover from the Detroit game (*sniff*....smells like cop out!) or losing a quarter of our offense to a separated shoulder, to Wade's attempted murder on Golden Groin, this was as bad a stinker as we've seen in a while. If there's an up side to all of this, it's better that we get it out of our system now, than in April. Right? RIGHT?? For the love of God, somebody tell me I'm right!

Up Next: Oh joy of joys, we're in Washington tomorrow night. Hoo-fucking-ray. Sportsnet East again for those of you who a) have access to that, and b) become aroused at the sight of 20 year old Russians handing us our collective ass. Thankfully this is the last time we get to be humiliated by Ovechkin this year, barring the truly frightening possibility of meeting them in the first round. Just leave a twenty on the night stand when your done, please.

Behind Enemy Lines: Japers' Rink, of course. Oddly enough, I wasn't asked for my input on "Why Ottawa will win" this time. Good thing. Uh...ugh...COJONES SMASH KEYBOARD!