Canes 5, Sens 1: Mr. Cojones? My Name Is Joe, And I'll Be Your Waiter This Evening.

Uh-Oh Corvo gets his (presumably) long awaited chance to prove to us that shipping his sorry ass out of town on a freight train was the wrong thing to do (um…the smart money says he won’t)

Some dumbass idiot wrote this on his "weblog" (I'm told this is some new fangled "internet" thingy) about "hockey" a couple of days ago. If you listen closely you can almost here the dessicated corpse of Edgar Allen Poe laughing his bony ass off. Mmmm...finger lickin' good!

The Singular High:

• ♫We only live to kiss your ass...From here on in it's easy street...♫: Mr. Gerber, please rest assured that under no circumstances should you feel the least bit responsible for anything that transpired today. Not at all. Not one iota. Really, your conscience should be absolutely clear. The final shot count (42-17 Canes) demands it. Do you feel better? Do you? You do? That's great. If you need me, or my EgoStroke-a-Matic, I'll be over in the corner, sacrificing rubber chickens to the minor deity that is your fragile psyche. Our Cup shot depends on it.
  

The Lows:

• Irony? Karma? Comeuppance? Comeuppance. Ah, le mot juste!: If Uh-Oh's hat trick wasn't bad enough, even Patty Eaves had to get into the act and spit in our eye with the Canes' first goal. C'mon Patrick, I thought we were cool. I thought we were friends. I didn't want to see you go, and I said so. And this is how you repay our loyalty... Sorry Pat, but I think its time we see other people.

• Five guys on the ice? Well that's just weird: Options for The Bryan: a) teach players that one is less likely to be forced into a couple...several...okay, TEN cheap hook, hold, trip or interference calls if one is in actual motion when encountering an onrushing opponent, or b) just send players to the penalty box every two minutes on a rotational basis while conceding 4 power play goals right from the outset. Come to think of it, this one might be easier.

• The only thing missing was the orange plastic puck: As a nine year old veteran of two, count 'em TWO seasons of tyke hockey under my belt, I thought floor hockey was the dumbest thing in the world. No positional play, nobody knowing what the hell they were doing, just twenty kids rushing into a corner of the gym, falling all over themselves, cheap plastic sticks flailing everywhere until the "puck" squirted out of the pile into the opposite corner, whereupon the mob would go screaming across the floor, only to repeat the process. I hated it. Amateurs, I thought. That probably explains my rather visceral reaction to the way the Sens played this game.

Creamy Middle:

No big mystery here, kids, this was an absolute stinker. Everything we've been in the last three wins, everything we were on Thursday night against Montreal, disappeared. We couldn't chip. We couldn't chase. Hell, we could barely shoot. We didn't hit. We didn't skate. And we sure as hell didn't work. While I'm not overly concerned just yet, what we saw today was a bit of a relapse into the bad habits developed under Teflon's reign and with 9 games left until Go Time, it must be nipped in the bud. Now. With four days until our next game, I have a feeling The Bryan will be pulling out the old Bag Skate manual. Good on him, I say. Last one to puke gets the message.

Up Next:

We're at home in our last non-divisional game of the season, against the Loch Ness Monster of the NHL, the St. Louis Blues. Until you actually see them in the flesh, you're not entirely convinced they exist.

Behind Enemy Lines:

They're prolific. They're passionate. They're hotlinked to MYFO. And they're hilarious. They are St. Louis Game Time. Anybody who puts "Fucking Detroit Since 2005" in their Title layout, is a friend of mine.