Panthers 3, Sens 1: Urge To Kill...Rising...

Coach Craig crafts Friday night's lines. Not seen? The pitchfork wielding mob.

Okay...deep breaths. I won't swing the rant stick. Not this early. This is, after all, still October. Hell, we've only played five games. And as much as some of my most favoured interweb scribbling colleagues seem to enjoy it, I'll give things a little time to settle down. So, no. I won't swing the rant stick. But I sure as shit know where it is...Coach.

The Highs:

• You know what? Fuck it! You don't deserve it: I could mention the fact that Fish actually played like Fish and if not for a few sticks and skates, may have actually scored. Buy I won't. I could mention that for only the second time this season, we actually out shot an opponent over an entire game, despite getting only three (THREE!) pucks to the net in the first. But I won't. I could laud the play of Schubie Doo, and lament the fact that it took Coach Craig this long to get him back into the lineup. But I won't. And I could also mention that our PK is clicking along at a ridiculous 92%, good for fifth in the League, having given up a scant 2 goals in 25 kills. But I won't do that either. And do you know why I won't mention any of those things? Well, because...now listen closely boys, because...you know, I'm not sure you noticed but...we...LOST THE FUCKING GAME! THAT'S WHY!
  

The Lows:

• You are now officially dead to me: Goodbye Martin. I've had it with you. I'm not even going to bother sugaring it up with cutesy nicknames. Get out...Martin. We made excuses after you folded under pressure and lost your starting job two years ago. Easy to do after Rayzor stepped in and we went to the Finals. We made excuses after you folded under pressure last year. "It was the distractions", we said. No more excuses. Go away. Take the $7M you've sucked out of the organization, and go...oh, I don't know...stuff eclairs with your shrivelled dick for all I care.

• Those who do not learn from history, are destined to repeat it. I read that somewhere once: The Bryan tried it. It didn't work. Teflon tried it. It didn't work. The Bryan tried it again. It didn't work. So, Coach Craig...after observing your team spend the first twenty-five minutes playing like a fourth grade floor hockey team, replete with flailing sticks, missed assignments and passes to nobody, think you'd like to try it again? Here's a hint: Put 'em back together and let your boss figure out how to fix this mess.

• About that whole "harder to play against" thing...: We were promised. We were promised a new, pain-in-the-ass, hard as nails, opposing-forwards-shitting-their-pants-as-they-go-to-the-net defence. I look forward to that defence actually showing up.

Pithy Observation Of Questionable Importance:

Wait, what?: Ladies and gentlemen, I submit to you the following exchange between the TSN broadcast crew:

Pierre McGuire: "I've seen Zednik in his undergarments. That scar is nasty!"
Gord Miller: "Again, you're talking about players in their undergarments."
McGure: "What can I say? I have good taste."

Considering this started around a discussion of the scar on Richard Zednik's neck...make of it what you will.

Creamy Middle:

Our "#1" goaltender blows moose cock. The D is slow and as soft and offensively anemic as it's ever been. And other than 11, 19 and 15, we've got nothing on the front end. On the upside, we all have a front row seat to the inevitable, nail biting dogfight that will be the "race" for eighth place in the conference. I'm sure that our eventual first round sodomizing at the hands of Montreal or Pittsburgh, will make the agony of the next five months all worth it. Yeah. No problem.

Up Next:

Tomorrow night, the Anaheim No Longer Mighty Ducks come to the Bank (7:00pm, SportsNet East). Fortunately, tomorrow night is also the tenth anniversary of Beloved foolishly agreeing to be my wife, so I'm probably going to miss this. That said, I'm willing to guarantee I'll have a better night, no matter what happens on the ice.

Behind Enemy Lines:

The one, the only, Battle of California. Brilliant. Insightful. And best of all, they sound more desperately hopeless than I do. But not by much.