A Raised Glass To A Group Of Extraordinary Gentlemen

This has been a rather hectic time at Casa Cojones (hence no Florida/Ottawa Creamy Middle...well, that and it was a pretty dull game), however, I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge our friends at Four Habs Fans for honouring our little wager. Hopefully, loyal readers, you both have been as amused as I have.

And as Every Hab Fan notes in the comments (and HF 29 so succinctly put it here), we will always be united by the fact that we both think the Leafs SUCK! So about the rematch...

Game 8: Sens 4, Habs 3 -- The Highs, The Lows, The Creamy Middle

A watershed moment in the history of our little chucklehut has come to a close, and we were victorious! Let the record show that the foundation of the inevitable takeover of cyberspace by our new Legions began on Thurday, October 18th 2007, launched off the wooden stick of one Jason Spezza! We have, in our hands, the makings of an Empire that will last for an entire week! Okay, maybe three days. A thousand years from now, future archaeologists while digging through the digital detritus of our lost civilization will come across this wager, and gaping with awe and wonder, exclaim: "Wow. These guys really should have gotten a life!"

The Highs:

• Martin Gerber. Grudgingly. My feelings on Swiss Pastry (flaky...get it? Thank you! I'll be here until Tuesday. Please tip your waitress) are well known. I don't trust him, never have trusted him and now that Rayzor's Hummer is back in the player's lot, I'm waiting for Captain Confidence to implode. But, for this game, he was good, with flashes of brilliance.


• Carey Price. This just in: This kid is good. I don't, as a rule, offer kudos to the opposition (I'm small and petty that way), but other than Redden's opening softie, this game could have been a blow out after the first period. On the road, facing the League's best offence would rattle any rookie. But Mr. Price acquitted himself very well. Of course, the Montreal media will eventually drive him to drink and destroy his career, but for now, I'll be magnanimous in victory.


• The crowd. Was it just me, or did the cheers for Montreal sound muted this time? Maybe, just maybe, we're starting to win over some converts from La Belle Province. Or, they just had a harder time getting tickets. Either way, there were definitely fewer Hab fans in attendance than games past. Now, if only we can figure out a way to keep Leaf fans out...

The Lows:

• With apologies to anyone who wasn't watching the local A-Channel Ottawa feed (you lucky, lucky bastards). Please, please PLEASE remove Gord Wilson from the play-by-play booth. He's such a homer, even we, as Sens fans, should cringe. Nothing is ever a Senator's fault. Referees are excoriated for missing calls only he can see. And worst of all, he won't SHUT THE FUCK UP DURING THE PLAY!! As I mentioned in the FHF game thread, Dean Brown is simply embarrassing. Gord Wilson makes me want to gouge my eardrums out with a spork.


• The NHL schedule makers. We played seven games in eleven days to open the season. Now, after tonight's game against the Panthers, we won't see a game until NEXT Saturday. Now I realize that there are many factors that come into play when putting together the season sched, but a week?? Come on. While this makes my Beloved very happy, I personally will hold all of you responsible for every re-run Sex In The City or episode of Men In Trees I will be compelled to watch for the sake of marital harmony over the next seven days.

The Creamy Middle: A lot to like in this one. Foligno's first goal (and Leap for Dad). Heater's breakaway goal to extend his streak. The overall team game was pretty solid too. Oh, and there is, of course, my little wager. Keep your eyes on the FHF front page. Ye be warned, boys: as soon as my Photoshop minions are done concocting a lewd picture involving the Rocket and a goat, you'll be hearing from me. In the meantime, keep your eyes on the FHF front page anyway. Those crazy law talking guys are pretty good.

Up Next: Tonight, against the Florida Panthers, at the Bank. Regional HNIC coverage on this one, so mercifully, Wilson will be put back into his box for another couple of weeks. If the Pussy Cats keep playing the way they have been since the beginning of the year, look for Jacques Martin to raise an eyebrow in uncontrollable rage.

Tonight, On A Very Special Episode

Well, here we are kids. Buckle up. We've seen my wager, and we've seen their response. We've seen my lovingly crafted and, dare I say, brilliant attacks on their most hallowed institutions and management. We've seen their passive-aggressiveness and penchant for pantsless muppets. It's GO TIME!!

Oh, and there's a hockey game on I hear. Habs-Sens, Gerber Baby vs....um...apparently a toddler. Hang out at the game thread with me, and teach them to FEAR THE BEIGE!


Update: Senators 4, Habs 3. We win. I win. What to do, what to do...

A Tale Of One City Part Deux -- Prodigal Sons Need Not Apply

As you may or may not have heard, Four Habs Fans has accepted my wager on the October 18th game between Ottawa and Montreal. In the first of the two installments that made up my little adventure, we discovered that not all members of the Canadiens family are very happy with the direction the team has taken these last few years, as well as possibly unlocking the secret behind the once proud franchise's decent into hitherto unknown and truly historic levels of suckitude since their last Cup win. Today, we examine the deep dark secret hidden in plain sight behind a multiplex. Many Labatt 50 vendors died to bring us this information. Read on...


I looked around the alley, stealing myself against what, I had no idea. I just knew (mostly from the smell...a mix of garbage and wet hockey bag) that it would be unpleasant. But, the Ghosts had sent me here for a reason, so taking a deep breath, I knocked on the tin wall of the shanty.

"Halloo?" came a muffled voice from inside. "Ronald? Is that you? At last?" A girlish giggle followed that, at once endearing and blood curdling. Goosebumps raced up my arms. "Coming! Commmmiiiiiing! Just need to tidy up a bit! Hee-Hee!" I could hear the sound of furniture being moved, the clank of metal, the crash of broken glass ("Callice!") and then the door flew open in a hail of flies and old pizza boxes. The stench was enough to bring tears to my eyes. "I'm ready Ronald! I'm okay now. 'Estie oui! I can pl...wait. You're not Ronald. Um...Are you?" The derelict looked at me with a mixture of hope and suspicion. His matted hair, shot through with gray stood up a crazy angles, which was a nice distraction from the sunken bloodshot eyes and the pepperoni slice held captive in his scraggled nicotine stained beard. His clothes (Habs jersey over tattered jeans) were several stages past filthy and reeked of La Maudite.

"Ah...er...no. No I'm not. Sorry. George sent--"

"The ghosts?? You've seen the ghosts??"

"Um...yes. You see, they--"

"AHA! See Mark??" he shouted over his shoulder. "I'm not fucking crazy! You owe me your rookie card!" He looked back at me. "All of these years, the little bastard has called me crazy. I am NOT crazy! HAH!" Then to prove his point, he pulled down his pants and with jeans around his ankles and junk flapping in the breeze, he did the moonwalk in front of the door. The flies seemed to approve.

"Look, I, um, ah.." I stammered, trying desperately not to look at anything that would scar my memory forever, "I...I gotta go. Thanks for--"

"No, no. Come in, come in. Any friend of George is a friend of ours. Really. I'm Alain. Alain Héroux. You might remember me." He cleared his throat and continued in an uncanny impression of John Ziegler, "With their first pick in the 1982 draft the Montreal Canadiens select Alain Héroux! Rahhhhhhhhh!!! And the crowd goes wild!" A small smile crossed his lips as he stared at a spot over my left shoulder. Eventually, he snapped back to me. "Eh? Alain Héroux? Remember? Yeah. That was fun. Anyway, come in! I'm so rude. Hee-Hee!" Against my better judgment, I followed him through the door. Unlike my host, I didn't skip while I did it.

The place was packed. Not including myself and my new friend, there were six other people crammed into a space that would make a Chinese prisoner claustrophobic. "Introductions! Hee-Hee!" Alain pointed to a bundle of rags curled up in a fetal position on the floor. "Let's see. Friend of George meet Mark Pederson, first rounder, 1986, and who now owes me big!" The bundle grunted his greeting. "And over there is Eric Charron, first round, '88. Some people may have taken Recchi, Amonte or Molginy first that year, but...Qu'est c'que tu va faire, ein? Here we have Lindsay Vallis from 1989. I wouldn't say too much to him." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The next Habs pick that year was Brisebois, and he's still playing. It's a bit of a sore point."

"Anyway" Alain continued, "that's Brent Bilodeau, who like me, never played an NHL game. Then we have David Wilkie. Did you know that the team took a Japanese high schooler that year? Yep. 11th round. And finally, Monsieur Matt Higgins, first round of '96. Say high Matt!" Matt merely grunted and took another swig from his bottle of cooking sherry. "Ah, don't pay no mind to Matt. He's still a little pissed too. Guys drafted after him are still playing. You may have heard of them? Daniel Briere? Zdeno Chara? Tomas Kaberle? I think he's in Toronto."

"Wait, wait", I said. "You guys are all first rounders?"

"Yep", Alain replied.

"And you're all living here?"

"Well yeah. Pretty sweet eh? Ronald said he'd come back you see. He said we'd get another chance. So, we wait. We're happy to wait. HEE-HEE!! Of course, three of us are missing. Dougie Wickenheiser passed to the great practice rink in the sky, may God rest his soul. And Danny Geofrion's daddy came to take him home after a couple of years. I guess Boom Boom didn't think his little boy could hack it. And Andrew Cassels is...um...Hey Mark! Where'd Andy go?" "Food!" came the reply. "Oh yeah, Andrew went out to the pier. YUM! Fish head soup tonight!"

"Look. It was really nice to meet you all", I said, slowly backing toward the door. "Really. I do. But I have to go now. You see, I'm getting ready for this game on Thursday...."

"You from Ottawa, eh? ", David Wilkie asked me.

"Um. Yes."

"Bastards beat us in their first game ever you know. Ruined my whole fucking year."

"Yeah. Er, sorry about that. Anyway, I really have to go. Um...good luck!" And with that I bolted outside. I think I saw Alain lunge for me, but he still had his pants around his feet. Never could skate, I thought as I burst into the back parking lot. I don't think downtown Montreal air had ever smelled so sweet. As I made my way back toward Atwater, a long white limo pulled up, a dapper older gentleman emerging from the back seat, a man I immediately recognized.

"Mr. Corey?" I signaled the gentleman. "I think you have an appointment. Hope you brought some fish heads." And with that, I made my way back down Ste Catherine, a huge smile on my face. Yep, it was good to be a Sens fan. Maybe I'd hit a strip club or two before heading home.

A Tale Of One City -- It Was The Blurst Of Times

As you may or may not have heard, Four Habs Fans has accepted my wager on the October 18th game between Ottawa and Montreal. In order to avoid disorienting my two loyal readers upon my inevitable take over of the FHF front page, I'd like to conduct a tour of a famous Montreal landmark foolishly abandoned by a franchise quick to wrap itself in the musty, moldy trappings of tradition when it suits them. When it doesn't, those trappings lay sadly neglected. Like this landmark. And its denizens. Read on...



As I left the gleaming, yet soulless monument to corporate prostitution known as the Molson Bell Centre and headed north on Drummond Street I came to Ste-Catherine Street, home to the greatest nightlife, the best restaurants and largest concentration of strip clubs per square block, of any city in Canada. I turned left, and started walking. Ignoring the hookers, their pimps, the tantalizing smell of smoked meat, the hookers, and the cops propositioning the hookers, I eventually reach my destination. The corner of Ste-Catherine and Atwater. On the north-east corner of that intersection stood an abortion of metal scafolding and tin siding. Squinting, I could almost imagine the once iconic escalators, lit up to look like crossed hockey sticks. But they were gone now. All that remained of the greatest hockey rink in the world was the name...Forum. And even that had been sold off to the highest bidder, so it now read "Forum Pepsi". As I entered, I was almost knocked over by the smell of popcorn, the clanging of pinball machines and a hyper active seven year old hopped up on cotton candy. I ignored them all. Slipping a twenty to the fat rent-a-cop by the door, I headed to the basement. I had an appointment to keep.

"They made a mistake, you know", the voice said to me as I entered the boiler room. "They took the goddamned hot dog machines, but they left US. A big fucking mistake. And they'll pay for it."

The speaker appeared to me in a grey mist, a moth-eaten Habs jersey convering a skeletal frame, which was apt because he was...well...mostly skeleton. Here was the Chicoutimi Cucumber himself. George Vezina stood before me, and he was pissed.

"Yep. Dumped us like a syphilitic whore." he continued. "Well who the hell do they think won them all of those pretty trophies, eh? Dryden?? Nothing but a high-falootin' little priss with a superiority complex. Had to use a hundred words to make a point normal people could get across in ten. Dryden. BAH! Lafleur?? Sure, he could skate pretty for a communist. Get a haircut girlie man! Roy?? Not fucking likely. They never would have won the Cup in '93 without us. WE were the ones bending the goalposts to keep the pucks out. Do you think ten, TEN! overtime wins in the playoffs just happen? Of course not. So what thanks do we get? They move to a piece of crap rink full of corporate boxes filled with bigshots more interested in making deals than making noise. Christ, we may as well be in Toronto! And they left us here, to watch third rate movies and rattle around in the fucking basement. Just look at what it's done to the Gumper. Look!" He pointed to a disheveled old ghost passed out in the corner, a fifth of vodka standing between his splayed legs. "Poor bastard is reduced to hanging out in bathrooms and scaring the shit out of fifth graders! Four Cups and his reward is to go "BOOGA-BOOGA" during the matinee. Sad."

"So what can I do?", I asked.

"You tell them. You tell them that they will never win shit as long as they play in that god-forsaken rink. No Cups. No Conference titles. They won't even get a sniff of a division lead until they come back here. And even then. We may not be in very cooperative mood even if they do come back."

"Sure. I can do that", I replied.

"And you know what the sad part is?" George went on. "We're not the guys in the worst shape because of Mr. Razor Blade and his merry band. Nope, there's another bunch of guys who are even worse off then us. After all, we're dead. We don't need anything. You want to see the real pain in this soap opera? Head around back, to the alley behind the Forum. You'll see." Vezina let out a sigh and started to fade away. "Go talk to them. And let me know if the Senators need some help come April. It would be nice to see a winner for a change..." And with that he was gone.

As I made my way outside, back through the lobby, past the rent-a-cop (now asleep) and toward the back alley, I couldn't help but wonder what could be worse than seeing a team's legends abandoned for the sake of turning a buck. As I turned the corner, I knew. I knew what could be worse. It was written in crayon on a sign hanging from the door of the tarpaper shack built between two dumpsters:

I knocked on the door, fearing the worst.

To be continued...

Montreal Bloggers Foolishly Stake Reputation On October 18th Habs-Sens Game. Bettman: "What The Hell Is A Blog?"

OTTAWA (SLC) -- In his first public statement since being discovered in flagrente dilicto with Kansas City business man Tim Leiweke, NHL Commissar Gary Bettman announced today that the League would observe with considerable interest wagers being placed in cyberspace between two competing fan sites.

"While it isn't something we, as a league can officially condone", Mr. Bettman said when contacted in a bathroom stall at the Minneapolis International Airport, "we'll be keeping a close eye on it to see if it's something we can leverage in our next round of negotiations with Versus, OLN or any other nascent and obscure television network who may wish to broadcast our exciting product without actually paying us for it".

The Commissar's comments came in the wake of today's announcement that two "blog" sites, Four Habs Fans (Monter Monstrial Montreal) and Five For Smiting (Ottawa) had placed a wager on the October 18th game between the expansion Montreal Canadiens, and the league leading Ottawa Senators. From today's press release:

Terms of the wager were hammered out in an intense negotiation session conducted at a local gentleman's club. It was decided, following numerous breakout sessions with agents from Champagne Consulting, that the winner of that night's game would be permitted to post unedited on the loser's website, "as gloating, irreverent, insulting a post as the writer can muster".

Rumours that one of the founding members of Four Habs Fans had already conceded defeat remain unconfirmed as of this writing. When asked for comment, Canadiens assistant coach Kirk Muller responded "I LIKE SOUP!"