Our Gods Are Vengeful. And Getting Increasingly Annoyed

It has been said (or if not, it sure as hell should have been said) that prayer is the last refuge of the desperate. Well, brothers and sisters, as we survey the landscape into which our heroes have wandered, I’d say that pretty much sums it up. Consider: Mired in a six game losing streak, the longest such streak since the Pre-Playoff Dark Ages (um…that would be pre-’96 if your just joining us). A-Train, Destroyer of Shooting Lanes, Devourer of Pucks is on the shelf for a month. On-ice competitions, run on a game-by-game basis, amongst the rest of the team for the “Biggest Fuck Up” award. Most baffling of all, Swiss Pastry has yet to be traded for some competence and a sweaty gym sock to be named later. And so, amidst so much inexplicable darkness we have no choice but to pray.

But to whom do we turn in our hour of need? God? Allah? Jehovah? In the spirit of tolerance and understanding cults with money religions the world over have taught us, I say to you: Don’t be a fucking idiot. That’s only ONE deity. All three are pretty much the same Bearded Old Dude wearing different funny hats (or as my RC upbringing taught me between inappropriate touches…our “Good God” funny hat, and two “You Will All Suffer Eternal Hellfire You Heretical Bastards” funny hats), and He’s a tad busy, what with all the death, war, famine and pestilence to look after. No, if we’re going to make it worth our while to beseech a higher power, we’re rolling old school. We’re going Roman.

Why Roman? Well, aside from the obvious ties to team themes (I still say they should feed some Christians to Spartacat between periods. What?? Oh, like three hundred 8yr old Timbit players falling all over the ice is better?? The potential violence alone should scare the crap out of you), it’s pretty safe to assume that you don’t conquer 90% of the known world, run an empire, and lay the bedrock for Western Civilization without some pretty bad-ass help. Well, those crazy kids (the Romans, not the Timbits) had that, and plenty of it. 259 Bad Asses to be exact, 28 of which were classified as “Major” deities.

We’ll leave the important gods alone for now. After all, things aren’t that bad. I mean, we’re not the Leafs or anything. For now, we’ll go with these six, with a proviso that more will be added as required.

Ahem…OHHH Gods Of Rome Randomly Chosen From A List! You’re all SO really big! Gosh, we’re all really impressed down here, I’ll tell you! We, humble mortals beseech you, hear our prayers:

• Hercules, God Of Strength, grant us the fortitude necessary to restrain ourselves from running Swiss Pastry out of town on a rail with orders never to return. Or, conversely, grant us the strength to throw his overpaid, underachieving ass into the Rideau canal the next time he sucks the tits off a goat.

• Angerona, Goddess who relieves men from pain and sorrow, grant A-Train a speedy, and complete recovery! Um…in time for the next Leaf game would be great, but it’s not, you know, like, mandatory. Thanks.

• Felicitas, Goddess of Good Fortune, please bestow your blessings on Heater, Kelly, Alfie and Verms, so that they may know, once again, the sweet feeling of hitting the inside of the post for a change.

• Providentia, Goddess of Forethought, we beg you to watch over Golden Groin and grant him the wisdom and knowledge necessary to avoid bad turnovers in our end. Trust us when we say we’ve tried. Seriously. You’re our last hope. Failing that, please send sharp pains through his colon every time he does it.

• Nodulus, God Who Makes Knots In Stalks Of Wheat! You are included here simply because I think your job description is hilarious. Moving on.

• Nemesis, Goddess of Revenge, we ask that you smite our divisional enemies by the vilest of means, so that they may once again tremble before us, thus restoring order to the universe. A little extra effort in Toronto would be appreciated.

• And finally, to you Verminus, God of Cattle Worms. See above. Did I mention Nemesis is a woman? I foresee beautiful music for the two of you. Your kids might be a little unpopular though.

Well, that should just about cover it for tonight’s Tampa Bay game. We'll see how that works. And let this be a warning to the rest of the league. We’ve got 253 more in our pocket, and we’re not afraid of using them. Don’t make me go Jupiter on your asses.

Game 23: Isles 3, Sens 2 (SO) – The Creamy Middle, Drive For Five Edition

Yes…well…*cough*…That should just about take care of those pesky 76-77 Hab comparisons. And now that that’s out of the way, any chance we can get back to playing hockey now boys? Any at all? That would be great, thanks.

The Highs:

• Waddya say now, Miss Don’t-Find-Me-Sexually-Attractive-Anymore??: Andrej Meszaros launches his reign of terror against league goalies by doubling his productivity! And he was one OT swing-and-a-miss into an empty net away from being declared a living god and having numerous barber shops erected in his honour.

• SPEZZOR SMASH!: Quick question for you Ray. When you saw the Isles break out on a 2-on-1 late in the 3^rd period of a tie game and then noticed that Golden Groin was the last guy back on D, did you pee yourself just a little bit? Really? Yeah, me too.

• SwissAir Flight 29, now boarding at Gate 1: A solid performance, with occasional flashes of brilliance by Master Emery, means that the title of “Senator Goalie Most Likely To Be Traded (and the commemorative albatross figurine that goes along with it) is firmly back in the trembling hands of Swiss Pastry. This, of course, is subject to review. Daily.

Lows:

• I too have been violated by the cold, cold finger of injustice: I don’t think I’m overstating things when I say that Mick McGeough is the absolute epitome of the worst sports official in the history of everything ever. First, the “goaltender interference” call that waived off Randy’s goal was shite of the highest magnitude. Replays clearly show Vermette being shoved into DePietro from behind (and, while I’m at it Healy, just shut the fuck up with the “he didn’t get out of the way fast enough” bullshit. We all know you’re auditioning to be Peddie’s new lap dog. TSN should really just fire your ass. If not for conflict of interest, then how about for being galactically stupid.) Then, phantom hooks and holds that were called in the first, suddenly disappeared for a period and a half until the game had degenerated to one of those pre-lockout rodeos we all remember so fondly. And finally, just as suddenly he couldn’t keep the damn whistle out of his mouth. 4-on-3s in overtime! What fun! At least we were granted the small solace of seeing him almost fall on his ass on the way to the scorer’s table.

• C-O-R-V-O! C-O-R-V-O! And CORVO was his NAME-O!: I’ll say this for you Joe. You seemed to be all over the ice last night. Yes, I have to say, we certainly noticed you. Mostly because you were usually in the wrong goddamned place. Bad breakout passes. Whiffed shots. Dumb giveaways. Numerous rather ill-advised pinches. In other words, exactly what we want from our two million dollar defencemen. Look, we already told you, your cab for the airport will be here on February 26^th. Um…until then, do me a small favour will you? Can you go stand over in that corner like a good boy? Thanks. Oh, and one more thing. Don’t. Touch. Anything.

Creamy Middle:

While certainly not the result we were looking for, all-in-all, not a bad effort. At least there were some signs of life this time, ahem, as opposed to a game not so long ago against a certain dysfunctional expansion team from Southern Ontario. This too shall pass Sens fans. Hold on to that thought. By June, we will be looking back on this little rough patch and laugh at the depths of our own panic. Right? Right?!?! OH DEAR GOD, TELL ME I’M RIGHT!!!

Up Next:

Er...Nashville. A which ended about an hour ago. Thanks to the magic of brutal traffic and an immediate dinner engagement a la familgia, I got home just in time to watch Swiss Pastry give up the winning goal to the Preds 27 seconds after we tied it with the extra man, but before posting this little missive (written earlier this afternoon). Five in a row. Lost. Believe me when I tell you, my mind has already written half of my next post. Just a hint, but goaltending, and why Gerber Baby should be shipped out of town on the next express train to Palukaville might figure rather prominently. Then again, it may just be the seething cauldron of disgust talking.