Habs 5, Sens 3: I See Your Clouston Effect, And Raise You The Suck

Let this be a lesson to you. No one man can possibly stand against a tide of 23 lazy, no skating, no hitting, USELESS bags of dicks determined to incite me to violence.

Hey! Who's up for a bag skate?!?!

Habs 5, Sens 4 (SO): Well, So Much For That

Due to certain dinner commitments, I was only able to see the first and third periods (as much as I begged, Beloved wouldn't allow me to wheel our hosts' television into their formal dining room. Something about "rude" and "idiot"), but judging from the excellent game recap supplied by The Artist Formally Known As Sherry, 'tis probably better that way. Alex Picard has already cost me five stress balls, two remotes and one neighbour so far this season.

The Highs I actually saw:

• Stop that! Stop that! You're not going to do a song while I'm 'ere: Time was that Hab fans would wait until the game was well and truly in hand before breaking into song, and then, only in their own building. It is a sad commentary on the state of the New Habiness that they see no problem a) doing it in an opponent's building and b) doing it with more than eight and a half minutes to go in the third. On behalf of non-Hab hockey fans the world over, I'd like to thank Heater and Fish for delivering a giant Shut The FUCK Up!
  

• Man who catch fly with chopstick accomplish anything: You do very well Brian Grasshopper. But remember...Okay to lose to opponent. Not okay to lose to fear. You fear. You lose. Now I go find chocolate bar with almonds.
  

The Lows I wish I hadn't:

• Are you sure your name isn't Marouelli?: Lord knows we cause enough of our own problems so I try not to single out the officials no matter how incompetent they may be. Hey, it's a tough job, I know. But sometimes... Setting aside the absolute bullshit pair of calls on Giggles and The Captain that set up a Montreal 5-on-3 and the inevitable first goal, I would like it noted for both the record and the attention of Mr. Dennis Larue: Jason Spezza hasn't hit anyone since Little Suzy Brockmeier stole his Spiderman lunch box in the fourth grade. So...um...charging? Really?
  

• Next time, try the hot dog vendor: 1-4 in shootouts this year, 8-21 all time. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result. You have 22 guys on your bench, Coach, and I'd hazard a guess that 80% of them have had a least one breakaway at some point in their hockey lives. How about trying somebody other than 19, 11, 15 or even 20? Seriously, what the hell do you have to lose?
  

Creamy Middle:

Meh. Heater The boys did well to battle back for the point, but did we really expect anything different? As good as Grasshopper has been (brutal, seeing-eye-from-behind-the-red-line Kotstopoulos goal notwithstanding), it's a bit much to ask of a 23 year old rookie with all of four NHL starts under his jockeys to win a shootout for a team going nowhere. But on the upside, while the Sens are still the only team in the League yet to win three straight games, we get to spend the next two days listening to the deluded crow about our "unbeaten streak". That'll be fun, right?
Pithy Observations of Questionable importance:

• He's a real nowhere man, living in his nowhere land: Speaking of Grasshopper, I'd be giving my agent a call if I were him. Four games into his Big League career and he has yet to appear on the Senators official website. And yet, a quick perusal of Bingo's roster leads one to assume that he is now dead to them. The way I see it, there are only two explanations. 1) The Ottawa webmaster has decided, in his or her alcohol induced depression, that it just doesn't fush *hic* fushing matter anymore YOUZE BASHTARDS!! *sob* or 2) Brian is actually asleep on the bus to Peoria and this is all just a dream.
  

• Fetch...the COMFY CHAIR!: Back in days of yore, those crazy fun loving kids who ran the Spanish Inquisition had developed a rather effective way of interrogating heretics, witches, Episcopalians, Republicans and other undesirables. They would make their victims lie in a shallow pit with a board over their chest and pile heavy stones on the board until the cumulative weight either caused the poor bastard to confess his heinous sins or explode (either result was acceptable). What does this have to do with last night? If you were one of the thousands of heretical pigs wearing a Habs jersey at SBP, but had once proudly displayed so much as a pair of socks with The Condom Logo on it...I'd like to speak to you.
  

Up Next:

Tuesday night, at home against Alexander The Great, his sidekick Semin Stain and the ridiculously talented Washington Capitals (7:30, TSN). Here's a fun new game. Drink every time either Gord or Pierre utter the words "secondary scoring". If the Atlanta game is any indication, you won't see the third period.

Behind Enemy Lines:

Greetings to On Frozen Blog. Their subtitle is "A Haven for the Hockey Malnourished". I'll just let that delicious irony wash over you for a little while.

Habs 4, Wankers 0 -- Seriously. WTF Was That??

Ten games. That's how long I've managed to hold on to my vow of being a kinder, gentler, pink and squishy, "Oh the boys are young and need positive reinforcement instead of nasty words" kind of blogger. Ten games. Then you go and cock it all up by letting Chris Higgins (CHRIS HIGGINS!!) make you his prison bitch. Ten. Fucking. Games.

The One, Infinitesimal High:

• Of lipstick wearing pigs: In a shocking turn of events, never before seen in Ottawa, our boys actually turned the usual platitudes ("We just have to work hard!", "We have to be accountable!", "No one is happy about the way we played!", "I LIKE SOUP!") into honest to God results on the ice. Personally, I was astounded. My astonishment would have turned to outright flabbergast had it lasted for more than the middle ten minutes of the first period.
  

The Lows:

• Speaking of which: Hell of a start you got off to, there Jason. Yep, one hell of a start. Nice to see Coach Craig calling you out in public could have an effect. Hard in the corners, threw some hits...even took a run at Koivu. Nice. So tell me, Jason. Did your testicles shrink, or did you just figure you had fulfilled your Man-Up quota for the evening and shut it down for the last two periods? Just curious.
  

• You will feel shame. You will feel shame and beg his forgiveness: Alex Auld played his balls off. Alex Auld single handedly kept this game from becoming an even bigger embarrassment than it eventually was. So maybe, just maybe, you guys can help him out a bit. By that, I mean, your assistance would be appreciated. To further illustrate my point, I shall restate it thusly: GETTING TORCHED ON FEWER THAN FOUR BREAKAWAYS WOULD BE OF SOME FUCKING ASSISTANCE!!
  

• Bus to Binghamton, now departing Gate 1: When that alcohol induced aneurysm, which I have no doubt lies buried deep within my cerebral cortex finally pops like an ass pimple some time around the 21st of February (hey look, we're playing the Habs!), and I droop dead where I sit, the coroner will have no choice but to enter "Alexandre Picard" under Cause Of Death.
  

• If only we had a trio of offensively gifted forwards with which to spark some hope!: Ten minutes to go in the game, down by three. CASH line nowhere to be found. You picked one hell of a game to make a point, Coach.
  

• Somebody needs to stick a cock in his mouth: Shut up, McGuire. Really. Just shut the fuck up. Yes, Jarkko throwing the elbow was dirty. Yes, it was dirty, even though it was on Maxim Lapierre, who ranks just above Darcy Tucker on the International Scale of People Who Should Be Sodomized With A Buick. And, yes, it was deserving of a suspension (which was duly administered). But spending the next five minutes screaming as if we had just witnessed Roto Ruutu tearing the heads from live kittens at centre ice, just makes me want to slam your skull into the glass until the noise stops. So quit it.
  

• The Captain cries because you suck: You made Alfie do this. If I were the rest of you, I'd be thankful it was a pane of plexiglass, and not my neck.
  

Creamy Middle:

Everything you need to know about this game, is perfectly encapsulated in the following:

I heard the names Spezza, Heatley, Alfie, Fisher, and Neil last night. I may have heard "Winchester" once, and Foligno was mentioned when he fell down on the third goal. That's seven forwards. Most teams dress 12. It's not a good sign when almost half of your attackers are invisible. I think Spezza and Fisher each played 45 minutes last night.

The authors of such perfect insight? Four Habs Fans. You know...the opponent.

Up Next:

Tomorrow night, the first in a home-and-home set against the Islanders (7:30pm, SportsNet East). How far have we fallen? Both Gord Miller and his loyal sidekick, Zippy Wondernuts attempted to put our mind at ease by assuring us that the Isles would provide "a more evenly matched test". C'mon guys. That's just mean.

Sens vs. Habs: The Safety Word Is "Banana"

This may not end well.

Remember the good old days...and by "good old days" I mean "almost exactly a year ago"...when the boys would roll into Montreal and the air would be filled with carefully scripted sound bites emanating from the Hab locker room about how they were "looking forward to the challenge"? Or Guy Carbonneau endlessly repeating how the Sens "were a good measuring stick" and "it'll be interesting to see how we stack up against them"? Remember those days? Yeah...good times.

Not sure if you've noticed, but...um...those days are gone. Montreal, reigning Miss Eastern Conference (as elected in the MSM), are coming off a brutal and embarassing loss to *cough* the Laffs and spent the last three days being publically flogged by their own coach. In short, they are not happy campers.

So yeah...buckle up boys.

On the upside, for the first time this season, I once again get to darken the game thread at Four Habs Fans, those purveyors of all that is great and wonderful in the world of pole dancing/hockey fan goodness. Join me, won't you?

No, really. Join me. Please? I get lonely amidst the gloating hordes of conquering opponents.

Habs 3, Sens 0 -- The Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves

Let us step into the Way Back Machine for a moment, shall we? Let us revisit those heady days of November, where all was sweetness and light, sunshine and lollipops.

Now there's been some crazy talk around these here interwebs that this year's Sens team may equal, or even surpass the all time win record set by the 1976 Montreal Canadiens...

...allow me to state the following with neither qualm nor reservation: IT AIN'T GONNA HAPPEN SO EVERYBODY SHOULD JUST CALM THE FUCK DOWN! Thank you. As you were.

We were 13-2 when I wrote that. Two games later, our (four month) long national nightmare began, and now we find ourselves two points out of...GUH!...Leaf land. Coincidence? I'll let A&E's sad descent into low-brow programming decide. But one thing is clear. The Forum ghosts do not take kindly to heirs presumptive stealing their thunder, no matter how helpful you've been to them in the past. And they will punish you. Severely.

I, for one, welcome our new Northeast Division Overlords.

The Highs:

• I'm sorry. You must be new around here: We've lost three in a row, the last two by shut-out, when the pressure to win is higher than it's been at any point this season. We're holding onto a playoff spot by the equivalent of Brian Lee's newly developed pubic hair. Our goaltending sucks moose balls, and our defence is even worse. In short, not a single fucking one.

The Lows! Brought to you by FEMA. At FEMA, we're always ready to say "Ahhh, Screw It! It's Just Too Hard!":

• Well, this is probably as good a place to start as any: We gave one of, if not the, most scary ass power plays in the league six chances, FOUR in the first ten minutes of the game, including one 5-on-3. They scored on two of them (including the aforementioned two man advantage). Now, I'm no rocket surgeon, but glancing at the final score, this would seem to me to be a rather foolish way to go about trying to win a hockey game. But then, I'm just a fan, right? I don't know anything.

• What is this "Homo Erectus" of which you speak?: The net is six feet wide. The cross-bar is four feet off the ice. That's twenty-four square feet (see Ma?!? Can too do the maths!) of empty space a pro goalie has to cover. And if we had a pro goalie, I'm sure that wouldn't be that big a problem. But we don't. We have Zippy the Wonder Ego and Swiss Pastry. I'll cut Pastry (very little) slack on flopping around like a wounded bass on the first goal (it was 5-on-3 after all), but as I so eloquently stated in the FHF game thread following Dandenault's goal over his shoulder to put the Habs up 2-0...STAND UP, FUCKSTICK!

• Get me Kevin Lowe on the phone!: What do you get if you mate a retarded mule with a dead jelly fish? You get the defensive stylings of Wade Redden and Andrej Meszaros. Put them together on the same line, as The Bryan inexplicably kept doing? Worlds collide. While their little contest for Biggest Fuck Up of the Night was cute (in a chew-through-drywall-in-a-boiling-rage kind of way), July 1st can't get here soon enough.

• I could have sworn the schedule said this was a home game: Look, Sens fans. We all know that when either the Habs or Leafs are in town, we can expect a little noise from the visitor's fans. But seriously, would it kill you to at least attempt to drown them out, at least for the benefit of those of us who can't afford the mortgage payment it would take to buy tickets? Everyone who allowed that fucking "OLE!" song to reverberate around SBP (three minutes into the game!) without any kind of retort, should at the very least, hang your heads in shame. Or give your tickets to REAL fans. After all, think of how easy your dash to the parking lot half way through the third period would be if you never actually left the house. Assholes.

Creamy Middle:

This picture was taken in OUR house, and it perfectly summarizes how we played this game. It also serves as a fitting epitaph to this nightmare of a season, don't you think?

Shamelessly pilfered without permission from Four Habs Fans.

Pithy Observation of Absolutely No Importance Whatever:

Just as the third period began, the piercing klaxon of an air horn echoed briefly through the building. I can guarantee that didn't come from a Sens fan. I know our home crowd. And they know the SBP "security" teams. There is no way, on God's green earth, that their usual grossly inflated sense of self-importance would have allowed them to ignore such a brazen violation of the "No Fun" policy. In fact, I'd be surprised if Air Horn Boy made it out of the building alive.

Up Next:

Wouldn't you know it? Our entire season comes down to a late season game against the Laffs. It's as if every single nightmare I've had over the last 16 years has coalesced into one game, a kind of karmic stew from the pits of Hell, with Pat Quinn, Gary Roberts and Darcy Fucking Tucker stirring the pot with empty souls and maniacal laughter (Jesus, I gotta lay off the booze!). Does this mean it'll stop me from shelling out the $10.95 (plus tax) for the Pay Per Screwed feed to watch them putting the shiv in our backs? Not a goddamned chance.

Behind Enemy Lines:

The Battle of Ontario open thread is the only place to be for this one. If we're going to go down in flames, we may as well do our damnedest to take a few Leaf fans with us. Or meet them on the way down. Either one works for me.

Habs 7, Infuriating Bastards 5: The Nye Mets Are My Favourite Squadron

As we're minutes away from choking away our third divisional game in four nights, I don't have time to post a full rant about the pile of excrement we left on the Bell Centre ice last night. Nor, frankly do I have the energy.

Seriously, you would have saved we fans a lot of bewildered grief and anger had you simply come out of the dressing room at the beginning of the third, dumped a jerry can of gasoline over your collective heads and immolated yourselves, Hindu Monk style right there at centre ice. At least that way there would have been some dignity involved.

So which would you prefer, gentlemen? Miss the playoffs altogether, thus joining the 2007 New York Mets as the very symbol of a heavy favourite collapsing down the stretch in a heap of fragile egos and unfulfilled promise, or make the playoffs and lose in the first round, probably by sweep? Please discuss amongst yourselves.

But bear in mind, as you've shown us with your level of play over the last two games, there are no other choices.

Sens 3, Habs 0: Balance Of Universe Restored! Earth Again Rotating On Proper Axis! For Now…

From: The Office of The Ever Righteous Earl of Kanata, Duke of Barbados, His Most Excellent Rich Guy, And All Around Swell Dude, Give It Up For Emperor Eugene.

To: Members, newcomers and general sycophantic hangers-on of the Ottawa Senators Admiration Society of Honourable Gentlepersons.

My Dearest Subjects: Please be advised that the last odiferous stench remaining from the Teflonian Reign of Error has now been eradicated from the general area surrounding ScotiaBank Place. Therefore, the earlier ban on bringing small children, the elderly and most livestock, put in place for precautionary safety reasons, has now been lifted.

Join me in grand celebration of reclaiming that which is rightfully ours, by hoisting one of my $11 beers, won't you?

The Highs:

• Who was that masked man? No, really. Where the hell did he come from?: Lord Gerber, I have no idea what’s in the Kool-Aid The Bryan has been feeding you, but you just keep right on drinking it. This was as sound and solid a positional game as I’ve seen from you, or any goaltender this season. Please, I beg of you, oh Dark One, watch the tape of this game as often as you can between now and the 6^th of April. Now, normally, I try to avoid blowing smoke up anybody’s ass. But as it appears that this is precisely the way to get you to actually play the game properly (plus the fact that the alternative is just too frightening to contemplate) please consider my air compressor and I at your immediate and permanent disposal.

• ♫You take the high road, I’ll take the low, and I’ll be at the end boards, BEFOOOORE ye!♫: THE mantra The Bryan has been preaching since his glorious return has been the K.I.S.S. principle. Keep It Simple Stupid. No more idiotic cross-ice passes when entering the zone, no more dipsy, and certainly, no more doodle. The equation is really quite…er…simple: Chip. Chase. Crash. Get Puck. Score. So, Mr. Komisarek, would you agree that this seems to be working rather well?

• NONE shall pass! And I don’t care if you CAN answer me these questions three: The defensive flip side to that coin, of course, is to keep your opponent as far away from your own net as possible. On the few occasions where a red sweater did try to venture into that sacred territory, he was quickly reminded that our D have since rediscovered their spines and was quickly dispatched to the ice surface, there to flail helplessly while trying to soothe a suddenly very tender tailbone. After a rather long absence, it was nice to see again.

The Lows:

• How’s that back Alfie? I can refer you to a rather good masseuse. Sincerely, Client 9: Please don’t get me wrong Daniel. Seeing you in the line up last night did all of our hearts a world of good. But…um…how to put this…might it be possible that you rushed it a bit? Just askin’. You see, it looked to these thoroughly untrained eyes as if you were labouring a tad. But hey, that could just be the effect of missing five games, right? Sure. No problem. But bear in mind that we need you to be absolutely superhuman in 24 days or so. Coming back too soon for a regular season game, no matter how important it may be, thus risking an aggravation of a lingering injury…well that’s just dumb.

• That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.

Creamy Middle:

We’re back. Allow me to state for the public record, we are fully and completely restored to full operational capability. There’s still an extremely tough 10 games remaining, and we certainly won’t win them all. And because we spent such a long time in the crapper, we may not win the Conference, or even the Division. But I’m okay with that. Why? Easy. “Play to your potential”. It’s all we fans have wanted to see since Christmas and it was Teflon’s failure to persuade, cajole and threaten the team into doing that that got him fired. But now it’s different. If The Bryan can use these last ten games to get the boys playing anywhere near the level they’re capable of playing (and it appears he will), we are truly the Beasts of the East, and it won’t matter who has home ice, or where we play. And the rest of the conference knows that.

Up Next:

A Sunday matinee, spent amongst the magnolias, antebellum plantations and empty seats of Raleigh-Durham as we take on the Hartolina Whaleicanes. 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) and Beloved gets her hubby (that’s me) back for a rare Saturday night of canoodling on the couch rather than hearing me scream at the television from down the hall. We’re still watching Cops though…

Behind Enemy Lines:

Please drop in on Carolina On Ice for all our your tropical depression needs. WufPirate does indeed seem like a nice enough fellow, although his rather irrational enthusiasm surrounding the Corvo trade does make me worry for his sanity a bit.

Habs 4, Sens 3: Well, It Has Finally Come To This: Dear Satan...

Alright, let's consult our handy pocket guide here. First comes Shock and Denial, characterized by disbelief, avoidance, and fear. Check. Next is Anger with its attendant frustration, embarassment and shame. Done and done. And I mean done. Now...let's see here...Yep! There it is. Bargaining. Meh, I wasn't really all that attached to my immortal soul anyway.

The Good:

• Hey, we don't go on strike! We are solidly half-assed: Yes, I know. I'm reaching here, but cut me some slack will ya? I saw some good, spirited hockey from our boys in this game. The legs were going. Actual physical contact made on our opponent. Beating people to loose pucks. And every now and then there was a spark of something...something I can't quite put my finger on. What was that word again? It's been a while... Oh yeah! Emotion! That's what it was! Congratulations gentlemen, for six minutes in the first and most of the third, you almost had me believing you cared. Though, you probably would have been more convincing had you not spent the intervening time shitting yourselves.

• Now witness the firepower of this fully armed and operati--What? Aw, crap. My bad: Proof that Dany Heatley is, in fact, a cyborg has been conclusively proven thusly: He's playing Thursday night against Florida, a full two weeks before he was "scheduled" to be back from a shoulder separation. And:

  Recovering from a hip strain, the captain says he's hopeful to be back for Saturday's home game against the Montreal Canadiens. [Ottawa Sun]

  I promise to sacrifice any number of rubber chickens to make this happen. See? Bar-gain-ing.

The Bad:

• Somebody get Peter Sidorkiewicz on the phone!: Um...not sure you're aware of this Bryan, but we do have goalies in Bingo. No, really! Look it up. Jeff Something-or-Other. A really nice lad, or so I've heard. I might even let him date my sister. And really, what do we have to lose? And THE COACH could have that threesome he's been dreaming about for so long.

• Leeeeavin' On a Jet Plane! Don't Know If I'll Be Back Again...: Thanks Wade. With what was possibly your absolute worst performance in a Senators uniform, you've now replaced Mighty Joe Corvo in the Likeliest Player Wearing A Condom Logo To Get His Ass Traded In The Next Twenty Days Sweepstakes. But I must say, that play in the 2nd where you coughed up the puck on our blue line to Maxim Lapierre, then made up for it by cross checking him only to have the Habs score what would turn out to be the winning goal on the ensuing powerplay? A rare trifecta indeed good sir. Truly inspired. Well played.

• And lo, ye shall know them by their purity of heart...and opposing colours: Until Bryan Smolinski took a penalty for delay of game almost exactly at the half-way point of the second, the Sens hadn't so much as sniffed a power play in a game and a half. Now, I don't want to get off on a conspiratorial rant here, and the way our PP has played, this may have been the next best thing to having the ability to decline penalties, but c'mon. Can anyone honestly tell me that the Toronto Maple Leafs, of ALL teams, actually earned their first penalty free game since the halcyon days of Harold Ballard protecting janitorial child molesters? I'm looking at you Mr. Director of Officiating Stephen Walkom.

Pithy Observations of Questionable Importance:

There was a story on CTV Ottawa's six o'clock newscast earlier tonight that reveled in the adorable fact that a group of 12-13 year old Bantam players were at the Bank, on Big League Ice for a "joint practice" with the Senators. The kids skated drills with them, and got to shoot on what the Sens coaching staff continue to insist on calling "professional goaltending". Awwww...wasn't that great? Yeah, really cute. So tell me, does the fact that the only thing going through my mind as I observed this heart warming scene was "Well, at least they won't beat the crap out of each other in practice this time" make me a bad person?

The Creamy Middle:

If we're looking for a slightly silver suckiness in the suckiest dark cloud that ever sucked, it's that we did show some, albeit small, signs of getting our shit together. A good shift here, some good grunt work there. Sure, it didn't come all at once, and by no means was it a consistent effort, but it was there. At least I think it was. Then again, I might have been drunk. Now, conventional wisdom holds that neither a junkie nor a flailing hockey team will reform themselves until they hit rock bottom. And for my money, hitting rock bottom for this team will come if and when we lose the division lead, which could happen as early as tomorrow night. Of course, there's always that bothersome little tenet that goes something like "The first step to curing a problem..." Bryan, admit it. We have a problem.

Up Next: Once again, we're playing well enough to suck the teats off of a pregnant goat, only to get the Panthers (fresh off an 8-0, "you're my prison bitch now" stomping of the Leafs it should be noted) tomorrow night at the Bank. I know all of my special places are tingling in anticipation of watching three hours of Jacques Martin's tutorial on how to grind any excitement out the sport. That said, it's like any other train wreck...we are powerless to look away.