Brutal, Putrid, Nauseating, Useless Piles Of Pus Filled Scrotums...Pick One

Jackets 1, Sens...Sweet. Fuck. All.

Dear Bryan,

With the trade deadline approaching and all hope of anything remotely pleasant happening this season, please banish the following wastes of ice time/oxygen to any place where their weak, incompetent, gutless, stick checking asses will suffer the greatest levels of pain and suffering. Like Long Island:

Alexandre Picard
Filip Kuba
Christoph Schubert
Filip Kuba
Either of tonight's officials
Preferably both
Filip Kuba
Alexandre Picard
Carrie Underwood (sorry honey, but you're obviously a distraction)
Whoever you have coaching the power play
Filip Kuba

Creamy middle to follow tomorrow. For now, Sens fans, feel free to drink heavily, refine the list, and, if you're anything like me, go and punch a few nuns.

Jesus Christ...Doesn't anybody know how to play this fucking game???

Slugs 4, Sens 2: You Want Fries With That?

Hey, why is that man jumping up and down like that? And swearing? A lot? Oh...Oh, no. No, no, no! Oh, no! Bad, bad Ruut! Oh, wicked, wicked Ruut! Oh, wicked, bad, naughty, evil Ruut! You are a bad person and must pay the penalty! Naughty, evil, bad Ruut! Lucky for us (but especially for you), you didn't have to pay it last night.

The Highs:

• Is it Giggles Finally Shows Up Night already?: Fantastic job, Jason. You played hard, kept your asshat turnovers (just) below your maximum allowable quota of three, potted a couple of goals and I do believe I even saw a back check or two. Well played. So, looking at the schedule...let's see here. Boston...no, too soon. Rangers? Hmm...doubt it. Carolina? Maybe. Ah! Here it is. Atlanta. See you again on the 14th!
  

• The Bell tolls for thee: Holy crap, Brendan. I didn't know you had the wheels! Everytime I looked up, there you were, jumping up into the rush or banging down low on the cycle. Looks like your little stint in yonder press box has served you well. If you would kindly tell me where the hell THAT Brendan Bell has been for the last three months and promise to bring him back, I'll overlook the fact that the Buffaslugs first goal (15 seconds in) was the direct result of you pissing your pants and coughing up the puck in our own zone rather than take the hit to make the play.
  

The Lows:

• Remember kids, speed kills!: Now, I don't mean to alarm anyone, but our defence is rather, shall we say, disadvantaged in the velocity department. A tad pedantic, if you will (not that this should come as a shock to either of you...*ahem*). But not until I saw the Slugs' speedy little rat fink forwards (hello, Mr. Roy) torch our D to the outside time and time again, or watched GATOR, of all people, get eaten alive by Drew Stafford on Buffalo's second goal, did I come to the full realization of how utterly, brutally, excerably slow we really are. Coincidentally, it was at this point that I also came to the full realization that I'll have to drink more if I'm to survive this season. A lot more.
  

• Nice idea. Execution? Not so much: Mister Neil, front and centre if you please. Here is your pencil. Here is your empty pad of lined paper. You will write this down precisely 1000 times. "I will not kill my own team's 3-on-1 by attempting to goad Andrew Peters into a fight one hundred feet away". Now, into the hallway with you.
  

• Okay, for realz this time: If that great sage and eminent psychopath Mike Tyson has taught us anything, it's that it really isn't sporting to gnaw on an opponent's extremities. In other words, Roto, biting another player is about as chicken shit a move as can be imagined (YA HEARD ME SWEDEN!). By your own admission, there is a line. You crossed it. It is only by the grace of the officials' natural incompetence that you weren't thrown out of the game right then and there. And it is only by the grace of God and Jason's two ensuing goals that you weren't mashed into a bloody pulp by the end of the second. I would invite you to ponder, over the next two games, why exactly I, Senator die hard that I am, wouldn't have minded in the least had that actually happened.
  

The Creamy Middle:

If you ever needed an infuriating example of how unfair it would be to make Coach Craig the fall guy for this pile-of-shit season, this game was it. The boys proved to me what I already knew. We can play with anybody, anyway they want, anytime. But, as has been the case for the last three coaches and twelve freaking months, that only lasted for about ten minutes. With few exceptions, the rest of the game was the same litany of disorganization, bad passes, lazy defensive zone coverage and the general "I look like I'm skating hard but I really can't be bothered to give a rat's ass" we've all become accustomed to. That's not a coaching problem, folks.

Pithy Observations of Questionable Importance:

• Now go away, or I shall taunt you a second time!: Someday, if I can ever sneak past security, I'd like to ask the fans who pay two hundred bucks a ticket to sit in the first row why, exactly, they feel compelled to pound on the glass whenever the players are mucking it up along the boards within their vicinity. Seriously. Do they just want attention, or do they honestly think that by so doing the resulting cacophony will cause visiting forwards to get so distracted that they abandon the puck to the home team? "AAAAH!! He's banging on plexiglass!! And he has...POPCORN!!! AAAAH!"
  

• Be careful. Music leads to dancing. And dancing leads to touching: I'm happy for you, Mike. I really am (you let her wear your pin and varsity jacket?!? Swell!!). But, um...at the risk of being indellicate, I gotta tell ya...considering your performance since you hooked up last March, her abilities as a slumpbuster are in some doubt. Then again, as she is impossibly hot, all is forgiven. And besides, thanks to you, I get to Google pictures like this:

Up Next:

Sweet merciful crap. Our ever so successful road odyssey continues tomorrow night against the Bruins. Not since the days of Orr, Esposito, Cheevers and Park have the Boston bears been this scary good. I'll leave you to ponder the inevitable massacre as I silently curse John Muckler, Zdeno Chara and Peter Chiarelli.

Behind Enemy Lines:

Do you like hockey? Do you like...er...seafood?? If the answer to either of those questions is "YES!" (and why wouldn't it be), then make your way to Stanley Cup of Chowder! Ah...I remember what it was like blogging about a good hockey team. Yeah. Good times.

How Much Is That Doggie In The Window? A Lot Cheaper Than You'd Think

Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen. On behalf of Mr. Mousebat, I would like to welcome you to Mousebat, Follicle, Goosecreature, Ampersand, Spong, Wapcaplet, Looseliver, Vendetta and Prang Auction House and Bordello.

As stated on your invitation, we are here to dispose of the superfluous horseflesh of one Mr. E. Melnyk, entrepreneur, sportsman, equine enthusiast and general bon vivant. Upon satisfactory inspection of the individual lots, you will be invited to place your bids in the space provided below, subject, of course to the stated reserve price*.

Let's get on with it then, shall we? I'm sure we all have better things to do. Like DYI appendectomies, for instance.

Lot #5: Our first item is an exquisite example of the classical Bavarian workhorse. Note the strong thighs, robust upper body, and broad shoulders. Can be skittish if disgruntled, but a firm hand at the whip in combination with a rigidly repetitive training regimen (this particular breed is not noted for its intelligence) will produce a solid addition to any plow team.

Reserve: Third round draft pick.

Lot #12: The only true thoroughbred among this evening's offerings, this gelding has speed to spare. Utterly loyal and completely fearless, his work ethic is beyond reproach and matched only by his baffling inability to accomplish anything despite his willingness to die in the attempt. While he has pulled up lame on occasion, he has never failed to recover...given enough time. All that is required to keep him content is an ample supply of good oats, and sufficient opportunity to distribute Gideon Bibles to inner city orphans.

Reserve: Prospect not born in Russia AND second round draft pick.

Lot #20: Like all Lippenzaners, he is beautiful (note the rippling chest and impressive leg definiton), and highly trainable, given the proper voltage. He is also somewhat delicate. Smaller than most specimens of his breed, his lack of relative size is more than made up for by the grace of his canter. While it is unlikely he will ever fulfill his considerable potential, he would be a fine addition to any stable, if for no other reason than his ability to excite brooding mares.

Reserve: Second round draft pick.

Lot #25: While perhaps not the most magnificent of creatures, this cross breed will surprise and delight any prospective owner. Combining the strength and persistence of the Clydesdale with the stubborness of the North American Jackass, he will require a firm hand to ensure proper behaviour and the patience to instill obedience. A new master must be prepared to repeat training sessions as often as necessary if any behaviour modification is to be achieved. And I mean often. Like, a lot. With much yelling.

Reserve: Third round draft pick AND a younger, less expensive but above all, smarter horse of similar mien and temperment.

Lot #29: Free to a good home.

Reserve: Um...some pucks would be nice. Maybe some tape. OH! And cookies...peanut butter, preferably.

Lots #17 & #45: Our last, and only combined lot of the evening. Whether through some comical miscommunication or gross misrepresentation on the part of the original seller, these two swayback mares were acquired by the Head Groomsman completely by accident. We'll let these two go on the cheap.

Reserve: Please take them. Pretty please?
*All transactions must be finalized no later than March 4th, 2009. Cash, or certified cheque only please. No returns, exchanges or refunds. All sales final.

Hawks 2, Sens 0: Excrement

The effort I've put into this post is in direct proportion to the effort I witnessed on the ice.

And we shall never speak of it again.

Isles 3, Sens 1 -- It's Getting A Little Pitchforky In Here

Please form an orderly line at the registration desk. Note, torches will only be issued upon presentation of valid Standard First Aid and Level C CPR Certification. Also, punch and pie will be served following the burning. Thank you, FFS Management.

The High:

• Please remain on the line. We'll get to you when we're damn good and ready: As I settled into the Man Room and flipped on the tee-vee, I discovered something rather unsettling. Apparently, ExpressVu's satellite had taken it upon itself to scramble my subscription package such that half of my regular channels were either red and locked out (Bell-speak for "You want this channel? Give us more money, bitch!") or, as was the case with three of the four SportsNet channels, had evaporated completely. After thirty-five minutes on hold and another fifteen spent with a very helpful (and LOCAL!!) if somewhat frazzled techie (please, for "Alex"'s sake and the sake of her sanity...switch out your Smart Cards people!), we were back in business. The upshot being, by that point I had missed the first twelve minutes of the first period and therefore remained blissfully ignorant of the general crapitude taking place on the ice.
  

The Lows (Royal Sampler Edition):

• Whew! Good thing we got rid of that Euro-Soft D-man, eh?: Mister Kuba, I watched Mister Meszaros. I swore at Mister Meszaros. And you sir, with your paltry +3 despite your 15 points and the way Trent Hunter beat you like a dead hooker while a foot away from your own crease to score the winner, are exactly like Mister Meszaros.
  

• How dost thou kill me? Let me count the ways: Now The Bryan tells us that we pick on Giggles because it's "fashionable". Let me give you a run down on a few other things which, in some circles, are considered "fashionable". Not making a blind back pass from behind the offensive red line into the slot, when your only supporting player is standing two feet away...also behind the net. Not attempting, while on the power play, to make a pass from behind the offensive red line to the far point...through four defensive sticks. Not taking a hooking call in a tie game, because, as usual, you were caught flat footed by an onrushing forward. But above all, it is most certainly not considered "fashionable" to allow yourself to be beaten to a loose puck, deep in your own zone, when your goalie has been pulled and you have a 6-on-freaking-3 man advantage! In fact, in some circles, that's considered grounds for a public stoning.
  

• Not sure about you guys, but I'd be getting mighty offended: Joe ("Joe"? Really? "JOE?") MacDonald. Michael Leighton. Mike Smith. Jonas Hiller. Craig Anderson. Brent Johnson. Patrick Lalime (Jesus wept...). What do these names have in common? They're all backup goaltenders. They're all backup goaltenders who have started against the Senators this year. Sixteen games played; seven backups have started against us. And the first five listed herein? Totally kicked our ass. Make of this information what you will.
  

• Ladies and gentlemen, the role of Icarus will be played this evening by...: Ryan Shannon. I feel genuinely sorry for Ryan. Brought up from Bingo, his first assignment with the Big Club consisted of trying to decipher the alchemic stylings of that swirling, unpredictable beast known as Danon Heatzza. Only Danon Heatzza is at war with itself and last night, was in no mood to truck with the naive aspirations of a minor leaguer. Then to top it off, Icarus got smoked.
  

• Whew! Good thing we have Cody to...I'm sorry. WHAT??: Other than the inability to score a goal, the butter soft defence and the general fucknuttery that has characterized this train wreck of a season thus far, the one thing that has stood out is our continued, and baffling, habit of having our collective asses handed to us when the going gets dirty. So how does The Bryan address this now that he has a new hole to fill due to Young Master Ryan's unfortunate condition? He calls up...Illya Zubov. Somewhere in the wilds of upstate New York, Cody Bass chews the heads off live trout.
  

Pithy Observation of Questionable Importance:

• You don't know what you got, 'till the Second Assistant To The Third Associate Producer pushes the wrong button: Just as I was reconnected to civilization, that nifty little graphic bar at the top of the screen disappeared for about five minutes. It was just...gone. Over the years, it's become such a natural part of my sports viewing experience that I've long taken it for granted, like screaming at Dan Marouelli or surfing for porn between periods. Its complete absence left me totally discombobulated. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know anything. What's the score?!? How much time is left in the period?!? Where's the out of town scoreboard?!?! For the love of God, SOMEBODY TELL ME WHO IS SPONSORING THE PENALTY KILL?!?!
  

The Creamy Middle:

I am at a complete and utter loss. Just out of curiosity, if we lose to the worst professional hockey team on the face of not only Mother Earth, but also thirty-seven percent of all theoretical planets orbiting Alpha Centauri B...um...what does that make us?

Up Next:

For the first time in recorded history, I'm thankful for HNIC's monopolization of Saturday nights. Tomorrow night, we're off on the road to Rhode Long Island for Suck Bowl II, but thankfully, there is no local television for this one. Beloved will be happy to hear that. I may have frightened her a tad last night, you see.

Who knew you could chew straight through a mattress, box spring, carpet and most of a floorboard and never wake up once?

Notepad Chicken Scratch -- Leafs 3, Sens 2: Worst Senators Team Ever? Discuss.

You wouldn't think so, would you? On paper, we have to be better than the '92-'93 team, right? You remember them. Won 10 games all year. Didn't win a road game until the end of March. They were so bad that the League was convinced they threw the last game of the season for the privilege of taking...*cough*...Alexandre Daigle first overall. Of course, now, everybody knows we weren't good enough to fix games.

So why are the feelings exactly the same? Could it be the ridiculous number of shots we give up? Could it be that once the opposition scores a goal, I'm convinced the game is over because we have NO FUCKING OFFENCE?? Or, could it be we have the slowest, dumbest, softest goddamn defence ever to curse an Ottawa crease? Yeah, mostly that one.

The Creamy Middle to follow tomorrow...as soon as I wash the bile from my mouth. And apropos of nothing...Gator, consider yourself officially on notice.

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.

Notepad Chicken Scratches: Any Other Bright Ideas?

Hey...um...Coach? The drawing board is over there.

Panthers 3, Sens 1. Coach Craig's little experiment leaves us rather underwhelmed. Nice of the boys to front-load the excrement for this one. And Pierre McGuire makes an inordinate amount of homoerotic references. Even for him.

Stay tuned for all this, and more! Coming to you in the next Creamy Middle tomorrow night...ish.

In the meantime, I'll try very hard to resist the urge to feed my Martin Gerber Collectible Voodoo doll into a wood chipper.

Hour Three: In Which Our Hero Hangs A Single Pathetic Thread Of "Excitment" On Jose Theodore

So to wrap up hour three *sob*, the only earth shattering news is...Jose Theodore to the Caps (2yrs/$9M). Whither the Christo-Wall?? TSN (I've given up on trying to get updates from Sportsnet. They may as well be sending smoke signals for all I care) has small notes involving some guys named "Kurt Sauer" (Phoenix), "Mark Eaton" (Pens) and "Andrew Brunette" (Wild), but really...

Curiously, they have yet to acknowledge the Cujo deal on their site. A real deal, or just another tragic case of Cliff Fletcher talking to the office furniture? Discuss amongst yourselves.

Oh...and Bryan? I'd appreciate it if you could hurry it up a little bit. I've got a BBQ to go to in a couple of hours. Thanks.

I, For One, Welcome Our New Avian Overlords

I will mention it here, and only once. We will be paying for that opening "act" for a long, long time. It wasn't bad enough that we are ridiculed league wide as a soft team who hides behind their mother's skirt at the first sign of a playoff belch (and then proceed to prove the peanut gallery right by playing in just that way...but more on that in a bit), but now...well consider the following exchange:

"Hey, Bob! The wife and I are spending some time in Ottawa!"

"Really? Do me a favour will ya? Find out what the deal is with that Pillsbury dough-boy with the leather diaper and the Bissel mop on his head. You know, the one with the stutter."

So as you read the taunting words contained in this, our last (if the Gods are kind to us) missive from our new friend FrankD of PensBurgh.com, keep in mind that, while his strangely homo erotic closings are a bit awkward (yet strangely flattering) we deserve every single searing word. Our egregious sin in the eyes of Man, God and a vast majority of the world's stage directors demands it.

Dear Ottawa's Finest

Please do me a favor - don't kick off Wednesday night's festivities with that scantly clad dropout actor from the movie 300. That was by far one of the cheesiest thing I've ever seen, and I've seen some big cheese. The least you could've done was make sure his audio worked properly.

But I will say - you guys sure can sing. Nice work on the anthem. I'll always admire the dual anthem introduction.

It really looked like you guys wanted to play hockey on Monday night. I mean, you came flying out of the gate like Rosie O'Donnell at a buffet line - for the first third of the game at least. To see the second period start at a scoreless tie really irked me. But I knew the Pens would come around soon enough.

Ottawa, as you may have noticed, score first. Some guy I never heard of. Was that one of your B-Sens call-ups? I'm just curious. In the grand scheme of things it doesn't matter much. Especially since the game's hype was focused around Spezza and Alfreddson playing injured/returning from injury, respectively. Funny thing is, I don't recall their presence on the ice.

I saw Hossa though. Remember when you guys had him? I also saw Crosby and Malone and Talbot. All of these guys hit the board with a point or more. I didn't see your stars do much.

Oh yeah - Spezza got a pity assist.

I could continue rambling, but really what's the point? This debacle and sad excuse for a playoff series ends Wednesday night. Perhaps if you're nice Pitt will hand you one out of pity and shake hands at center ice in Pittsburgh. That'd be a nice playoff image.

Polish off those golf clubs.

One love,
FrankD
Pensburgh.com

Be sure to check in on his site from time to time. I'll be sending him my witty retort shortly. Just as soon as I figure out how to apologize grovel surrender maintain a semblance of dignity.

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.

In Case Of Emergency Pull Goalie

Okay boys, gather 'round. I have something very important to say to all of you and I need your undivided attention. What I'm about to ask of you will require focus, determination and your full commitment to team goals. It won't be easy, but I'm sure you have it in you.

As you know, we currently sit four points out of ninth with three games to go. I think you'll all agree with me that this is an unacceptable situation. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you all should be embarrassed by your collective lack of faith in what we are trying to achieve here. However, we can take some solace in the fact that our fate is still very much in our own hands. Yes, gentlemen, we control our destiny and no one else. It is NOT too late. So I will reiterate our chosen end of season strategy, if only to impress upon you the importance of working together, as one.

You are going to lose those three games. All of them. In spectacular fashion. Ah, ah, ah...I will not truck with your doubts! We CAN do it, no matter the cost! And here's how:

Alfie, Spezz and Heater, you're sitting out. Your regular roster spots will be filled by Timmy Johnson*, the left winger on my nephew's Timbits team, a small block of gouda and the dessicated corpse of One-Eyed Frank McGee who will be controlled from the rafters by the trainers through a series of puppet strings. Think of it as Weekend At Bernie's on ice.

Fish, I want you to wear your skates on the wrong foot. And you will only be allowed to skate backwards. Verms and Cory, you have each been issued new sticks with the curve removed. Oh, and I should also mention that they've been cut to a length of 7 and 3/4 inches. Neiler, you've been enlisted into the French Foreign Legion. Your flight leaves in an hour. Don't bother showering.

Let's see...what have I missed. Oh, right! Gratz, congratulations! You're now the captain. For the next three games, you'll be getting forty-five minutes of ice time, so don't let me down! Kelli (with an i!) has been kind enough to sign up as your centre...er...person. She looks very good in stockings, and her hourly rates are quite reasonable, at least according to her personals ad. Now she is a rookie after all, so you, as the veteran, will need to watch closely for nipple chafe. Or was that vapour lock? Either way, pay attention!

The entire fourth line will now consist of rejected understudies from the Off-Broadway production of Wizard of Oz, The Sequel: Munchkins Revenge. As for you Gerbs, you...um...just keep doing what you've been doing.

There you have it gentlemen. As I told you, just put your faith in me, and you will meet, nay...SURPASS!...those goals which obviously lay so close to your hearts.

But it's more than that, really. I'm a big believer in "TEAM". And don't we owe it to each other to go out as one, as a true "TEAM, after all that we've been through over the past six months? All of the laughter, all of the sweat, blood and...yes...tears? I believe we do. And so should you.

So we stand at the precipice gentlemen. Within our grasp is that for which we have journeyed so far, battled so long.

Three games. That's all I ask. For we are not so different, you and I. Our twin desires are not so incompatible that we cannot weld them together in a mutually beneficial symbiosis of breathtaking simplicity. You will escape the (unpaid) soul crushing grind of post-season play, while we avoid the heart wrenching, and almost certain embarrassment of a first round, four game sweep. I only ask that you trust me. We will all be better for it.

Now get out there and suck!

*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the humiliated.

Leafs 5, Choking Pig Dogs 4 -- Please Pass The Mashed Potatoes. It's Next To The Kick In The Scrotum

I didn't get to see much of this game, so I guess I should be thankful. We sat down at our friends' dinner table just after Alfie's goal to make it 1-0. Before that, the boys were flying around, intent on crushing anyone and anything clad in blue and white and generally making Toskala's life a living hell. So as I tucked into my roast chicken (delicious!) I was positively giddy with the certainty that this game was pretty much done, and we'd once again make the Laffs our bitches, pound Darcy Fucking Tucker into paste and make Paul Maurice cry like a girl.

Um...right. By the time the desert dishes were cleared (chocolate fondue...also delicious!) and I could turn the t.v. on again, it was 4-4. Thirty seconds later, the Leafs score the winner and Bob Cole is (gleefully? Was that glee, Bob? I'm pretty sure it was glee.) telling one and all that the Sens had blown yet another two goal lead. Then I got drunk.

It's a tossup as to whether the nausea, aches, cold sweats, head spins and soul destroying sense of helpless outrage I'm feeling right now are the result of way to much plonk, or that familiar and ever so sickening reaction to losing a fourth straight game to THEM in what amounted to a playoff game two weeks early.

So I'm going to go lay down now. If I'm feeling better in a couple of hours, it was the wine. But I doubt it.

Kings 2, Sens 0 -- Please Follow Directions Printed Below

Step 1. -- Insert season in bowl.

Step 2. -- Activate green flush lever located at upper left.

Step 3. -- Act contrite and apologize profusely to fans, press and team. Insert shoulder shrugs and befuddled head scratching as appropriate.

Step 4. -- Giggle like self-absorbed schoolgirl on way to golf course/summer home/crack dealer.

You played the absolute worst team in the NHL, and quite possibly the worst team in all of hockey. You played the absolute worst team in the NHL who were also starting a rookie goaltender against you. And you couldn't even score, let alone win.

Forget about the division, gentlemen. That goal is no longer attainable. You are now five points out of oblivion. One of the most impressive collection of hockey talent ever assembled is now hell bent on missing the playoffs. And the only reason this will almost certainly happen, is that you just can't bring yourselves to give a shit.

Disgusting. Brutal. Inexcusable. Pathetic. Bastards.

Human Sacrifice! Dogs And Cats, Living Together! Mass Hysteria!

In the latest sign that End Times are upon us, THE COACH (or, as he is henceforth to be known until somebody in the MSM wises up to how craptacular a coach he really is), The Teflon John himself, admits that his grand goaltending strategy may not, on the whole, be working out quite as he had envisioned.

Ray Emery will be the goalie Tuesday when the Senators host the Philadelphia Flyers at Scotiabank Place. It marks the first time since Jan. 24 that coach John Paddock will stray from the 'win-and-you're-in' method of determining his starter.

"I think there are a few different things that go into it, I don't even want to get into," Paddock said of the decision after today's practice.

But wait! There's more! In a stroke of motivational genius, captured by CTV Ottawa's cameras (and quoted here from memory, so forgive me if I paraphrase), Teflon went on to say this at his daily circle jerk press briefing: "They don't like alternating. All they have to do is stop the puck."

Wow. That's some primo stuff there, John. You know, the more I hear you speak, the more I'm convinced that you spend off days in Kindergarten classes, ripping up teddy bears and kicking over sand castles, just to hear the kids cry.

Emery to Get Start Against Flyers [Ottawa Sun]

Please John, Don't Make Me Shove This Someplace Unpleasant

Ray Emery will start after Martin Gerber took the overtime loss vs. the Devils Wednesday night. The "win and you're in" approach doesn't seem to have brought the Senators any closer to a definitive No. 1 goalie.

Paddock didn't sound like he's any closer to a decision on who's No. 1.

John, have I ever mentioned I have a cigar? Yep. I bought it the day after Game 5 of the Finals, the same day I wrote this. And not just any cigar. This puppy cost me close to fifty bucks. The nice gentleman wearing the trench coat assured me personally that this particular Cohiba had been hand rolled betwixt the thighs of a 21 year old Mayan virgin. Even if I hadn't been in such a hurry to get out of that alley, I wouldn't have had it any other way. In fact it was one of the conditions of sale, for this cigar had, and still has, a purpose. This is destined to be my Victory Smoke. This cigar will be lit, and consumed with great pleasure, possibly accompanied by a glass of 40 year old scotch (neat please. I'm no barbarian), when, and only when, Captain MVP takes his lap around the ice holding the Cup aloft. And yet, you want to take that away from me. Why, John? Why?

After what has been an exquisitely shitty week here at Casa De Cojones (the reason I haven't been around much. Sorry Mom), all I want is to watch tonight's game against the Devils, to see if Stillman and Commie have come any closer to gelling with their new team, to watch us finally start to get our shit together. And then you decide to play musical goalies again, starting Rayzor, despite the fact that Pastry was one of the few Senators who had, by all (impossible to verify due to the infuriating lack of television coverage) accounts, a rather good game Wednesday night. And why is that again?

"I don't think it's based on anything specific," he said of his decision to start Emery.

Not based on "anything specific". Hmmm....Another mark of your genius, I suppose. After all, why take a chance on actually letting one of our guys gain some confidence and get hot, if it means proving the increasingly evident fact that you don't have a fucking clue what you're doing.

And so, I can only stare at my cigar as it sits in its custom made humidor, mocking me. Am I destined to smoke it this year? It's looking increasingly unlikely. So, should I just say "Fuck it" and spark it up now? After all, if it doesn't happen this year, I have a feeling it will be quite a long time before we're in the same position and even Mayan virgins can't make anything last forever. I'm close John. So very close. But I think I'll wait a bit longer before completely giving up, John. I'll see how it shakes out. Make no mistake John, it's completely on your head. Besides, Beloved has made it rather clear that I will only smoke it outside and February is really fucking cold.

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.

Montreal Canadiens, Come On Down!! You're The Next Contestants On "Please Kick Our Ass!!"

Apologies to all (Hi Mom!). After a rather crappy Saturday night (see below), Beloved and I spent most of Sunday cleaning house (note to self: Never host a Super Bowl Party again...) and when coupled with an epic Monday hangover (note to self: Hosting Super Bowl Parties means you don't have to drive! WEE! Oh, and HA-HA!! Suck it Belichek!), the result is two post-less days.

That said, I would be remiss if I didn't point out that we'll be hanging out with our fondest interweb compadres, Four Habs Fans for this evening's edition of Ass Rape The Sens. There's fifteen minutes before puck drop as I write this, so I should have just enough time to fetch my ball gag and ask for the safety word.

But one last note before I go, COACH. Dean MacAmmond has just finished an interview on Sportsnet's pre-game show. When asked about his 10 minutes per game ice time and being on the revolving door that has become the fourth line, he said, and I'm quoting directly "Well, it would be nice to play with the same guys all the time. It's easier to build a little chemistry that way." Just sayin'...asshole.

Update: 4-3 Habs final. Despite our valiant heroes' finally deciding to show up in the third period in order to mount a feeble, and futile, comeback from three goals down, we still lost. Our division lead is now down to one point. More tomorrow, but I must say, this was probably the worst game I've ever seen Wade Redden play. Somebody remind me when the trade deadline is again?

Oh...and Jason? Do me a favour? The next time you find yourself deep in your own zone, down by one, less than a minute to play, with our goalie on the bench, try not to get knocked off the puck like a bulimic 12 year old ringette player. Thanks. That'd be GREAT! Fuckstick.

An Open Letter To Bryan Murray: What Part Of "FIRE PADDOCK" Did You Not Understand?

Dear Bryan,

Please come back. Seriously. Get your ass behind that bench. I can't take it anymore. Not to put too fine a point on it, but John Paddock is an arrogant prick who can't be trusted with directing an Atom team through a weekend tournament, let alone an NHL team to a Cup final. And make no mistake, we are expecting nothing less.

We've just lost 4-2 to the Leafs. The Leafs!! Our lead in the division is down to three points. The Habs play tomorrow. We play them twice in the next seven days. We keep this up, and we're looking up at Montreal by this time next week, fourth in the conference, fighting for home ice in the first round.

He's lost the room, Bryan. You know that. Hell, I saw a shot of you tonight on HNIC that proved it, head buried in your hands, face looking like a sunburned shrimp it was so red. They aren't skating, they aren't hitting, they don't know what the hell they're supposed to be doing. The defence is as bad as it has been since the expansion years. I know you weren't here for that, but it wasn't a whole lot of fun, let me assure you.

So, to recap: He can't convince anybody not named "Alfredsson" or "Heatly" to score, his bench management is atrocious, he can't show our guys how to stop the other team from scoring, and he's single handedly destroyed both of our goalies. How much more do you need to see Bryan?

In case you don't quite grasp my point here, FIRE THE FUCKING COACH, BRYAN!!

Bruins 4, Sens 1: I Deride Your Truth Handling Ability

Paddock announced afterward that Ray Emery will start against the Maple Leafs tomorrow at Air Canada Centre. Goalie Martin Gerber, who allowed three goals on seven shots in the first, wasn't great, but didn't seem thrilled when he heard the news that Emery will be between the pipes.

"No comment," said Gerber.

Five For Smiting's crack team of cryptologists has spent all day...most of the afternoon...the last ten minutes poring over Swiss Pastry's interview, teasing the real message out from this statement. Consulting nothing but a WWII Enigma machine, some tea leaves and the evil monkey in our closet, we've decoded Pastry's words in order to discover their real meaning:

Son, we live in a world that has nets. And those nets have to be guarded by men with pads. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Ray Emery? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Nikolai Khabibulin and you curse Martin Gerber. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: That Emery’s implosion, while tragic, probably saved your Cup. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves Cups.

You don't want the truth. Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me in that net. You need me in that net. We use words like honour, code, loyalty...we use these words as the backbone to a life spent defending something. You use 'em as a headline.

I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very goaltending I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it. I'd prefer you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a stick and stand between the posts. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you're entitled to.

Look COACH, I realize that you have to stand by your ego word. But I also want you to know that by doing what you're doing now, neither one of our "goaltenders" will be in any shape to play worth a damn come April and no amount of save-ass press conferences will keep you from wearing it. I'll see to it.

Let Pastry play.

Creamy Middle: Ten minutes. Two turnovers (thanks Jason!...asshat). One bad faceoff. Three goals. Game over. That was this game in a nutshell. For future reference, any time you hear the play-by-play guy scream "And there goes the shutout!" when the losing team scores a (disallowed) goal with nine minutes to go in the first period, you know it's going to be a bad night.

Up Next: After an eternity, the Battle of Ontario resumes at the ACC tomorrow night. Since the Laffs are involved, I'm assuming we're getting the CBC coast-to-coast treatment. Considering how we've been playing lately, and what happened last time, I can only hope that Grapes' semen stains are water soluble.

Behind Enemy Lines (...ish): Be sure to drop in on the other Battle of Ontario for all of your taunting needs. I know I'll be there. Because, you know, I haven't quite been kicked in the nuts often enough.