Trust the Gordon's Fisherman

Okay. So this is long overdue. But here's my response to Dr. SlapChicken's diagnosis of the upcoming NHL season, otherwise known as the 2nd to last NHL season. And by the picture above, I'm sure you've already gathered that I'm going to be uber-immature about this.

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The Islanders suck.

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Let me repeat that: the NEW YORK ISLANDERS suck. In a way, they have always sucked, even when they were romping the league in the early 1980's. For they are the Islanders, and lo' was it written, in the sacred texts handed down by Jehovah "engraving" His Word upon the Holy Ice with his mildly-warm and highly-acidic golden stream of omnipotence. And yey, the Words upon the Ice read: "Thou shalt never charge more than $16 for shitty seats." (A Commandment which was immediately off-set by "Thou shalt charge $7.50 for a Heineken whilst claiming it to be an 'Exotic Beer'").

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However, NO MATTER how badly the Isles suck, nor how many games the Rangers defeat them in by scores that resemble those of an NBA team playing against 6 avocadoes, they will never, ever, EVER...........and the Rock means: EVER! suck as badly as the Rangers do in their dark and lonely souls. And though the Devils will always be worse, and the nigh-unmentionable Flyers will trump even the aforementioned fanless Stanley Cup-factory, the Rangers will always, ALL-VAYS, be worth just about as much as a smudge of fecal matter on the tip of a nuclear ICBM about 3 seconds before airburst over Haiphong.

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And, as my aqua-luminescent* colleague noted earlier, spending the gross domestic product of France on acquring new players is not necessarily a good idea. Unless you wear pinstripes on your jersey. And even then it works about half of the time......... plus you have to be playing baseball...... And that just sucks period.

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Ok, I lost my train of thought. But the crux of it is this: the sole purpose of the upcoming hockey season is to fulfill my secret masturbatory dream of watching Chris Simon kill Sean Avery on ice, or failing that, sleeping with Elisha Cuthbert whilst doing the chicken dance and concordantly shitting on a VHS copy of the Mark Messier number retirement ceremony.

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* - And yes, SlapChicken glows when placed in water. The reason behind which is too horrible to discuss aloud. (see: "Tuskunga Event")

Random Portman of the Moment

Yeah. So.....she's pretty.
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Yep.

Lohan Arrested....This Time For Reals.

Lindsay Lohan, acclaimed actress and refined lady of high society, was arrested this morning around 1:30 a.m., and charged with driving under the influence and possession of a controlled substance (read: Magic Powder) amongst other citations. As of the time of this posting (read: as currently as my job allows me to check cnn.com whilst avoiding braindead customers), Miss Lohan was still in custody, awaiting to be released on bail.

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You know, as much as my self-professed love of Natalie Portman tends to lend itself to ranting about the attractiveness of Long Island women, Lindsay is probably a far better sampling of the typical mindset of the Longislandus Vaginaslovecokeus. "Oh my god (the ritual opening to every Longislandus statement), isn't ________ (monosylabic-male name) so fucking hot? Sure, he let me bleed from the nose unconsious on his patio while six of his Fred Flinstone-esque (read: No-Neck) masturbating in a loose circle around me, but he bought me a cab ride home in the morning, so I think this could go somewhere."

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.....Ok, maybe that was a little strong. But what else can you say about a girl that is probably the only celebrity pretty much every guy alive has a semi-decent shot at sleeping with, provided they lay out a single line of cocaine leading directly to their bedrooms, much like the way I seduced that sexy little minx with Reeses Pieces all those years ago.

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But still, despite his repeated promises, he never calls. I thought we had a connection.

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