Somehow, inexplicably, the Caps won on Thursday. It was a manic mess of a game, like something the Flaming Lips would do if they played hockey. In case your blood pressure is returning to normal and bowels are solidifying, here comes another cataclysmic hockey game to freak you out all over again.
So it all comes down to this. A season full of mediocre and substandard Caps performances could very well hinge upon Tuesday night’s tilt against the Sabres. Or, as we like to call them, the godless and heathen Sabres. Tuesday night at Verizon is when we glance up into the rear-view mirror and see all those squandered games and lost opportunities receding into the distance. Had the Caps gotten their heads and asses wired together at any point between November and say, last Friday’s night’s OT loss to the Jets, we wouldn’t be on pins and needles headed into Tuesday evening, or in my particular case, on lithium and Maker’s Mark.
The other Nick Backstrom. (Photo credit: Doug Benc)
Healing Breath: So alright, everybody feel safe now? Good. Now, everyone, breathe in….and blow it out. Good; that’s good. And let’s just stick with “blow” for a moment, shall we?
Friday was basically the Mir of hockey games (look it up, noobs.) We all watched, incredulous, as our Hero Caps slung their way to 3-0, only to slump to end 4-3, mostly during the last third, as the flaming wreckage fell back to Earth. Honestly, that last stanza? Blowing chunks all over that very pretty, expensive Verizon sheet. In a phrase: everybody was Byfuglian-en.
OK, cleansing breath now; suck it in….and, blow it out. Blow hard…good.
The Pregamer: As a cure for our Capitals PTSD (Post Traumatic Suckage Disorder) we slopped out to Kettler today to see just wha’ what was up with the what wha’. We learned several things.
Here’s Doug Johnson of the Puck Buddys with a spot of the ol’ superviolence. Pull up a chair at the milk bar and follow the Buddys on Twitter.
Here’s The Choodesny Pregamey: Viddy viddy, me droogies! Wellity wellity wellity well. A dorogoy game we face then, contra the Chepooka Flyers, is it? And in their gloopy domy on top, is it? Capsity-wapts fans, prepare to creetch yer yarbles biddy biddy well, and poddy thisity this: me droogs are well placed to land the tolchuks to the gulliwats and gullivers of any groody Flyer that skates with us.
To all the horrowshow krovvy to flow!
And Now Back To Sanity: So we – as in PuckBuddyCraig – were struck this morning, amid the fog and shadows, to invoke St. Stanley Kubrick and “A Clockwork Orange” for this pregame. ‘Cause, you know… orange. Flyers. Uh-huh.
So a dorogoy post – and game – it is. And yet, there may be wisdom here. O my brothers, cutter this well…
Pre-après-Game: PuckBuddy Craig sorta demolished me with his last post, mixing the most potent juvenile jeers (“You smell like butt“) with contemporary culture (The Godfather) and hockey insights in the juicerizer that yours truly has been refining for months.
Whaaa…butt why dat? Well, because Craig, unlike Doug, went hunting for a stick-tap from Uncle Ted on how brilliant his pregamer was. Nice. No matter that he stole from me for months – blogging versions of the Winnipeg Head-Crash – or that I’ve been telling our opponents they smell like ass since October. But , boohoo, what’s an obvious foul between frenemies?
I kid. And yet in seriouslyness, between these partners there is no other game that divides the PuckBuddys like Monday’s test of the Caps against the Wings.
Malcontents, flamers, and haters: Gentle readers, Doug is taking a pass on the WPG pregamer and it’s in my mostly capable hands today. True story – He’s penning his RMNB resignation letter and is negotiating with the New York Times on placement, word count, accompanying artwork, and possible liability issues. If I’m reading his RMNB pregaming instructions correctly (which he scribbled on the back of a cocktail napkin), this is where I: A. Write opposing team’s city smells. B. Call their fans are ill-mannered, uncultured, uneducated, slovenly, and slack-jawed. C. Say opposing players are “stupid morons with ugly faces and a big butts and their butt smells and they like to kiss my butt.” D. Sit back and enjoy the smug satisfaction of being a hockey blogger.
But no. This game, the march to the playoffs and the gravity of the Caps precarious spot requires much more than just infantile name-calling. The seriousness of the situation screams out for far more elevated and sober commentary, which in this case means adolescent hectoring. And I’m the right man for the job.
“What Wha?” There are some things that just aren’t said aloud.
Example #1: Oprah is a Fraud. Yeah, she could buy the Nepalese army to storm my house, or hot-wire the RMNB site for combustion, just ’cause I said it. Yet it’s true. Oprah Winfrey is, as we speak, today and into the future, a total fraud.
Example #2: Our Politics are a Farce. Do we really need to gut this beast further to illustrate that point? Anyone who thinks our civic culture is robust, please hold your head underwater for five minutes. Questions?
Example #3: Caps…Leading the Southeast?! Eighth in the Eastern? And *shudder* five points behind Ottawa? I’m not sure when we signed up to write fiction, but apparently that is now.
The Pregame: Hey now; any you guys see that show on the teevees, “Doomsday Peppers” or something? You know, the one where seemingly pleasant enough, if overwhelmingly white people happily share their crackpot theories of why the world will end any minute now and how they’ll survive by stocking their compounds with bullets and pig dung? Good times.
Meanwhile we in America’s Hockey’s Capital are not so much having da good times of late. I’m thinking closer to the pig dung. Or better – remember those snobby nuclear scientists with their finger-waggling about nuclear Armageddon, bringing us down during the happy heydays of Ronald Reagan and “Family Ties” with their elitist Doomsday Clock? (Kiddies: go look it up while we drink our Metamucil.)
Yeah. Sitting here, looking at Thursday’s game and the remainder of the season, it feels like five minutes to midnight…with the clock ticking. And here’s us, without a stockpile.