The Pregame: Well, hello you! Pollyanna Sunshine, reporting for duty! And here’s my colleague, Peppy Miller! Rah Team!
OK, glum-dums. Tides have a way of turning. Or so Barbara Streisand tells me. Sure, watching the Capitals this season has been exactly like watching the tides rush in and out, depositing a fresh crop of flotsam and hope on the shore at high tide before sucking it all back out to sea, leaving behind dead jellyfish and despair. But…
The Pregame: True story. Florida’s Everglades have become so overrun with non-native Burmese Pythons, imported by one simpleton New Jersey retiree couple on Hoverounds, that they’ve eaten just about everything good and natural to the region, leaving the entire ecosystem on the edge of collapse. Really.
And yet, we are so overcome with issues of real import (Caps fail) that we cannot even fill in the punchline here. The easy, made-to-order, South Florida punchline. The joke that Dave Barry has penned a hundred times (and Gene Weingarten a thousand.)
THAT is precisely how dire our current situation is. To make it clear: if two well-educated, middle-aged gay men can’t make wry comments about South Florida, you know it’s fer realz.
The Pregame: Fun! Today’s installment of “Places That Smell” has us visiting the big macher of smells, New York City! Boo-yah!
This is fun because it’s true. The entire place is one massive reek… or, more accurately, hundreds of smaller little reeks. Did you know, for instance, that the five boroughs of New York City were formed not for political reasons, but as a way of keeping one smelly New Yorker from having to endure his pungent neighbors? The subway pretty much put an end to that, and now the whole place stinks like the laundry room in a European hostel. Anyone who’s been in either knows this to be gospel truth.
The Pregame: “Oh dear.” Oh, d-d-deariedear me. Gosh and darn it all.
Remember that funny little wiggly piglet from your childhood stories named…um, Piglet? The one who worried about everything x 2? Oh, the one who was really needy? We do. Specifically, we remember that Piglet, for all his kindness, was prone to needless worry.
“SEO!” yell our overlords at RMNB (not really.) (Kinda.) “Optimize key items! Fast and tight! Key words! Search items for hits!”
“Caps Fail!” screech the bloglines. “Disaster!” “Pull The Plug”*
“If you get down and quarrel everyday, you’re saying prayers to the devil, I say.” – Bob Marley, 1977.
The Caps, I sense (with my wee fey antennae) are quarreling with themselves. And it’s not good.
Last season we saw a command from on high to shift the squad to a different balance of offense/defense play on ice, and the turmoil that resulted. That was Bruce. This is Dale. And now one begins to sense a new struggle to shift the team’s fight/play ratio. A struggle I again – one of the PuckBuddys who anticipated this Friday’s FBI Freakout with Anonymous, but we’re not bringing that up – fear is not going to go well. (#AnonOps knows to kiss our ass; we dare you to mess with the Russian hockey mafia.) (haha Ian, good luck!)
The PuckBuddys have been memorably called the Russian mafia inside the Russian Machine. For the well-being of the operation, we’ve deliberately kept our pasts hidden. It’s been suggested that we’re former-Blackwater mercenaries, Watergate burglars or even Romney moles inside the Gingrich campaign (mission accomplished!) None of those are true, but we do admit to having relationships with some of the more subversive and extreme hockey organizations.
One such group is Capsonymous, a shadowy hive of anarchist Caps fans that operate off the grid, under the radar and over the top. Misunderstood by the mainstream hockey world, media and law enforcement, it’s been said that their methods are unsound. We judge them only by their record of mischievous achievements: the Crosby – vampire rumors, the Sabres’ implosion, Dustin Penner and Pancakegate, and getting Ryan Kesler to pose naked (again, mission accomplished.) Unofficially, on behalf of the home team, Capsonymous is responsible for DC winning the 2014 Winter Classic, convincing Ovi to skip the All Star Game, and getting Ted to blog and tweet about us.
The Pregame: Tampa. Sh*t, I’m still only in Tampa.
Or them, technically. Meaning us. As in, them, Tuesday night, isn’t us. And us don’t like them.
As dance partners go, Tampa Bay is the nattering, grabby-hands B.O. champion* of NHL cities. The one you get stuck with while your date runs off for a giggle as you try to shake him/her/it loose, but you can’t, because no-one else will even look at them, as they are now adhered to you like dog stain on rug, like flab on hips, like a vote-starved politician (redundant!) to your wallet.
Try as you might, they just won’t go away, and the longer they stay attached to you your social capital sucks dry as you furiously look for some escape but come to realize that, no, you and this thing are now welded together in a grotesque, condemned to dancing together for all eternity, or at least until realignment. Face it, Tampa: you smell.
The Pregame: Cartoonist Bill Griffith, who just this week turned 68, sees the overlooked and forgotten corners of America with blinding precision. We were reminded of this recently as we took a drive through portions of Pennsyltucky – clearly where the phrase “fat of the land” has great meaning – and its meth-addled capital, Pittsburgh. Or, borrowing from Zippy’s creator, Dingburg.
Previously we anointed Pittsburgh as the Epicenter of Suck. Following our travels, we can confidently proclaim that it has become, in fact, the Pinhead Center of the Universe. The gangrenous, foul-smelling trash pile of contemporary civilization. The trucker-stop, Thunderbird-guzzling, used baby diaper of cities. Imagine if Paul Verhoeven remade “Showgirls” today with the same cast and you’ve got Pittsburgh, only with less sexy and more elastic waistbands. It’s exactly that awful.
The Pregame: So you gotta give credit where it’s due. Whatever your political leanings (ours is usually doubled over, holding our stomachs, in the loo) that ol’ Newton Leroy Gingrich gets points for some sassy thinking. Seems then-Speaker Stay-Puft, some six years into an affair with a young House staffer (and Tiffany connoisseur) named Calista, basically told his wife Marianne that she would need to “share” him with his mistress. (There we are in the loo again.) At least, this according to ex-wife Marianne – no, not the one he divorced while she was in the hospital, that was a totes different wife! – who basically told Newt to get stuffed. He dumps her, marries the mistress who promptly begins a powerful benziodiazepine regimen (we’re making that part up) and now all is lollipops, the end.
We bring this up, in part because it’s still a larf-riot, but also because we’re doing some sassy thinkin’ of our own. Let’s just say, completely hypothetical here, that you’re the GM of a professional sports team with loads of potential but some underperforming talent. What to do? You want to keep him; sure, who doesn’t? But maybe you could also find a comely, pliable team somewhere else that may just want to share a little of his upkeep and tending while making you look genius. Everyone wins, right?
And thus American civic life dies a muffled death.
[Ed. note: for coverage of Rene Bourque, uhhh… check out RMNB on Wednesday morning.]
The Pregame: Fun game! Everyone from a malfunctioning family, raise your hand. Or, if you’re in a public place, just give a little squee inside. Yeah, we thought so. Show me the person who says their family is perfectly normal and I’ll show you a glue-sniffing, trick-turning, psychopathic cat hoarder. You know: like [fill in hated politician here] Oh, biting wit!
And speaking of glue-sniffing (bet you thought it’d be sociopathy), we come to Wednesday’s game against the Montreal Canadiens. Les Habitants. You know: the Baldwin family of contemporary hockey. Or should that be the Donner Party? Either way, they eat their own to the amusement of all.
Oh you bet, we’ve all had a hearty laugh – a long, hard laugh – at the goonish antics of our Quebecois neighbors of late. Like watching the Spuckler family argument spill out onto the un-mowed back lawn, hurling rotting plastic chairs at one another as they jockey for “superiority” amid the weeds and used Timmy Hos coffee cups. Too much back bacon, eh?