I just heard they’re playing hockey in Tennessee in June and you better believe I’ve got some rounds in the chamber for these jag-offs.

Mr. Crimshaw (left) only went to this hockey club’s facility because he refused to believe what he was hearing from the lamestream media: that men in Nashville had shorn their man buns to participate in an even greater horror — ice sports.

Here’s something I’m not backing off of: ice is the enemy.

I’m not kidding. When was the last time you enjoyed ice? For me, maybe that time in Cabo when they smashed it up real small and put Cuervo on it, but the events of that week played a key role in the dissolution of my third marriage, so, look, you tell me.

This is why you haven’t heard a word from me about the guy with the hair leaving the Paris thing. Ice is evil, and it’s about time someone in the big chair pushed the button, swiveled it around, and faced the music (this is a reference to the NBC competition series The Voice — a singing show judged by several Hollywood marijuana addicts — and a desperate attempt on my part to engage millennials in the important discourse hosted on this platform). You know what I did to celebrate the Paris thing? I pulled the 250 into the cul-de-sac, fired it up, googled “How much ice is left,” and kept hitting refresh until I’d burnt up all the damn diesel in the tank.

If left unchecked, ice’s slippery grip will tighten on The American Way, and it will probably get all shriveled up and, even though it would definitely regain its original proportions if you just gave it like five minutes and told it how you’d never had a Way like it before, it would be really embarrassing to be seen like that.

This brings me to Nashville, one of America’s great towns. It runs on whiskey, there’s only like four blocks that matter, and it’s populated almost entirely by broads who were bad in school doing piss-ass Stevie Nicks impressions. I love that damn town.

But it has been corrupted. By ice.

According to media reports — the veracity of which, I pray, may be doubted — there is a semi-professional ice hockey organization located in Nashville, Tennessee that has advanced to the Super Bowl. This runs shamefully counter to The American Way on many levels.

First, in order to participate in this ice dance, men are wearing sweaters, and doing so outside of a professionals-only friendraising cocktail hour. This is an atrocity.

Second, these so-called “Nashville hockey fans” are idolizing a man whose name appears to be “P.K.” This is not an acronym that I will accept. All seven of the children that I acknowledge have acronated names: Brantley Janz (B.J., “Beej”), Jantley Brenz (J.B., “Jeebs”), Talulah Taige (T.T., “Teets”), Zeresa Anne (Z.A., sometimes we just call her “za” like pizza because that girl can put away some pie!), Peighton Pendall (P.P., “Peeps”), Cartling Cael (C.C., “Ceecee”), Tandler June (T.J., “Teej”). These are classic acronyms befitting of future Christian business owners. They all look good on business cards, followed by “Crimshaw”, embossed to high heaven.

A hockey man (clearly fake) planted by the Russians in middle America to encourage the spread of ice games. His cover is poor, as he has done nothing to disguise the fact that he is a man of black descent participating in ice-top entertainment, and his “name” is allegedly “P.K. Subban”, an Eastern bloc anagram for something dirty, no doubt.

Third, and this really gets my goat, all of this ice worship is going on in a town where the chicken is described with one word — “hot.” Y’all ever had a boneless thigh of Nashville hot? Whoops, there I go dropping “y’alls” again! And I’m from the Bronx! I love that damn chicken.

I’ll never forget the first time I had Nashville hot chicken. I had just found Christ (not our Savior — I’ve never lost him — but the family goldendoodle I named after the Almighty) nearly a dozen miles from our house in the parking lot of an establishment called Peach’s Hot. Due to the specifics of my pre-nuptial agreement, I was about ready to turn tail and skedaddle — dog or no — before Lillinith’s P.I. caught me in a Kodak moment I couldn’t explain, but after having a heart-to-heart with myself and agreeing that, as neighborhood watch captain, it was my job to keep the community safe from cathouses and pisshuts, I marched inside to find that the only smut on display was a Tennessee Titans flag (go Jets!) and that Peach’s was, in fact, a chicken shack. I ordered the special, and the rest is history (meaning that my resultant cholesterol figures following a ten-week hot chicken diet were “the highest ever seen,” according to Dr. Spencem.)

I love that damn chicken. And I hate that damn ice.

Thankfully, the Nashville hockey outfit succumbed in the finals to a colony of penguins, so everyone in that town can get back to wearing too much hand/wrist jewelry and focusing on their ombres. Because that is The American Way.