Tonight’s Losers: The Nashville Predators
This is a new series I’m starting for this season. I’m actually gonna do it, too. Every single game. I’m promising myself I’ll do it. It’s late, but sometimes it’s good to be late. When, um…when your trying to get pregnant, I guess? I don’t know. This is already off the rails in terms of focus. (Originally I was going to call this series “Jenkins Jibes”, so admittedly, we’re already better off than we could have been.)
Essentially, this series will be me talking shit for several hundred words about whomever the Philadelphia Flyers deign to skate against that evening. This evening, they will be skating against the Nashville Predators. Let’s just get fist deep in it already, what do you say?
Last time on “Flyers vs. Preds”:
Ooh, last time. Man. That was…certainly a game. A game of ice hockey was started and then finished. That game was broadcast, and points were awarded, that’s for sure. I think people have already forgotten how desolate and utterly hopeless we, as a fan-base, were just three games ago. Two big wins and all of a sudden we’re residents of Lollipop Land. Sure, those were fun games, but holy shit, we have the shortest memories of all time.
Long story short, we went down 3–0, which was, frankly, not an ideal start. You go down 3–0 in the NHL, it’s kinda like alright, what else is on, I’m exhausted, I’m gonna go play Breath of the Wild. Then we came back and scored FIVE FUCKING GOALS. Five goals, dude. Five of them. It felt like the skies opened up and wristers poured down like acid rain. Like God was saying “you, Allison…you specifically deserve happiness.” I was like “you’re damn right, I do!”
But He was just goofing, really. I didn’t realize he was goofing, but I realize it now. Hindsight, bitch.
Two of the dumbest penalties of all time and a coach’s challenge that ripped a hole in the space-hot take continuum later, we lost the game in probably the most humiliating way possible. Getting trounced start to finish is more fun. At least at that point, I can take pride in how fucking God awful we are. I can make some good tweets about it. Rake in those numbers. Nah. Not that particular evening, they said. That game was demoralizing. Had me questioning my spirit, my follower ratio, my ancestry, and my nail polish selection.
Well, since then, things have been going pretty fuckin’ good for the Flyers, my favorite group of boys. Like realistically? Way better than I thought they would be going. It’s super easy to get tied up in your feelings, in like, the echo-chamber of Twitter when the Flyers really fuck up. It’s fun sometimes, and then other times, it’s like what the fuck are we doing here. I don’t like, wanna be actually sad about a hockey team. I just wanna have a good time, you know?
And the past week has been like, one nonstop good time to be quite honest. They put up 8 fuckin’ goals on the Capitals. They put up five goals on the Panthers. Rag doll, we’re living in a movie. If they don’t score at least six goals tonight, we fuckin’ riot. We’ve been living in luxury, and now that I’ve gotten a taste of the high life, I’ve become accustomed to it. Champagne or death.
Why we hate the Nashville Predators:
Point 1: They’re sanctimonious bastards.
And they can all go to hell. Fans, too. Jesus, the chants are so bad. I know everyone jerks off over them, but I can’t understand a fuckin’ word they’re saying! What’s the point? It’s like they gave Nolan “Marble Mouth” Patrick a mic and told him to just go nuts. And don’t give me that “go look it up” nonsense. If I can’t immediately figure out what a group of 18,000 puckered assholes are farting out, then I’m not gonna go waste my precious time doing research.
Point 2: Peter Laviolette should still be here, based on my emotions.
Man, I miss that feisty dad. I miss his jam, his piss and vinegar. I miss when he thumped Ville Leino on the noggin and permanently fucked the rest of dude’s career, like a terrifying curse from an evil witch. I miss “pound the fuckin’ body”, and I miss “Montreal typical”. I miss his bad ties, almost like he’s challenging someone to give him shit about it. I miss him overstating Claude Giroux’s talent, because like, what a fuckin’ mood that was and is to this day. I miss him trying to get Mike Richards and Jeff Carter to stop drinking, an unstoppable force against immovable alcoholics. I miss him telling Steve Ott to go fuck himself, and then his coy little smile when he was asked about it.
Fuck. I just feel so spiritually and emotionally connected to Peter Laviolette, and the fact that the Nashville Predators now employ him is a joke. It’s like when your ex goes and gets a hotter, smarter, funnier girlfriend specifically because he wants to hurt you and tell you, effortlessly and wordlessly, that you aren’t shit. Well, good job, Peter. You really got me, bud.
Point 3: PK Subban is technically ours.
I’m not going to get into the specifics of this. Not to be rude, but it would be far too complicated for this audience. Just know that, legally speaking, PK Subban is a Philadelphia Flyers, and he should wearing orange right now. The fact that he isn’t? Travesty. Treason. A case for the NHLPA. I’m livid. Bring our boy home.
Nashville Predator boy I hate most:
I actually had to go through the roster because, truthfully and off the record, I kinda like the Predators and I can only remember the boys I like most which are honestly…quite a few. Still, there is one dude who can just go fuck off.
Ugh. Just look at him. That beard is a crime. No wonder he used to play in Pennsylvania. He looks Amish. He’d fit right in. His eyes read bleak and hollow like he’s seen too much butter churning for one lifetime.
Once a Pittsburgh Penguin, always a Pittsburgh Penguin. Fuck off, Bonino.
What we’re not gonna do:
What we’re not gonna do? We’re not gonna let a bunch of fuckin’ furries beat us.
No fuckin’ way. Over my rotting corpse.
Post-game trophies are now like, so ingrained in hockey that it’s honestly stranger for a team not to have one. The Flyers new one is a Ric Flair robe. It’s beautiful. A reminder of goodness in the world. This nightmare of a “wolf” mask? The complete opposite. A scourge upon us all.
Ew, fuck. I’m really sorry I even made you look at it, but you needed to share in my trauma. Like, holy shit, that is the most terrifying shit I’ve ever seen. Why’s it so…matted? Jesus christ, I’m gonna throw up. I’m coughing right now. I’m about to retch. The eyes. Fuck, the eyes. I need to leave the country. I need to get as far away from this as humanly possible. Can someone charter me a flight to hell? Because that’s where my eyes went, and I need to get them back in my fuckin’ skull.
Ultimate aim of the game:
Make oldass Scott Hartnell cry until he poops himself.
Tonight will most likely be a bloodbath if I know Radko Gudas and his sons the way I think I know Radko Gudas and his sons. Should be a good one. In short, fuck the Nashville Predators. Go Flyers.