Get used to the smell, kid, you'll be running on fumes someday, I gar-on-tee, cayonne, on-yon, bowtie haw haw. Did we fix Afghan Land yet?
But before I go away for the weekend to my couch sandwiched around the experience of the always tingly Art of Grass Cutting and something even more archaic, that deepest of mysteries hidden beyond the shadows of existence, obtainable only by climbing the most profound heights on the very roof of the world to speak with beings able to warp time and space itself for purposes we dare not know, the ancient practice of -- shhh! -- Weed Pull-Fu, the time has come to talk of many things, not of sneakers, nor ships, nor Turtle Wax, rutabagas or the Los Angeles Kings, but these skating chumps:
Pittsburgh vs. Carolina: Oh, I get it, pencil in the fucking Hurricanes for the playoffs year after year since they won the whole fucking chalupa in 2006, give up on them at last, then they decide to not lose 89,364 man-games to injury? Won't matter. Crosby is a fucking lunatic. Penguins in six.
Detroit vs. Chicago: Alright, so Robbie the Robot had circuit failure at the worst possible time. I'm still going to play the better odds and declare the country of old men (and a few key young dudes; how about Helm on that breakaway, huh?) stave off the still-teething drunkards from Chi-cah-go. Red Wings in seven bloody games.
As a parting gift, I offer you, gentle reader, a veritable cornucopia of musical joy for your weekend listening pleasure caressing your newest batch of cheap Chinese trinkets while we all wait for one of those Association scrubs to emerge, ready for their sacrifice on the altar of The Mighty Cavs. Please, select from the following bouncy tunes:
Just for you, Tengrain, I know how much you adore the death metal.
For those contemplative moments sans the banging of heads.