Yahooiana, yahooery, yahooism, yahooish, get your yahoos out, yahoo.

Dearest Yahoo fantasy league fellows,

Please cease and desist offering your desiccated pieces-parts and names flush with nothing but past glories for a package of Tim Duncan and Kevin Durant. It only proves my suspicions, that you are either stupid or a fool -- or, more disconcerting, suffer from a debilitating physical and/or psychological addiction to a Schedule I controlled substance. Seek clinical assistance immediately.

All the best,

Randal














Since our fearless leader is purposely lost in places unknown, no doubt sampling the local fare as he drinks in daytime teevee, there will be no sexy flashing this week for though Maine's favorite son has volunteered his services, I fear he remains stuck doing his impression of Tool Time.

Thus, let me take this golden ticket to address something that has churned and turned its gears within my brain, for I too have suffered from burnout and/or dreaming about global thermonuclear war's comical aftermath and/or gleefully decimating times ten an entire battalion of elected officials.

Us penmanshippers need to buck up. Instead of going for the tried-and-true seppuku when we're in a rage against machinery, we should learn to take it out, not on ourselves, but on others. That's what cubicle jockeys and governments do, right? If they, of all entities, can get away with it, why not us? Hell, I never signed the Rome Statute. Did you?

Now, everyone stand still. My eyesight's bad.

Oh alright, we'll save the not-entirely-random act of sensible violence for later. I'll cautiously admit, I'm a bit of a sap, so shall we close today's coagulation of encephalitic fluids with a confectionery verse?

Think that I shall never see
An internets lovely as a tree?
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against some hottie's heaving breast --
It's only a screen. Hey, 'tis HD --
A tree that looks at porn all day,
And lifts his tired arms to say:
Where's my fucking coffee, bub?
Don't make me drown you in the tub.
This is a library, dumbass. No one blogs for free: gas, grass or
Poems, made by fools like me,
But only Monsanto can genetically alter a tree.

If you stand far away and squint, this post looks like an oil puddle.

Je suis heureux

No, I'm not on any pharmaceuticals but I might be if this guy











helps us garner this Cthulhuforsaken burg's first championship in anything worth a damn since nineteen sixty-fucking-four. You lied, meteorological gestapo, it's February, so where's my cloud cover? The downside to such victorious basketballery that I had no hand in: I might have to rethink the automatic writing of 'filthy with lucre = scorn receptacle.'

As for scorn that I deserve as a woefully compensated library employee , be thankful, smiters of sport, for if there had been no trade of precious gladiatorial assets, you would all be saddled with riffery.

Under my thumb
The town who once had me down
Under my thumb
The teams who once pushed me around



Oops, wrong song. It was either that or original verse. Giddyup.

Superball

The Bill Polians vs. The Dancing Toms: Rooting interest aside, on paper, which is where games are played unless you're firing up a copy of Madden, this is one fucking close matchup. Which means, given the statistical disparity of, say, last year, we'll probably have a rout one way or the other, possibly, it may seem to be, coming down to the deft over and/or underuse of, indubitably, commas, that most magical, some say, of punctuational markings. Oh, the game, I suppose, Colts, thirty-one, to, twenty, oh, seven, I guess.

Comma comma comma comma comma chameleon
You come, and go, you come, and, go,


















Hey, you two, you're fucking everything, um, up.

Does anyone remember orthography?

Do do that voodoo that you do so well

Since I'm as prognostastic as Smooth Jimmy Apollo these days (any betting blame lies squarely with you, the viewer; never listen to me about anything except that one thing), I should play it safe and go with the favorites this weekend, right? Read on to see if I do.

Football!

N.Y. Jets @ Indianapolis: Don't mind the Prohibitive Favorites, they aren't doing anything new (read: 1995 *gasp* Indianapolis! Ooky spooky) except playing The Real Colts for 60 minutes. Well, 55 since it should be out of reach by then. Sorry, city, county and state of Noo Yawk and fuck you, too. Colts 31-13.

Minnesota @ New Orleans: As much as I'd love two whole weeks of continued Favre deificiation leading to spiteful columns written by self-righteous brickwall headbangers -- ooh, all that blood and cerebellum matter splatter, yum -- gotta go with Sean Payton, Head Coach/Voodoo Priest and his 75 quadrillion formations, decidedly non-formulaic. Plus, after titles by The Fucking Lakers and The Fucking Yankees within the last nine months, ain't it about time something good happens in the pro sporting world? (Yes, I'm very much speaking of this upcoming June, basketball gods, ahem, cough, wheez, sacrificial stone, I keeeeeel you) Who Dat? Dis Dat. Saints, 30-20.

Clash of the Titans

Why wouldn't I put up this famous and wondrously captivating still of the lovely Ursula Andress highlighting a role that came from a flick far removed from said movie when referring to tonight's throwdown between The Mighty Cavs and The Fucking Lakers? It's all very logical if you think about it, dumbass. Don't make me force you to watch C-Span.












Thou shalt be slain, The Fucking Lakers! Do it for Ray's near-corpse!

42

Save your Douglas Adamsisms, I've never read the book, and save your you-should-read-its, I've got a fucking stack of lists of codices of ofs I'll never get around to due to inevitable croakery, but I did see the Mighty Cavs surrender that many points in the fourth quarter last night this morning. If you're in the free market for defense that abysmal, which apparently you are Mike Brown since I found Delonte on the back of a milk carton, I'm a short cracker ready to hitchhike up and down the court, and I'll work cheaper than a gangly, overpaid towel-waver from Real America. Losses always burn, but against Carlos the Traitor's squadron? Go fuck yourself, jerk.

Football!

Arizona @ New Orleans: The future Hall of Fame extraterrestrial performed precision surgery on Green Bay's pretty decent, albeit thinned-out secondary. What's he going to do to that of Who Dat? Once again, poor N'awlins gets the shaft. Shaft! Who's the white quarter B that's a pass machine so all receive? WARNER! Cardinals 36-31.

Baltimore @ Indianapolis: Cut me some slack, how was I to know that Derek Anderson had secretly mastered the forbidden art of soul transference and took over Tom Brady? Why does this game strike me as 2005 all over again? Why, I hate both teams, but the one I hate more shall prevail, much to the chagrin of Bill Polian, subject of this song. Oh, fuck it, despite the effervescent allure of a potential Manning-Face sighting. Colts 23-20.

Dallas @ Minnesota: Man, I fucking loathe the Cowboys, especially their rediscovered ferocity on defense but I love love love the give-me-a-happy idea of the skulls of talking hairpieces and childish scribblers exploding rancid brain matter all over their wrung hands from another week of Favre deification, so this is a bit more of a callous heart pick than anything else. Vikings 24-17.

N.Y. Jets @ San Diego: Philip Rivers' throwing style owns nothing but jesteresque guffaws, but his production owns you, Prohibitive Favorites. C'mon, Sanchize can't not be Derek Anderson (yes, I'm picking on Derek Anderson, apologies for my obviousness) for a second consecutive week. Chargers 34-20.

Northern Hospital-ity

In the midst of helping Mrs. Graves search for a fancy new hospital gown, we came to the conclusion that we were never going to find one quite swanky enough for our refined tastes. At least the turkey, though a little dry, wasn't from a zombie turkey so, luckily, we were able to leave to fight another day back through an impending blizzard of decidedly non-apocalyptic proportion, yet the lunatic offspring are off springing here at home, thus for your edselification, some short, yet sexy predictionary footballerie and see you yokels next week sometime, whenever I decide to go back to work to work on run-on sentence structure.

Football!

N.Y. Jets @ Cincinnati: Ignore last week. Mark Sanchez will fuck up. Bengals 17-16.

Philadelphia @ Dallas: Fuck Dallas. Cowpokes 27-20.

Baltimore @ New England: Sure, the Great White Receiver is down and out, but Tom Brady ain't. And for you yokels still blathering on about his semi-pedestrian, non-Tom stats, check out the slate of pass defenses he faced all year. Mr. Supermodel is fine. Patriots 23-17.

Green Bay @ Arizona: Ignore last week, but which Warner shows up (the 5 INTs or the 99.9% completion guy) will determine this, pretty please be a highly entertaining shootout, I better pick the former or a certain Wisconsinonian will send another three feet of snow my way. Packers 34-31.

December's children (and everybody's and January's, too)

Check out the Manly Run of Manliness at 2:36. I said check it, neanderthal flex grumble grumble Solomon Grundy! Four wins since December 1, none sucky (okay, the D against KC and we still have no QB and that rhymes with wheeeeee and you know that rhymes, Marge), the one loss a tough, competitive smackaroo against the possible eventual champions of Super Bowling, the Ex-Ryan Leafs. Fuck if I know.

Which means Noted Offensive Guru®, The Walrus, will likely choose Sam Bradford or Jimmy Clausen and either will septic up the joint like everyone else on the frigid shores since Todd Philcox Bernie Kosar.











Save us, King James, save us and me, three. Anyone ever try to put together a manuscript of versification and in doing so realize just how awful and unlikable it all is? Holy fuck my brain is four-day toast minus the sexy butter and space jam. I'm going to call The Walrus and have him choose. Koren Robinson! Jerramy Stevens! Lamar King!

Noive endings

"This? This is snow. This is what falls in Cleveland when it gets too cold. This? This is Kent. This is what happens to people when they get too sexually frustrated"

Dear RTA,

It really is okay to drive more that 25 mph when there's a layer of the white stuff on the tree lawns.

Sincerely,

Randal














Bill Polian, Pretzeldent of the Indianapolis Colts

"All right, I'll go in there for Peyton. 16-0 or no 16-0, playoff chokes or no playoff chokes, I'll tear them apart. I may not come out alive, but I'm going in there. There's only one thing I want you fellows to do."
"What's that?"
"Talk me out of it."

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and hide under my desk. Never know who's a crotch-burning terrorist these days.

Quoi?

Best special teams player on planet earth. That I get.


















This is don't. Walrus, a little help?



















"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of fronts--and gaps--and cover 2--
Executive pay--hey, I dig those blings--
Mayhap I'll coach 'em up, too--
Remember, I've got one of those rings."

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Linemen of the largest size,
Receivers that can separate
And passers sans blindest eyes.

"But wait a bit," the Dawg Pound cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are stinking drunk,
And some of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the The Lerner Man.
They thanked him much for that.

"A five-year plan," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Nose tackles and corners besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Dawg Pound dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not without French Onion dip!" the Dawg Pound cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such spending sprees, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"This luxury box is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Lerner Man said nothing but
"Mangenius--shall we start to slice?
I wish Big Tuna you were--
I'll have to pay you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
But I want full personnel power,
So better sign me quick!"
The Lerner Man said nothing but
"Failure, like thieves, is so thick!"

"O ten-dollar beer," said the Dawg Pound,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be stumbling home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd drunk every one.

In league with Satan

No, not me.










I'm not so sure I'd trust the devil's floor game.

Pitchfork'll get in the way.

BECAUSE IT'S BUSY TWIRLING SOMEONE'S GUTS LIKE SPAGHETTI!

aside

Remember when the internets was cool, when you could type in

bloody pitchfork

and NOT return page after page of Pitchfork®-approved® hipster indie-electro-punk-post-whatever bands? 80s hair shit or this striped-shirt beardo crap, cockroaches climbing over my string quartet power chording black tees, clap your hands say fuck off. It's entirely plausible that my The Google-Fu is the contents of a septic tank, in fact I'm Shirley Serious, but is the second Friday the 13th the only source where there's a pitchfork that might even possibly maybe have some of the red stuff dripping off, pretty please?

Maybe I'm just lazy.













Skinemax used to play this flick over and over in the primeval days of cable. I think I had a mini-crush on Amy Steel. Check out that determination.

Yes, part of the blame lies with the torture pornography industry that insists on devising ever more esoteric ways of slicing and dicing, where o where has my pitchfork gone, where o where could old-fashioned pitchfork DVD stills clogging the tubes beeeee?.












Insert clever quip here.

/aside

Schadenfreude

No, you don't know what schadenfreude is? Please, let me tell you, because you're dying to know.

Look ma, hands!

I see the duplicitous frogs are at it again. A crying shame to be sure, but maybe you leprechauns should've kept a few snakes around.

Oh well, I bet the *chuckle* USA *chortle* will do *guffaw* well, whatever the *wheeze* draw *bwahahahaha*.

The Tenth Circle, A Play In One-Half Act

Characters
Agent Stockholm, intrepid government lackey
Syndrome, noted archfiend

Interior, SYNDROME's Fortress of Black, Naughty Evil. The villain has trapped AGENT STOCKHOLM in his Apparatus of Apparent Apparel.

















AGENT STOCKHOLM: "Do you expect me to talk?"

SYNDROME: "No, my dear agent, I expect you to watch!"

The first grisly image appears in hi-def.


















AGENT STOCKHOLM: "That's it? About as frightening as my string of ex-wives. Nice picture quality though, old chap."

Ever classy, SYNDROME nods his appreciation.

AGENT STOCKHOLM: "However, I heard that you were a supervillain. That's not even a cat you're stroking."

SYNDROME: "No, but it is the flesh of the last one to cross me!"

AGENT STOCKHOLM: "Yawn. Try again, nefarious ne'er-do-well."

SYNDROME: "You'd be well advised to watch your tongue. I might make it into a sandwich."

The second grisly image appears in hi-def.


















AGENT STOCKHOLM: "Amateur. Is that the sickest you've got?"

SYNDROME: "Methinks your brazen tone will go best braised --

dramatic pause accompanied by an off-stage organ riff

-- if you survive the final horror."

The third, and final, grisly image appears in hi-def.


















AGENT STOCKHOLM: "NOOOOOOO! You bastarrrr......."

AGENT STOCKHOLM faints.

SYNDROME: "Muahahahahaha. Time for dinner."

SYNDROME rubs his hands together like all supervillains do after having taken a squeeze of anti-bacterial. An undercooked Big Mac is nothing to trifle with.

fin

Idle blogs are the workshop of some guy with a telescope

Even if you knew of this set's existence, it still isn't funny, no need to tell me. Unless the devil uses a telescope to see whom to tempt next in the nebula of Hollywood stars that is us unwashed masses. Are we not bags of gas collapsing under the weight of our own hubris?

Exactly how far away is hell? Utah? Texas? DC? A boiling pot in Uzbekistan? Giving a public speech above the arctic circle while naked? No, I haven't forgotten about Sartre, but there's no one around, thus, I'm in purgatory. Heaven is a child's fantasy. Playing a Lego harp would be tough.

Anyway, that's gotta be quite a trek, and if I'm the big evil cheese or one of his nattily-dressed minions, hitchhiking is out of the question. Would you pick up a guy with horns? Unless it was a viking -- not one of those -- brandishing a broadsword or axe and he threatened to steal your wenches and drink your mead. You don't need to be versed in Old Norse to see that Olaf is really Olaf The Angry. Here, take the car, good luck driving this horseless carriage.

Modern man 1, dark ages doofus 0.

I am aware of a branch office less than fifteen minutes away.















And I've got Ray Rice in a couple of my fantasy leagues. Quel dilemme, whomever shall I root for? Unless a Kurt Warner Chipset 3.0 gets implanted in The Decidedly Unmighty Quinn and the Browns win 45-38, Rice gamely running for 236 yards and five touchdowns, I'm sure it'll be 45-10 against. Yes, I'm boldly predicting a garbage-time TD for us. I live on the edge. Unless I don't. Unless. On lesse, vpon less, on lasse.

Lasses aren't less, you misogynist English bastarde. Would you look at that, an entire post filled with nothing but hot air. Listen to the sad, pretty music and contemplate something of import to you. Just be somber about it.

Rust

The fucking Cavs better shake theirs off. Andrea Bargnani, really? 28 on 11-15 from the floor? C'mon, he's eye-talian. Yeah, you heard me, Miss Canada, bring it on, I'm in a bad mood.


















I think I'm gonna stab things until they bleed profusely and then set them on fire and then inject the charred remains with a virus concocted in a secret, underground government facility so I will have a zombie army to do my bidding and my bidding is for this zombie army to scrimmage the Cavs the theory being that these millionaires will be so fearful of having their skull bit into, convulsing in horror before expiring in a pool of gooey innards, that they'll show newly rediscovered offensive and defensive prowess deftly avoiding the chunks of burnt flesh covering all 94 x 50 and go on to capture the city's first professional sports championship since 1964 and if that doesn't work I'll just release the zombie army on an unsuspecting nation and then no one will win any championships ever again.

Thank you

"Looking this swanky, how can we lose?"

"True, but shouldn't we thank the little people first?"

Thank you, Aaron Rodgers, for carving up the hapless Cleveland defense. (Honestly, you led one of my fantasy teams to victory)

Thank you, horror ezine, for rejecting my story. (Honestly, it is quite, er, horrible. Given what else is up there, I don't blame you a quarter of one bit)

Thank you, Killer Tomato, for after over a decade, you finally decided to rot. (Honestly, better now than in the dead of winter during a blizzard on the way to pick up you lazy kids I walked 75 miles in the snow without shoes to schzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..............)

Thank you, Cleveland Indians, for having both C.C. Sabathia and Cliff Lee starting World Series games. For other teams. (Honestly, I can't wait for the minor leaguers we received to help lead yet another team to the World Series)

Atlantic: Sure, Rasheed may be a volatile knucklehead, but he can be a quality volatile knucklehead (or maybe Big Baby deserves that sobriquet a bit more these days) and Old Man Garnett does need to rest those creaky knees now and then. Philadelphia should be on the unhappy, drunken (it's Philly) side of .500; Elton Brand can't be that much of a DNP-INACTIVE again, can he? Toronto will score, thus an entertaining evening diversion. New York will try to score (lest we forget, D'Antoni the Alchemist is stalking the sidelines) and New Jersey will try.

Central: Barring extraterrestrial intervention, we'll win the division in back-to-back seasons for the first time in franchise history which sounds exceedingly lame, I know. Sure, the Bulls have some of that abstract 'talent,' but if you want to trust the consistency of their frontcourt, well, it's a free country. Joe Dumars' brain has melted in his cranial cauldron, though check back in a couple of years to see if he was playing fifteen-dimensional chess and actually has a plan ha ha ha, Indiana is floundering midst rebuilding (but there are some pieces -- Danny Granger is a sumbitch -- and they could surprise) and the Bucks will probably trade their last few useful players by February.

Southeast: Fucking Orlando. Yes, it still stings. Atlanta, destined to be first round fodder again. I don't care that they made it to the second round, the East has three teams and various orders of suckery. Sorry, DC, stay 100% healthy and you still won't get out of the first round either no matter how much of a tough guy DeShawn Role Player thinks he is. I'd almost feel sorry for Dwayne Wade and his Merry Gang Of Nobodies if he didn't already have a ring. No one in that city cares about anything but tans and expensive cars and being seen draped in glitz. Fuck you Miami, you deserve nothing, go cheat on your equally vapid soulmate with an equally vapid soulmate-of-the-evening on South Beach. Charlotte is about the most offensively inept team in the league and they just added Tyson Chandler, garbagetastic in a Ceballos-esque way. Good thing they play D.

Southwest: Hope everyone stays healthy, Alamo, this is probably your last chance before the old folks' home comes calling to steal the contents of your wallet while you snooze. As for Mark Cuban's T-Shirt, the Shawn Marion of old might have helped, but Jason Kidd is, well, a year older. Noticing a theme amidst many of the contenders? Chris Paul is bad mofo/shut your mouth, but one could say, the Atlanta of the West. Which is funny 'cause I bet Byron Scott would love Marvin Williams and/or Joe Johnson in this gang of thinning ranks. Houston will scrap like Scrappy the Hero Pup, but without Yao and an increasingly useless McGrady, forget it. Lucky Mike Conley. With all those ball hogs, he could make a killing on taking bribes for passes. Or kneecapping Zach Randolph, but I doubt coaches pay all that well.

Northwest: If, if, if, Iffy McIfferson, Oden is healthy and angry, these dudes have the talent to knock off the Lakers. Seriously. They could also lose in the first round again. Seriously. Sorry, K-Mart and Co., talk all the pseudo-trash you want, too much went right last year and you still lost to La-La Land. Weren't the Jazz supposed to be the next big thing? Oh well, just trade Carlos the Traitor so Ronnie Millsap can get more minutes. I've got him on my fantasy team. Oklahoma City is Portland, Jr. and now we just need to see if they'll graduate out of the lottery or be stuck wearing Vitters. Even the Timberwolves are slowly climbing, but Kevin Love's busted hand is a setback.

Pacific: The Lakers, then everyone else, in varying states of on the border and suckitude. Phoenix is that Eagles song, though I'm still trying to figure out how to fit Amare's, oops, sorry, Amar'e's, wonky eyeball in, the Kings are anything but (well, maybe The Greeks Don't Want No Freaks, though Kevin Martin and Jason Thompson aren't all that bizarre), the Clippers have *gasp* talent, but good luck not eventually asking for a trade or a straitjacket, Blake Griffin, already out six weeks, and the Warriors are a walking, talking DSM-IV casebook and I love them for it, too bad Baron Davis now plays for the previously mentioned team 'cause that would make this squad super extra fun.

Eastern playoff teams: Cleveland, Orlando, Boston, Atlanta, Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington, Miami.

Western playoff teams: L.A. Lakers, San Antonio, Portland, Denver, Dallas, Utah, New Orleans, Phoenix.














NBA Finals: Yes, we'll get back to the finals. Yes, a city's heart is ripped out and shown to us once more, yet somehow I'll manage to not stick my head in the oven for one more year. Sometimes, I wish I didn't care for sports, I really do.

Thank you, sports gods. (Honestly, fuck off)

Gag reflex

Do they make me barf? No, for that would be a grave disservice to the often useful practice of barfing. The Browns are so bad, they make me


















Now if you'll excuse me, I just remembered the second half.

Where's that fake toilet?

May giant, rabid, mutant killer cockroaches from hell eat your eyes out, sports gods.

The title comes from a baseball playoff post that I'll gladly pay you yesterday for a hamburger today but I'm a moody bastard and when I woke up this morning my heart wasn't in such a meandering essay -- sorry, Utah, I know how much you were looking forward to more sports -- but I will conclusively include the conclusion, which still holds liquor:

And don't give me that 'sports don't matter' shit. Nothing really matters since we're all going to end up as partially biodegradable worm food and this delicious repast and the billions of worms sporting knives and forks are going to be burnt into oblivion along with every other remnant of our civilization, except the crap on Voyager unless that gets nuked by a supernova or some gamma ray burst, once the sun goes red giant and swallows the inner planets, right? Right.

At the moment, it's windy as fuck outside, cold, deceptively grey, for there are splotches of off white, a change from this morning that was a magnificently rich and menacing rainbow of dark blue hues shepherding lost trails of fallen leaves, I really need a camera, because words fail as they so often do and goddamn was that sky lovely. Thus, a post about nothing save a tune I dig, wishing I was at home writing in the midst of this most perfect autumn weather.

P.S. fuck The Fucking Yankees.

Pucker Up

Not you, fugly.

Atlantic: A hangover post-loss is one thing, what about after being crowned? If they slip, the Flyers, with Chris Pronger covering up Flaky Ray and whomever else they schlep in front of the net, will be there to wrest and usurp and all that other subversive coup-d'état disposable jazz. The Rangers could surprise everyone, but Marian Gaborik would have to stay healthy, bwahahahaha, etc. Sorry, Mr. 500, even you can't carry this receding hairline offense. What of the Islanders? Sure, one can pass the time watching young Tavares, but of more import, don't you miss the Gorton's fish stick logo?

Northeast: I still don't trust Tim Thomas, but man, are the Bruins loaded, even after trading away Kessel. Patrice Bergeron can't remain so loopy, can he? I do trust the young Sabres, who'll step up and help Ryan Miller. I don't trust 700-year old Alexei Kovalev, but Michalek+Cheechoo should help offset the dearly departed Dany Heatley. I really don't trust Toronto, even with The Monster. Should have added Frankenstein, Dracula and the Wolfman, too. I really really don't trust Montreal. They have 752 new players.

Southeast: Goalie remains the question mark (did not the champs receive the same skepticism, you say?), but good luck outscoring these dudes. The Hurricanes still carry enough talent to arsenic your drink, just ask New Jersey and Boston. Trading Bouwmeester hurts, but Florida's young guys (Booth, Weiss and Horton, if he stops regressing) can theoretically collect goals and you could do worse than Tomas Vokoun. If Mike Smith is the real deal, the Lightning could shock. Groan. Don't forget, they still have Lecavalier, St. Louis and Stamkos with a year under his belt. Atlanta? Check back in two years.

Central: Yeah, yeah, I know Chicago stole Hossa and his 40 goals from Detroit and are the fashionable hep cat pick, but all the Red Wings have to do is throw a cabbie and some change on the ice. How 'bout those Blues? Didn't see that coming. The youngins (+Kariya) aren't there yet, but won't be an easy out. Poor Nashville. Never have enough money, no one cares -- it's Nashville -- and Barry Trotz always has them competing, nonetheless. Someone give that man a pretzeldential medal of freedom, or a budget. Sure, Blue Jackets fans, Steve Mason will certainly bail out that crap offense again and not be the second coming of Jim Carey, bien sûr.

Northwest: Okay, Calgary, you just added a beast of a defenseman, and if Kiprusoff can stop his slide, you have a chance to make Lanny McDonald's facial hair very happy. Like a lot of teams, it's all about the young guys with Vancouver, though Robbie the Robot, you might not want to short-circuit in the playoffs again. I'm not sure if the scrappy Wild and/or Oilers have enough to sneak in, but I'm most definitely positively absolutely sure that the Rockies don't.

Pacific: Yes, the Sharks, because of changes, will win the division. Yes, Anaheim, because of changes, will only push them. Yes, this is finally the year the young Kings barge their way to game 83. No, Dallas will not overcome age and injury and malaise and Marty Turco suddenly reminding us all of the contents of a septic tank. Yes, Phoenix is a mess on every possible level. Just move them back to Canada already. Retired golfers with plastic lawns and pacemakers don't want to watch hockey.

Eastern playoff teams: Pittsburgh, Washington, Boston, Philadelphia, Carolina, N.Y. Rangers, Buffalo, Ottawa.

Western playoff teams: San Jose, Calgary, Detroit, Chicago, Anaheim, Vancouver, St. Louis, Los Angeles.

Stanley Cup Finals: Sweet crap on crust, I have no clue, so let's discard the sure things: I'm sure the bottom half in each conference has little-to-no shot (okay, maybe the Ducks do). I'm sure I just heard the population of Edmonton sharpen their pitchforks and ignite their torches while screaming that they were one game away, as an eighth seed, from being the Champions of the Universe a mere few years ago. I'm sure San Jose, despite having arguably the most talented roster in the NHL -- tell me Joe Thornton isn't chomping at the bit to fire passes to Heatley -- won't because choking is their very special specialized specialty. Hang on, I'm going to put some names in a hat. Here, you pick:

"Pittsburgh and Calgary."

Who wins?

"Flip a coin."