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Okay, so we went away for a few days and returned home to find that the league was all settled on a new alignment plan. While we can definitely find things to complain about with this new plan — because, let’s face it, we can find things to complain about everything — it doesn’t seem too terrible. The only thing that has us really worried is the fact that the divisions will be named. Because you know what that means, Gentle Reader. That’s right — we’re going to be stuck in, like, the Gretzky Division. Or the Lemieux Division. Or the — ::hurl:: — Messier Division. Those are horrible names, and we want to offer the league a service here to keep them from making a naming decision they’ll live to regret. NHL, can we suggest a division name that is utterly unassailable in its awesomeness? Yes, we’re being dead serious here, and you can thank us later for…

The Pandolfo Division.

You’re welcome.

Ew

Gawd, the Devils suck. And the worst part about their recent play is it’s making us miss Scott Clemmensen.

So there we were, capping off “Hockey Day In America” with an episode of Rockford Files instead of the Caps/Rangers game. And the episode was the second of a two-parter featuring a goofy elderly dude who’s being cheated convolutedly out of his farm — “The Birds, The Bees, And T.T. Flowers”. We’d hit up the first half last week, but this in this half the dude, in a stand-off with an LAPD SWAT team at his homestead, started waxing poetic about his beloved trees. Trees he’d listened to on farmy evenings, making their tree music rustling in the wind. Trees he had planted, nurtured, staked against the wind, and taught to sing. The dude was acting pretty certifiable, but as people who are very married to their beloved garden and orchard, we kind of understood where he was coming from. In the seven years we’ve been at Stately IPB Manor we’ve committed tons of blood, sweat, and tears to bettering the land; we’ve put in a big vegetable garden, planted berry canes and bushes and grapevines, and weaned over a dozen little fruit trees that are now starting to show their thanks by bearing fruit. We’d probably dig in against a SWAT team, too, if confronted with losing our beloved land.

But as people who were deep into a second bottle of wine, we started to panic — we’ve never taught our trees how to sing. Well. Mark our words — some time after the sun comes up tomorrow, when we’re finally awake and have had some aspirin, we’ll be out front, coaching our little orchard. With this ditty:

Because when you’re a farmer who drinks too much, you’re a farmer who takes teaching your trees how to sing seriously.

We’re in the middle of basting a quilt today. Couldn’t the Devils have consulted with us before having a 1:00 matinee?

Whoops The Game Started

What a crappy picture!

Wait, the Devils are playing this afternoon? Since when??

Huh? Devils?

Gentle Reader, there’s supposedly a Devils game tonight. We’re very distracted, though — the new Tomahawk album was released today! We’re totally having a listening party, and the Devils aren’t invited. Hmph.

Okay, so they’re invited. Fine. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to listen to them, too.

January 29 2013

As I sat at my laptop in my Gucci track suit and Manolo sneakers, I couldn’t help but wonder if Henrik Lundqvist would look cuter without that stupid little white golfer’s glove he wears under his goalie glove. It’s probably filled with vaseline. I couldn’t help but think “ew”.

The End

Byline: Ookie Bradshaw

[Cue bus splashing gutter water all over Ookie Bradshaw's bedazzled Mrs. Lamoreillo jersey]

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