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Archive for the ‘Players Come Players Go’ Category

3-2-1 Hockey: 13

August 9 2010

Not too long ago, we were all elated because the Devils had signed Ilya Kovalchuk. There was much hoopla and rejoicing, and there was a big press conference (their first one ever!!11!!!!1!), and it was all going to be awesome. And then the NHL rejected the contract. And then we found out that the team knew the contract was going to be rejected but went ahead with the announcements and the “ooh, ooh, buy season tickets!” crap anyway. And then the NHLPA grieved the contract rejection, so we all had to wait for arbitration. And today the arbitration came down in favor of the league. So Victory Euro Mats did what any sane unofficial Devils mascot would — he found a sturdy beam on the patio table out on the deck, and hanged himself.

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The scene: ChucklesNation International airport, in the deserted arrivals hall.

Gary Bettman darts out of a shadowy doorway, slinks around the perimeter of the hall, forages a half-eaten cinnabon from a garbage can, hisses softly at the Ookies, then scurries away.

The Ookies: “We got our cymballs out of storage for that?”

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So… Kovalchuk, eh? Works for us! We asked for change, and we’re getting it in spades this summer, so much so that we’ve almost completely forgotten about the Arnott acquisition. If you can make us forget about that, you’re doing a damn fine job as a change-making GM, so kudos, Lou.

Because he’s going to be ours for the next 10,000 years or so, we figure we need to embrace Kovalchuk. There are a number of reasons why this should be easy for even bloggers as hard-hearted as we. First of all, he’s not Andrew Peters. ::brushes off hands:: Done and done! Welcome to the family, Chuckles! Second of all, we can call him Chuckles. And when he scores, he can score for a case of Chuckles. Chuckles are a rare candy where even the weird dark-purple-flavored color is still tasty. Sure Kovalchuk doesn’t seem like he belongs, but what the hell? Maybe he’s the dark-purple Chuckle and not the weird dark-purple Necco wafer (also known as “clove”. We know!!!! CLOVE!)? Or at the very least, maybe he won’t turn into the weird dark-purple Necco wafer until a few years from now. Because even though we’re really, really excited for a Kovalchuk signing, and we can’t imagine ever not loving our very own Chuckles, we can’t entirely forget that the last time we were this psyched for a free-agent signing the guy’s name rhymed with “Blian Blolston”.

But let us not dwell on such unpleasantries! Now is the time celebrate, and to get that “CHUCKLES” tattoo in gothic letters across our shoulders! Because a gothic-letter nameplate tattoo is forever, as is Kovalchuk’s alleged contract. No one living in ChucklesNation would be caught dead without one.

Ookies and Co. meet Chuckles at the airport, where they perform the traditional dance of ChucklesNation, demonstrating what wonders await those who sign with the Devils instead of the poopy old Kings.

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These are dark times at stately IPB Manor. The corrupt ruling priest classes of PandoNation and PaulieMartinNation have been walking on eggshells as the free agency period has drawn closer, and today the first horrible blow was dealt: PandoNation’s emperor-god is no more.

After the initial shock wore off from hearing the news, and after several hours of ululation, shrill keening, and much rending of garments and hair, the corrupt ruling priest class of PandoNation, stuck working their day job, got online with the corrupt ruling priest class of PaulieMartinNation to discuss how to move forward. Pookie greeted the news in her typical implacable fashion — she declared that Pando was, at that moment, ascending to Interchangeable Parts Heaven in his fiery chariot.

Unlike some gracious fans of players who have played their entire careers with one team, Schnookie does not embrace the notion of Pando wearing another team’s sweater. She proclaimed to Pookie, “I am so far beyond not wanting him to go to another team, to the point where he is, until he retires, literally invisible and dead to me. Pando as a non-Devil doesn’t exist.” Pookie, ever the cooler head, had higher hopes: “I don’t want him going to another team. I want him to melt the waiver wire with the glow of his heavenly chariot.”

Whatever happens to Pando the hockey player, the streets of PandoNation are running red with blood tonight. When the chaos and violence subside, the remaining citizenry will pull up stakes and head out to -Nations far and wide; someday all that will be left of a once-proud civilization will be the crumbled foundations of its temples, the pottery sherds in its garbage pits, and the base of its towering sculpture centerpiece, with its inscription “My name is Pando, king of kings. Look upon my works ye mighty and despair”.

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