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Archive for the ‘Boston Bruins’ Category

— For a variety of uninteresting reasons, Pookie arrived at work this morning with about 20 minutes to spare and a hankering to find videos about Beaks on YouTube. She found this:

When she sent the link to Schnookie this exchange ensued:

Pookie: I found a HILARIOUS video of Beaks and CoreyPerry CoreyPerry. Fighting in Juniors. At the end of a playoff game.
Schnookie: Oh my god.
Pookie: I was laughing out loud in my car. It was Muppet Baby Douchebags.
Schnookie: I’m honestly not sure who I’d think wins that. Of course, we’re ALL winners here.
Pookie: It was like what I imagine baby peacocks would be like if they were chimpanzees learning life skills by copying their parents.
Schnookie: (After watching the video) Oh my god. That’s a beauty. I love Beaks tossing his head. Like, I’m sure he thought, a wild stallion. He looked like Beaks of Chincoteague there. A little wild pony.

— For a variety of uninteresting reasons we ended up discussing Principal Skinner and Superintendent Chalmers during dinner tonight, which, of course, spiraled into an exchange of Simpsons quotes. When Schnookie pulled out the “how will anyone know it’s a Honda without the H?” scene, Pookie suddenly declared that Looch had eaten the H off all the Hondas he’s ever seen. Schnookie agreed, because Looch just loves to eat the letter H. Pookie then remarked, “That’s why that Bruins/Habs game was such a melee. Looch just sees all those little H’s on the sweaters…”

— Boomer made us all laugh really hard after dinner when she tried to read aloud the blurb about Nora Roberts’s upcoming release, Catching Fire, a romance novel about smokejumpers. Boomer launched into the first sentence of the blurb, “There’s little as thrilling as firefighting…” but said instead, “There’s little as thrilling as firefarting.” We still haven’t stopped shrieking with laughter. Being a grownup is grand.

— We got a crazy new fisheye lens for our camera today. VE Mats loves it.

Fisheye VE Mats

So does Rollie.

Fisheye Rollie

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We’ve discussed a few times this season how important having secondary teams is to us, and even though we’re enjoying the Devils and our secondary Tranny Brides quite a bit so far this season, it has recently seemed prudent to expand our horizons. After much deliberation, we tentatively decided to accept the Bruins as our Tranny Gentleman Callers, and despite the fact that they promptly suffered a rash of grievous injuries and started losing games left and right, we think they might stick. We watched yesterday’s Bruins/Blues game on tivo delay, and spent most of the time discussing the things we like enough about them to support a possible secondary-team relationship. Here, in no particular order, are some of our thoughts.

Lucic: The bomb.

Chara: The bomb.

Mark Stuart: Hott.

Kreijci: We love him. Schnookie had her reservations, because his name always seems to be spoken in Jack Edwards’s voice, but ultimately, our love is unconditional. Plus, it often sounds like his name is actually “Crunchy”, which means he probably grows his own loofahs.

Sobotka: CANS! We don’t know his number, don’t know whether he’s a forward or a defenseman, don’t know if he’s any good, and don’t know his first name. And we don’t want to know. But we love him, because CANS! (We figure since we’ve seen Season 2 of “The Wire”, we know what he looks like.)

Blake Wheeler: His name is the opposite of Jon Sim or Joffrey Lupul, in that he just sounds foxalicious and not at all annoying. He might very well be heinous and staggeringly annoying, but how would we ever know?

Tim Thomas: Look at that hobo! He’s killing a bar! With his bare hands! And… is that… is that… yoga???

Bitz: Dude. Just… Dude. His name is actually Bitz. His nickname is actually Bitzie. If he had a Tim Horton’s munchkin named after him it would be a Bitzbits. And if munchkins could produce their own smaller donut-holes, it would be a Bitziebitsie. Boston loves them some Dunkin Donuts, right? Get on that, Boston!

The Boston Arena: We went there once, a few years ago, to watch the Devils give up four goals to Marty Lapointe. Yeah, that Marty Lapointe. And yeah, those Devils. It was… awful. And we made merciless fun of Bruins fans for years afterward because of two things — one, they had this Smokey the Bear graphic on the jumbotron to whip the crowd into a frenzy, but his method of frenzy-whipping is to intone in a deep, inducing-a-cult-to-mass-suicide-or-human-sacrifice voice a dirge-like “Here we go Bruins, here we go”. And two, they are encouraged by the goal announements to cheer B’s goals with short, high-pitched, distinctly feminine “woo!”s. After a win, the fans slowly surge out of the arena, at a Smokey-approved pace, doing call and response “woo!”s. It’s really, really weird. But, now that we’ve got some time and space between us and those four Lapointe goals, it’s also kind of hilarious. *woo!*

NESN’s HD feed: This is what HD was invented for. Back when Jessica Fletcher mentioned HD being the future of TV on an episode of “Murder, She Wrote” (true story; we saw it with our own eyes), this was what she was talking about. We’ve seen a lot of team’s broadcasts, and we gotta say, there’s something about the overhead shot of the spoked-wheel on face-offs that makes our hockey-in-HD lovin’ hearts swoon. *swoon!*

Spokey The Bear: They almost named their mascot Spokey. We can love them now because we just pretend that’s what they actually decided to do.

Jack Edwards and Andy Brickley: You can’t fight City Hall.

Our Trip To Cambridge Six Years Ago: Back when we were living in Arizona, we launched ourselves on a trip back east to plan for sure that we wanted to move back to New Jersey. Along the way, we decided to stop in for a few days without pseudo-sister and beloved friend Jen, who lives in Cambridge. (It was on this trip that we caught the four Lapointe goals.) It was March, and the end of a hard New England winter; much to our delight, it snowed while we were there. Everyone else in the entire city was clearly pissed that it was snowing, but we’d spent the previous few years literally in the desert, and we were homesick for the east coast, and we were on vacation from our crappy, dead-end jobs, and we spent a day walking around Cambridge in a storybook-perfect snowfall just brimming with that feeling we like to call Newer, Better Life. It was one of those absolutely, completely, utterly perfect days, and after wandering in the snow, and stopping for hot cocoa at a coffee shop, and feeling like we were finally home after a long journey in foreign lands, we hunkered down in Jen’s cozy living room, watching a snowy evening fall. It doesn’t get better than that, and there’s something about watching Bruins games on NESN that makes us feel like that again.

They Have A Prospect Named Wacey Rabbit!: Need we say more? Cal Clutterbuck wishes his name was Wacey Rabbit! Wacey Rabbit, Wacey Rabbit, Wacey Rabbit — no matter how many times you say it, it sounds like the greatest name ever!

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No game diary tonight, Gentle Reader, but please do enjoy an open thread here. We’ll be around, partaking of a leisurely dinner, a glass or two of wine, and a diary-free game night.

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We are like every other hockey fan in that we spend a lot of time bitching that the officials never do anything right. We’re always ready to heap scorn and outrage on some hard-working referee after we get to review his every call in excruciating detail and from multiple angles. So we’d like to take a moment now to appreciate a call made in this evening’s Bruins-Penguins game.

We were in the middle of dinner, up to our elbows in chicken tacos, when our attention was drawn to the TV by the quivering excitement in Bob Errey’s voice. It seemed that Georges Laraque and Zdeno Chara were squaring off to fight, and Errey squealed that this was the bout he’d been looking forward to for weeks. And so the two behemoths struck ye olde boxing poses, and spent a long moment sizing each other up while the officials swept their discarded gloves aside. Then they spent another long moment waving their fists at each other in what they surely thought was a menacing manner. Then they spent another long moment bobbing and weaving in nearly imperceptible, spastic torso fakes. Then they spent another long moment waggling their eyebrows at each other as if to say, “Wanna go? Let us earn our keep by our fists like men!” Then they spent another long moment wondering if they’d turned off their stoves before leaving home. Then they spent another long moment clenching their fists into ever more imposing weapons of flesh. Then they spent another long moment whipping out the financial pages of the local newspapers and reviewing their stock portfolios. Then they spent another long moment waiting for the airplanes passing overhead so the noise would not be a distraction.

What we’re saying is that they spent ages wasting time posturing like a couple of preening, pantywaisted peacocks on parade.
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