There really is no nice way to say this so I’m going to be straight with you. I’m not trying to hurt you…I just want to be fair. You seem really sweet. And you’re cute. But I just can’t date you right now. I know that Spring to you means flowers, warm days, and the undeniable urge to snuggle. But to me, Spring means only one thing:
NHL Hockey Playoffs!!
It’s me, not you. I’ve loved hockey since I was a wee thing. In fact, it’s ridiculously embarrassing how much I love hockey. I’ve sung along to stupid parody “go team” songs, worn unflattering team jerseys, and whored myself out for game tickets. I’m not proud of that. (But damn, did I ever get some great seats!)
Hockey is all-consuming for me. I live and breathe for it, despite the rollercoaster of emotions that occasionally derail and fling you to the shockingly hard ground below. You can’t know how desperately I cry into my beers…uh…beer…sh*t!…tea…when my boys are eliminated and have to exit, ashamed, to the golf course. You can’t know how gloriously, giddily euphoric it is to finally win the Holy Grail of Stanley. I was laughing and crying at the same time when my Flames won in '89. I was so incredibly, endlessly proud when I saw Lanny McDonald hoist the Cup above his head, tears streaming down into his crazy bushman playoff beard. I'll remember that moment until the day I die...or I contract Alzheimer's...whichever comes first (my money's on the Alzheimer's).
(That beard, by the way? I only put up with it because it’s tradition – even though it’s probably hella itchy and totally looks like complete ass. Don't ever try to pull it off. Nobody can rock that beard.)
I know this is hard to comprehend. I’ve tried to understand it myself, believe me. But this is a decades-long love relationship. You can’t just expect me to up and leave. I’ve tried…I really have! I totally cut hockey off when Keenan took over the Canucks and traded my boy Trev. You cannot know the dark depths of my hellacious fury in that moment. Words cannot describe how much I still loathe that maggoty little ferret-dicked asswad, Keenan. (with apologies to maggots, ferrets and asswads.) I held strong in my oath to boycott that nasty phlegm fungus while he was coach. When that tuberous parasite of vermin left for good, I thought I was cleansed of my debilitating addiction…that I was finally my own woman. Independent! Strong! Available to date in Spring! But then…then I went over to a girl friend’s place for what I thought would be a harmless junior cup game. And that was the beginning of the end. I was slowly sucked back down into the unescapable vortex of slapshots and cross-checking and five-on-three power plays. (Add chips and dip into that mix and I’m a lost girl.) I know I’m weak. I know I have a problem. But honestly, how can something that feels so good be so bad? [weeps]
So please, forgive me? If we could still be friends, that would be great. Truly. Maybe we could even try again after the playoffs are over? Although I should qualify that. If the Canucks win the Cup, I won’t be available. I’ll be stalking Luongo, holding a sign that reads: “Roberto, I want to have ur babies!”
Peace,
lughcifer
