|
It was a dark and stormy night. I was getting ready to relax by the television watching re-runs of NHL games of the past when I finally collapsed, face-down in a bowl full of popcorn and Maple Leafs hope.
Seen Here: Leafs fans’ hope moment before he collapses and understands that there is no hope. Ever.
I awoke in a strange and unexplainable place. Let’s explain it. It was dark and dreary, it smelt like ego and vomit with a hint of diarrhoea. Needless to say, I was in Sean Avery’s bedroom… naked. I got up and pulled on the first thing I could find. Then, touching my skin, I realized it felt funky, and looked much along the lines of Rod Brind’Amour’s face.
Deep behind the skin of this Sloth from the Goonies look-alike is a real face. No, I swear!
I wandered out of the room, slowly creeping my way down the hall, noticing oddly hot pink carpets that ran the length of the floor and up the walls on opposite ends of the house. I also noticed a newspaper on the wall that read “Rangers Win Cup”, and is dated May 16 of 2018.
“May of 2018?” I said to myself. “That doesn’t make any sense!” But by this point, how could any of what I was seeing make sense. I’m somehow in Sean Avery’s house, the carpet is pink and it forms a racing stripe through the house, and I just realized I’m wearing a diaper with a Budweiser logo on it.
“Oh my Gretzky!” I said out loud, because in my hockey world, Wayne Gretzky is God. “I somehow woke up in the future… AND I DID IT WITHOUT A DELORIAN! EAT THAT MICHAEL J. FOX!”
Someone heard me. Curses to my loud obnoxiousness… and the diaper rash I can feel coming on. I tried to hide in the nearest closet, but two hookers were already in there. This is Sean Avery’s house after all, I should have expected this.
I aim for the door, which is oddly shaped like an upside down bucket and it finally makes me clue into the whole pink carpet stripe thing. “It’s a dick! A huge dick, the size of a house!”
“Fitting, isn’t it,” came the voice behind me. I know who it is, so I yell “douchebag” to see if it makes him run off, but a voice from outside yells “hey!” back to me. It sounds like Matt Cooke.
I turn around to stand face to face with Sean Avery. He approaches me and says, “I’d like for you to meet my bestest friend in the world.” He points to the living room and there, sitting even more naked than I am right now, is a cross-legged Pierre McGuire.
“The horror!” I whisper in that Marlon Brando voice I’ve perfected over years and years of way too much time on my hands.
The next thing I know, I’m sitting on the couch between the two of them, and Pierre is sitting just a little too close.
“I’m naked,” he whispers to me.
“I can see that, no matter how hard I try, I can definitely see that,” I reply to him, swallowing back my own vomit.
“Talk about the ultimate monster!” He then stands up and starts shaking his hips.
“OH MY GOD, THE MONSTER IS DANCING! KILL ME! SOMEONE KILL ME!”
He puts on a robe and says “what? That’s how we put on robes now!”
“Now?” I yell back at him. “Oh, right.” I had forgotten about the whole 2018 thing. “So, 8 years from now, err 2010, everyone is naked?”
They look at each other, then back at me and say awkwardly and simultaneously, “also fart burgers.” I am confused. I change the subject.
“So, what’s hockey like now?”
“Oh, you’re going to love this!” Sean Avery stands up and inserts a dvd.
“Oh come on, everyone’s naked but you still have dvds?! Where the hell are the holographic televisions?!”
“Dude,” says McGuire. “It’s 2018, get your head out of your ass.”
The lowest of the low I have ever been. Pierre McGuire burned me and has effectively eaten my soul.
The screen turns on automatically, I am amazed. “Wow, it turns on by itself? So cool!”
“The remotes in my hand, retard,” Sean Avery looks at me, disgusted by my appreciation for technology. He is still a douchebag in my mind.
I sit back and try to stop saying things as two of the biggest dinks in the history of the planet have put me in my place on more than one occasion.
A hockey game comes on the screen. It’s the final minutes of the third period of a Stanley Cup game. The ice surface is yellow, the blue lines and red lines are all green, and the crease expands the width of the goal line. It, for some reason, is still blue.
“Why is the ice surface yellow?” I ask.
“Alex Semin kept pissing all over the place, so we just made it the same color so you never notice the stains,” said McGuire, like he’s told this a hundred times before. Somehow it doesn’t sound crazy to them as it does to me.
“Is Gary Bettman still the Commissioner?”
“Who?” replies Avery.
“That short annoying pheasant looking guy,” McGuire says to him.
“Oh, yeah, no. After he failed on the European expansion he was gunning for Mexico teams, but was beaten and held captive by Mexican terrorists because they thought he was Canadian. A bit ironic considering how much he hates Canada.”
“Is he alright?” I asked, and for the first time I actually felt bad for Bettman.
“No one really knows, we figured if we found him he’d ruin the league with another dumb rule so we just left him there.”
“Yup,” added McGuire.
“I see.” Note to self: never EVER go to Mexico! I try to write this down somewhere but I only have my diaper.
The game continues, and it’s getting down to the final minute of the game. The Rangers are playing the San Antonio Vikings.
“Who the hell are the Vikings?”
“They are one of the best teams in the ANHL right now,” says McGuire.
“Wait, what? What’s the ANHL?”
“Oh, we changed the name of the league. It’s now the American National Hockey League. There’s only three Canadian teams left.”
“Only three? Which ones?”
“The Montreal Canadians and Toronto Maple Leafs, of course, and the Kitchener Ball-Silly Bangers.”
“Oh, Jim Balsillie finally got a team?”
“Nope,” replied Sean Avery. “We’re you the dumb kid that ate the paste growing up?”
“Dammit.” Fuck this place, I hate 2018. Unless…. Wait…
“Have the Leafs won the cup?!”
“No. They went to game seven in the Stanley Cup Finals against the Florida Panthers. In overtime, Brett Hull’s son kicked the puck in the net and they counted the goal because fuck the Leafs.”
“I hate my life.” I am angered by everything. The naked-ness, the pee rinks, the dick doors… ok, the Budweiser diapers are awesome, but everything else can eat shit!
I throw myself at the television, smashing my head into the knobs, because there are freakin’ knobs again?! What the…
And that’s the last thing I remember. I wake up in my bowl of popcorn and the television is still playing old-time hockey. I look around the room for pink carpets – nothing. I feel my head, I am fine.
“It was just a dream!”
I stand up to walk to the bathroom, and I am wearing a diaper. I stare down at it.
“Good, everything is back to normal.”
|
With the opening of National Hockey League traning camps fast approaching, and Jordan Staal's playing status in limbo due to a tendon injury in his right foot, the Pittsburgh Penguins have solidified their depth at center by signing Mike Comrie to a one-year, $500,000 contract, finding yet another proven talent willing to sacrifice a higher salary for a shot at hockey's ultimate prize.
After releasing an awful diary written by my good friend Ilya Kovalchuk, I decided to share another rather embarrassing note written by Kyle Wellwood.