God to Penguins: See What I Did There?

Game One was bo-ring. Seriously, it was like the Penguins smoked a fatty before the game and stepped onto the ice like ‘Dude, just pass it to Crosby he’ll score.’ And Crosby was like ‘I’m Sidney Crosby, I’m the face of the NHL, blah, blah, blah. I want my mommy!'

Game Two? Forget it. I watched half of it and then went to shoot pool with Bhudda.

Game Three however, was...was...oh man, I hope I am saying this correctly...too hype! Pittsburgh woke up. The Wizard of Cros was on fire! That’s when I thought to myself, okay, this is what hockey is all about. This is the kind of stuff I used to see from my Whalers back in the day.

Then there was Game Four—a disaster. I was convinced Malkin wouldn’t be a useless tool. I thought Hossa would do more than just score one goal a few minutes into the first period. But no, that’s what I got.

I should like the Red Wings. I’m old and they’re the closest thing to the Whalers that I’m gonna get. I should like the Penguins too because they represent the new generation, a rebirth of the NHL.

Come on people, the resurrection?!? Hello? Do you not pay attention in Sunday school? Jesus. Oops, sorry son.

I should also hate the Penguins because their two previous Cup titles were won with Ron Francis. Google him. I don’t want to talk about it.

Last time someone mentioned Francis to me I condemned them to date Hillary Duff and play for the Islanders. That’s right Comrie, laugh it up now at Nassau Coliseum, but you’ll be sorry when you have to sit through another teen rom-com with no ending and your team doesn’t make it to the playoffs for the next 36 years.

But I digress...

I didn’t want the series to end. I haven’t felt this good since Gordie Howe decided to play his last season in Hartford.

Marc-Andre Fleury’s body was contorting in ways a man’s body should never contort in! Adam Hall went from being ‘Who the hell is Adam Hall?’ to ‘Adam Hall, hell yes!’ Ryan Malone was eating pucks! Sergei Gonchar was skating head first into the boards.

With the Red Wings one minute away from a Stanley Cup victory I decided we need a sixth game. But who, dear friends, could I make a hero? It hit me with 35 seconds left. The funny guy from Quebec whose playoff beard is so obscenely divine he looks identical to my son Christ: Mad Max Talbot.

The rest is, as they say, history. The Talbot goal I assisted gave the Pens the momentum to keep it, I am so bad at this...to keep it…real? They won the game in the third overtime and now there’s a sixth game to be played the way a Stanley Cup final should be played: with desire, want, drive...you get me

My mind isn’t made up about a seventh game. I’m still on the fence about who I’d like to see hoisting the Cup high above his shoulders. But I do know that Game Six means a lot more now. It’s crunch time.

Oh and I told Whisenhunt to name Leinart the starter next season for the Cards. Deal with it.

Does anyone have any questions?

Yes, you in the front with the Cubs cap on. Good choice by the way. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.”

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