Fuckin’ right, buddy!
A Tilly worth getting jacked up for. The Chirping will be absolutely dirty. The pre-scrap facewashing will make your blood boil. Don’t be a plug Woody, show us you got a set. Drop those filthy mittens and square the fuck up. Oh how I hope you got dental. I’ma knock those chiclets out quicker than a hundred mile an hour clapper. I got a heavy wrister waiting for ya too, ready to slap that lip lettuce off your face. Trust me when I say you’re no match for this beauty, you fuckin’ pylon.
Man Rocket versus Pigeon.
It’s gonna be a fuckin’ gongshow!
Scotty, my boy! In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit of a hockey connoisseur myself. I’m a good Ol’ Canadian boy, after all. Dabbled in my share of shinny back in the day. So revisiting the Ninety Four Rangers? Fun trip down memory lane. Name dropping Messier? I love me some Moose. And that Game Six Guarantee? Fuckin’ legendary.
I also liked the symmetry of comparing Cancer to the Devils. Deviled eggs. Ha, I see you! Top notch mind fuckery on your part. The whisk needed to scramble some eggs. Do you see me?
But let’s put a pin in that, just for a moment. Calm ‘er down, I’ll circle back to your fandom. I promise.
There’s an elephant in the room that needs addressing. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is writing the majority of the field off. They’re caressing their crystal balls with dicks in hand, playing fortune teller. Gotta worry about them dangerous big boys waiting three rounds from now. Gotta drink that imaginary champagne from the cup and stroke the waist that’ll soon be home of a championship.
Y’all gonna put Miss Cleo out of business!
And don’t you dare cry innocence. Your Wood is in your hand too, Scott. You yourself said you were looking past Jiles. Something about being ready for a real meal, cheap breakfast is gross. Don’t quote me, there were so many food puns to agonize through.
The DeNucci Cup is your destiny. Delusional much?
Teddy though? Well I’m one of those write offs. The cards I hold aren’t putting the fear of GOD in many. Returning from a major injury. Noob to the HOFC cage. A first round performance that left plenty to be desired.
To sum it all up, not much of a threat at all.
And that’s great. In the context of history, fuckin’ eh!
Especially since it seems the word history is the in thing right now.
If we’re putting our faith in history, I dig my chances. I don’t know if you remember, but I’ve been the overlooked competitor in a tournament before. Not too long ago, actually. It turned out alright for me. No big deal…
But that’s right! I’m no fuckin’ idiot.
I ain’t putting shit into history. That’s a fools plan and a complete waste of time. Nothing but hot breath and shitty words. Or as I like to call it, the ‘Scottywood Special’.
I get it Mister Art Degree. You’re a former HOFC Champion. The longest reigning you’ve told us, on more than one occasion. A HOW Hall of Famer. You don’t earn that honour just by having perfect attendance. A HOW owner. Not quite sure how you earned your stake, don’t really care. Congrats though.
Much Respect. I’m Serious.
Here’s where we circle back though. A man of my word.
Watching you fanboy over your Rangers and Moose was cute. A nice, warm blanket of a memory. But there’s the catch. It’s a fuckin’ memory. It’s a moment in time encapsulated in that broad category we call history.
You follow me? No? It’s simple, buddy.
Do you think the players battling for the Cup this season give a fuck about Ninety Four?
So do you think I give a fuck about your long list of accolades?
Nope. Sorry. I give you zero fucks.
Reminiscing about the days of yesteryear was enough to crack the fragile psyche of Jiles. Well done. You played your cards smart. You also showed your hand. Scottywood: the man in doubt. Trying desperately to get a few extra miles outta tires with no tread.
This round is different. I’m not some weak minded loser. My dick is in my pants. My cards are held tight. I’m eager to play my hand.
I refuse to look past you.
And know a Nostalgia Act when I see one.