Puck drops for the SCF in Chicago tonight. Jesus.
It’s going to be a shitshow. Chelsea Dagger will be begging to be unleashed. Chicagoans will feel that this is their first chance in a long time to do anything meaningful in sports (the NBA in the 90’s feels like a dream, doesn’t it?).
But we’re hockey fans. The Stanley Cup is the most resonant of sports championships. Bitches wish they could touch this.
And Chicago and Philadelphia will start leering lecherously at it tonight. We’re not saying we authorized this. Just that it will be a moment to savor, whether for its utter absurdity and your burning rage, or for its excitement.
The photographers that so brought us practice-time joy in the national media are in Illinois right now, and Patrick Sharp looks to Curry:
Mike Richards is focusing on something at middle distance that we think might be somebody’s crotch.
We’ve noticed a strange amount of forbidden sexual energy being directed at Mr. Jeff Carter lately. He might be the hero you never knew you had, or it might have something to do with Uranus entering Aries or whatever.
Pudding doing his best to look like a champion (and failing).
Maybe Dustin will eat his pudding supply and put an end to everything:
Unless he eats Kaner first, which would really solve most of our problems.
What’s that Richie? Dehydrated from all of your lascivious staring?
At least Pronger has his mind right:
Can you tell?
Don’t fret, Duncan, baby. You’re obviously invited to all of the picnics when this is over. We’ll bring some soft foods for you.
Feel free to request any more picspam.
Someone will win this game tonight, which is a horrifying enough prospect. We won’t dump any more feelings on you.
Every man for himself. Hang onto your juice boxes.
We know which team is the only team that matters. These other fools are just pretending.