Since I walked away from this year's Puck Daddy Blackhawks Eulogy feeling completely unfulfilled (insert joke here), I thought I'd throw something together in typical Puckin Hostile fashion. This, folks, is how you properly roast the Blackhawks. And please save your defensive comments. This is a roast style eulogy, not a memorial. Have a sense of humor.
Fans / Former Fans / Tone Deaf Management / League Men In Black / People who aimlessly stumbled in thinking this was an AA meeting,
We gather here today, to mourn the sudden and untimely loss of the Uncle Gary's very special little boys (some more "special" than others). The NHL's most recent crown jewel and show piece. The proverbial NEO and Anakin Skywalker of the NHL. They were supposed to be the chosen ones! The Dynasty! Uncle Gary said so!
Where did it go wrong? Like an episode of Intervention, they started out as beautiful wide eyed babies. They were the "perfect babies", growing up in the perfect near west side crack shanty, with a faded yellow tinged fence, speckled with blood. Who could have guessed it would all spiral down into tragedy? Uncle Gary gave them everything! He fixed playoff series for years. He trained the officials to look the other way. He forced the hockey world to endure not 1, but FOUR insufferable outdoor games. And if all of that wasn't enough for all the petulant whining fans of the other 29 teams, Uncle Gary vowed to torture us with yet another outdoor game in the stinky, unbleached bunghole of America (St. Louis), next January. Every young child's dream. In return, the Blackhawks chose to stick the needle in their arm.
Isn't there some way that we could bring Joel and Stan's beautiful child back to us? What is Papa John McDonough going to think of the loss of his grandbaby?
The very best interventionist's suggest that we write letters to our beloved addicts, to tell them how their addiction has affected our lives. That might be out best course of action, so here goes:
Young #Kaner, You sleazy little dope.
excuse me, sorry.
You came to us with such promise. Your empty vapid smile and atrocious attempt at a mullet lit up our world every April. You put together one of the best single regular seasons in Blackhawks history. But you overshadowed this with your dark passenger. Loudmouth soup and your incessant need to chase trixie bar strange dun turned you stupid, boy. You willingly jammed that golden spoon that we handed you in Columbus Ohio nine years ago straight up your ass. Just to see if you could get away with it. We do recognize, though, that you've been grooming yourself for a very successful post playing career profession...
wearing an orange jump suit.
You pock faced little meatball hero. It will probably be sad to see you donning that #65 in Edmonton next fall, where no one will see you, and it will be equally sad that you will somehow net the Blackhawks Andrew Ference in return. You took one in the chops for the cup and we will be forever grateful for this. And...We will (kind of) mourn your actual death when they put you down like Old Yeller, after you take a horrendous late third period cross checking penalty costing the Erlers a playoff berth and then call the referee a "f@#$%t".
You peanut butter, nut grabbing, bull headed, old grey bastard. You have relentlessly trolled the fan base since 2010 with your you cutesy little lineup shenanigans like #leshfregs, Scott/Montador/Brookbank at forward, Bollig/Manshinter/Carcillo over anybody with a pulse and a fraction of a brain, Christobal Huet at all, Nick Leddy sitting in the playoffs, so forth and so on. You got away with it, though. You may be the luckiest son of a bitch in NHL coaching history. Your insistence on playing daddy dominatrix with young players has, no doubt, stalled a few young careers, as you beat them down like puppies that have pissed on the carpet until they developed PTSD. Hide behind those #3CUPZ, though. Like any other old casino junkie, the luck will run its course, if it hasn't already. If Jeremy Morin doesn't pull a "Danny McGrath" on you first, that is.
Sweet Soft Spoken Momma Bowman,
You are the loyal battered wife of this organization. You sneak out during the afternoon with Dad's old rotten disgusting Scuderi, bring home something nice and shiny, like a Christian Ehrhoff. How does dad show you his appreciation? He gets drunk, throws it through the front window, douses it in gasoline in the front lawn and lights it ablaze while you're screaming, "No Joel, NO! I did it for YOU! I love you!" for the whole neighborhood to see. Classic love story. Names like Dale Weise, Antoine Vermette, Tomas Fleischmann, and Nick Leddy wake you in the middle of the night with night terrors. You cook daddy Q a four course meal, he spits it in a napkin, walks out the door and spends the rest of his night at the local pub with his hand on some drunken pub floozy's ass. Yet, There you are standing between Grandpa McDonough and Daddy Quenneville the next morning, with a big smile on your face, eating that fat juicy shit sandwich on the news like Hillary Clinton in 1998. You're what the professionals, in the biz, call an ENABLER. No wonder you've aged 30 years since 2008.
Oh, THAT guy.
Direct decedent of another historic American figure, Betsy? Christ, I hope not. Got yourself bailed out of a little pickle, there, didn't ya, slick? Leave it up to the state of Michigan to jump in muck things up, just like the old days. How everyone let your fist pumping bald broski McNasty (how appropriate is that nickname?) off the hook is mind numbing. Well, maybe not exactly...
I hope you enjoy next fall in Binghamton. I'm sure the Tinder playing field is much more expansive than Rockford Illinois. Keep on swiping the good swipe, Kiddo. Based on that mugshot, you'll need the help.
My boy! The man that, apparently, never met an "all you can eat" buffet that he didn't like. You better find one of those lines full of more #FruitAndCrap before you turn into our version of Dan Girardi. Did you take nutrition advice from your former buffet line buddy, Dustin Flufflien? Just a touch of advice for your off season? Join a gym; because if the last season is any barometer of the future, you're going to be bailing out a lot of teammates and looking at the back of opponent's jerseys for the next...
Lets look this up...
That about covers this emotionally exhausting season. It came to a merciful end and, quite frankly, this team didn't deserve a better fate. They were slightly above average all season, with a flicker of brilliance. That does not win Stanley Cups. Being a red hot, very good team does. Getting knocked down only to get back up again is what this team was built on.
Now, back to your fucking jobs, ya god damn boobs!