Thursday, December 19, 2013
Thursday Morning Cupcheck - Ask Satan
If you're looking for solid hockey advice, you could do a lot worse than the Prince of Lies.
Good morning, hockey fans! Last week we knealt before Zod; this week, rather than bemoan the fact that Dallas' Jamie Benn has dropped from 1st to 4th in the NHL in even-strength scoring ("AIM HIGH, WILLIS!"), we're going to call in a favor on an old friend and have him write this d*mned column.
First, a few words about me. I'm a professional hockey player for an undertapped southern market team that hasn't made the playoffs in half a decade. I'm 6'4 and built like a Norse diety, with a long mane of luxurious, dark hair that marks me as the alpha-lion every time I take Tom Hicks to the zoo. The world's top genetic scientists studied my musculature and came away convinced there was a God, and you can rip polyurethane off a hardwood floor with my abs. So far 79% of Forbes Top 100 have personally asked me if I'd just poured my a** into these cutoff jean shorts. I have no question.
--Sleeveless from Seattle
Keep up the good work! If you're ever facing a tough road trip and need a city to get hit with a plague of boils, let me know and I'll put in a word with the big man upstairs.
Dear Father of Lies,
I am a 40+ winger on an otherwise young team, and can't seem to find my scoring touch anymore. My assistant coach tries to comfort me by telling me it happens to a lot of older wingers, but this is new territory for me, and the rest of the locker room is starting to look at me funny. I'm getting outscored by French fourth-liners, and am worried that any day now my coaches are going to leave me for someone half my age. Is there an elixir I can buy off of you, or perhaps a painting of myself I can put in my attic that grants me the ability to make a single decent pass on the powerplay? Thanks in advance.
--Goalless in Garland
Sun Tzu once said something like "use weapons-grade toxic chemicals on those around you to make yourself look better by comparison." The greatest advantage of old age is the element of surprise: the young are so trusting! They will never expect you to spike their Four Loko with powdered laxatives and depleted uranium. No one will notice your inability to score when they're on their hands and knees in the third period, vomiting up their mesoderm.
Dear Lord of the Night,
I am a former GM that took a team of aging, overpaid and underperforming vets with no-trade clauses and a farm system that was the laughingstock of the entire league, and in three and a half years --with zero budget flexibility and the lowest payroll in the league-- helped to build that team into a young, up-and-coming group built on speed and skill. Now I'm being asked to do the same thing in Calgary, but with an ownership group that thinks first-line centers are as commonplace as fecal matter in a Taco Bell gordita. Should I take another thankless job that guarantees I'll be fired in four years, or wait it out and hope for some team with a single decent prospect in their farm system to call?
--Bored in Bedford
The greatest trick Cody Eakin ever pulled was convincing the world that gingers didn't exist. You, too, must take this Calgary job, in order to sew the seeds of chaos and destruction throughout the land. Step one: use your lottery picks to draft the most sought-after and highly-skilled talent in the land. Step two: rush these 18 year-olds to the big leagues with zero preparation in the minors, give them a free, unearned spot on the top line and separate them from the rest of the team by constantly informing them that these teenagers are vastly superior in every conceivable way to the rest of you old and busted no-talent hacks. Step three: once these teenagers go three games without a point, make them a healthy scratch and publicly question their ability to play in this league. Once you have done these things, I will grant you a choice analyst position at ESPN, which is my most direct link to the Material Plane.