Caitlin checking in again.
You know, when I heard about the Avery deal today, I can’t tell you how I truly felt. I think the term “white-hot rage flowing through my veins” is probably about the understatement of the century. Did I almost have an aneurysm? Probably. Did my blood pressure skyrocket to seriously unhealthy levels? Definitely.
You know it’s bad when I swear over in the comment thread at Interchangeable Parts that I will root for Jeremy Roenick (not the Sharks, just Roenick) against Sean Avery when we play the Sharks however many times a year now. Long has Roenick been my enemy, but I’ll cheer his ass on if he’s going to do something distinctly jerkfaced to Avery.
I went from feeling pretty positive about the Stars to really at a loss for words to describe the feelings I have for next season. (Will I be renewing my season tickets? Hahahahaha, no.) Patty did a pretty good job over at Penalty Killing. But I think this quote from that perennial holiday classic, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, sums up how I feel quite nicely:
I want him brought from his happy holiday slumber over there on Melody Lane with all the other rich people and I want him brought right here, with a big ribbon on his head, and I want to look him straight in the eye and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is. Hallelujah. Holy shit. Where’s the Tylenol?
And that’s just how I feel about Brett Hull right now. Don’t get me started on Avery.