(Editor’s note: Welcome to Under the Bucket, where Deaner from the classic flick Fubar tackles all things NHL for VICE Sports. You can follow him on Twitter and read previous installments here.)
So fuck yah, this year’s All-Star Game was pretty deadly with John Scott and everything, and a bunch of people are saying this and that about how he saved the weekend, but you know what made the weekend? Booze. The same thing that makes every fuckin’ weekend.
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When the NHL opened up the voting to the public, the public was at the bar and they were half in the bag and like, “Haha, fuckin’ eh, what if I vote for John Scott?” And the rest of the public was all hungover the next day and they were like, “Haha, look at that—John Scott is getting some votes! Fucking rights I’m gonna vote for him, too.” And after all the shit, he’s there and everybody loves him and the NHL doesn’t even put him on the final MVP voting ballot!! But who comes in and saves the fuckin’ day? Booze.
READ MORE: Down Goes Brown’s Weekend Review: John Scott, New Format Made for All-Star Show
That’s right, 20,000 drunks in Nashville’s arena were thinking, “Hey, wait a fuckin’ second, the guy who scored two goals, threw a hit, and had a scrap ain’t even on the ballot?” And so, they broke out with “JOHN SCOTT-MVP! JOHN SCOTT-MVP! JOHN SCOTT-MVP! JOHN SCOTT-MVP!” chants. Fuckin’ eh, rights! So you know who wins this year’s MVP in my mind? Booze.
The lesson here is that people should make decisions when they’re drunk. Cuz if it’s something that don’t matter, like an NHL All-Star Game—and let’s be clear, it doesn’t fucking matter—why not vote when you’re wasted?
A lot of people are beakin’ about how Alex Ovechkin and Jonathan Toews pulled a no-show this year for bullshit reasons like the flu, but can you blame them? Last year in Columbus, Toews partied so hard coach found him at the Ohio Medical Institute with a bunch of half-dressed lady med students who were trying to clone his sweet hands. And Ovi flipped the fuckin’ tables at Mitchell’s Ocean Club after he bought $25,000 of black sturgeon caviar and choked on a fucking pearl. A lot of fans just don’t get how fuckin’ dangerous All-Star Weekend is for the players.
Did you know them All-Stars got a free guitar for showin’ up? Yah, a Gibson, or some shit, which is sort of cool I guess. But if I was in charge everybody would have received The Deaner Warlock. Now THAT woulda been fuckin’ deadly. But nobody ever fuckin’ listens to me.
Now that’s badass. —Image courtesy Busted Tranny Productions
So, yah, the skills competition is pretty fuckin’ impressive, but there’s one important hockey skill that they ain’t never gonna put on TV. No, I ain’t talkin about “heart” or shotgunning beers, I’m talkin’ about The Chirp. Chirpin’ is something that you can’t teach, but if you got it, it can be the difference between a win and a loss. A deadly chirper can get the skill guys off their game, or even better get one to take a bad penalty and maybe even get booted out off the fuckin’ ice. The art of the chirp is so respected that players won’t even talk about it. After the game teammates ask their best player, “What did Team’s Best Chirper say to you that made you break your stick over his face?” and buddy goes, “It’s just part of the game.” And it is. A deadly and sacred part of the game.
If you take the chirp seriously, you keep tabs on the all the rumours and shit going on with the team you’re about to play. You know who just wrapped his car around a tree, and who got his nose busted by his girlfriend at 5 AM. Some guys are more sensitive to the chirp than others, and a good chirper has a playbook on every one.
There ain’t no other game where you’re in the corner battlin’ for a loose puck with an old veteran who ain’t scored in a while, and you’re like, “Fuck, bud, must be tough eatin’ with no hands.” And buddy gives you a wicked cross check and then you’re like, “Oh, you feel sad now? Don’t slip on your tears, you fuckin’ baby.” Now buddy is fuckin’ pissed and you get a wicked two-handed slash behind the legs. “You hear that DING, old man? It’s time to take you out of the oven cuz you’re fuckin done.”
Then buddy breaks his stick over your orbital bone, and if you timed it right, you got a five minute power play right at the end of the period. Then you skate past the penalty box and mime the “air jerk” motion. At least that’s what used to happen with me after downing a few Pilsners. Like I said, some of the best decisions are made drunk.
