Issue #82 — Carrie Underwood
“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That’s relativity.” –Albert Einstien
What can I say? I like pretty girls. When it comes to the recent nuptuals of Nashville Predator Mike Fisher and mega-babe Carrie Underwood all that comes to mind is, “lucky bastard.”
You think I’m kidding? You think I chid at the idea of a strapping Northern stud marrying the Queen of Muskogee?
She loves a hockey player. She loves Jesus. She sings like a meadow lark. And she is just so damn pretty.
What does this have to do with our belovedly beleaguered ‘Nuckleheads? Nothing. But in the face of the coming apocalypse I typically like to keep my mind occupied with blond and bubbly. Don’t ask. I don’t really believe in guilty pleasures. I like Carrie Underwood. She takes my breathe away. She makes me swoon. I would dip my nashville in her predator anyday.
But seriously folks. As your humble correspondent, it pains me to see the deluge of our offensive game at the hands of Barry Trotz and his beautifully boring squad of Southern hockey squires. It boggles my mind each year this team ices a competitive unit. Not because I don’t think the State of Tennessee doesn’t deserve a sip from Lord Stanley’s chalice, but because the concept just strikes me as odd.
It is akin to Inuit tailgating outside a NASCAR parking lot.
Thursday’s game against the Predators was painful to watch in all the ways a game ought to be painful. They exposed our weaknesses on defence and took the liberty of showcasing a future Vezina consideration in Pekka Rinne. It leaves me wondering what it is in Finnish drinking water that produces such otherwordly goaltending from otherworldy countries such as Finland.
Did you know there are 1.8 million saunas in Finland? Did you know it is the only country in the world with a news broadcast in Latin?
Finland and Carrie Underwood are what I find myself Googling most of the game. Between missed opportunities by our top line to capitalize on the power-play and thoughts of throwing my laptop across the room in vitriolic rage. Between reason once again advocating a safe retreat from my obsessive fury and the psychic implications of malignant rage. My fury subsides into fatigue.
I fall asleep.
In my dream I’m playing shinny on an outdoor pond in the middle of Saskatchewan with Pekka Rinne. I score a goal on him. It’s a deft head-fake commencing a tender backhand top-shelf. In the glowing thunder of the crowd I skate to the centre of the pond in a Tiger Williams-esque celebration, using my hockey stick as a triumphant steed. Afterward, Rinne takes his mask off only to reveal he has the head of Carrie Underwood. I figure, opportunity knocks only once, so I ask her out on a date. She giggles coquettishly, responding between sips from her gatorade bottle,
“Yes, but don’t tell my husband.”
–Joseph F. Delamar