September, 2011

Friday, September 30th, 2011

How Twitter is severely wounding hockey…

Somewhere on the Eastern shore of Japan You know, one of the biggest arguments against puck bunnies is that they tend to focus less on the game and more on the fun drama surrounding the game. And so what if they do? Hockey culture can be very fascinating in the skankiest form of the word. What you don’t realize is that with the rise of Twitter, all you true blue hockey fans out there are starting to pick up the puck bunny tendencies yourselves. Oh, the hypocrisy!

For some reason Twitter gives the hockey fan the right to do one of two things. The first is troll and attack at great length, or threaten the life or job of, any hockey fan they don’t like for whatever reason. My personal favourite is when people attack me for making a non-hockey related tweet. I’m sorry, but when did I become a hockey reporter, or NHL spokeswoman? It’s like I’ve somehow risen above human status, and couldn’t possibly be a real person underneath the puck obsession. Yet it’s fine when they tweet whole conversations about the coffee they are drinking. Interesting… Anyway, the second thing the majority of hockey fans seem to use Twitter for is kissing the firm, gladiatorial like tushies of the hockey players themselves.

OMG @AnyNHLPlayer you have the best taste in music.

OMG @AnyNHLPlayer it’s, like, so hilarious that you make the same joke in every tweet.

OMG @AnyNHLPlayer the team you contributed nothing to while you were a member really misses you.

@AnyNHLPlayer OMG, man, I saw that movie, too! I actually didn’t like it, but if you did, then I’m sold.

@AnyNHLPlayer OMG please RT me because it’s my birthday and, like, you RTing me validates my existence or something, right?”

Now, in all your self-denying wisdom, can you please explain to me how this absolutely ridiculous behaviour is in any way different from the “puck bunnies” that attempt to stroke the ego of your shared hockey deities, as a means to stroke something else? Oh, is it because you “actually like hockey.” You, “actually understand hockey.” You, “have his game worn jersey.” You’re “a guy.” Please. Start familiarizing yourself with the term “jock sniffer.” It’s the first step to recovery, after all. And to be fair, I rarely see a puck bunny act as desperately as the hockey Twitter community. And, also note, these bunnies tend to have the guts to coo similar shameless flirts as those listed above to the hockey player in person, whereas you tend to hide behind a damn computer screen. Who’s pathetic now?

What I really don’t get is why Twitter endears hockey players to the fans in the first place. It has taken the completely opposite effect on me. It actually makes me deeply reflect on some of my past life choices, and regret ever letting myself get entangled with far, far, far too many of them… far! Mind you, I do know from experience that players aren’t always whom they pretend to be online. But isn’t that the same for almost everyone? The difference is hockey players have a lot more to prove so they go to greater lengths with their avatars. However, even with great personal effort on the part of the player as an individual, there still seems to only be five types of hockey players on Twitter that are the main recipients of all your 140 character love songs.

1. @TheProducer: This player seems to be begging for some type of medal because he has the same XM radio in his over priced whips, as the rest of us. Listening to ALT Nation has somehow translated, in his mind, to superior knowledge of the music industry, which he would obviously have a career in, if it weren’t for that pesky hockey. And being the nice little suck ups that you are, you let him continue to live in his dreamworld where he is the only person on the face of the earth that listens to Radiohead.

2. @TheChronicEndorser: This player tweets to make himself feel like the next Gretzky by acting like any sort of product or clothing he uses or wears is some sort of endorsement because he’s the obvious s-h-i-t! Please tell me you don’t actually go out and buy the same toothpaste or water as he does, just because he tweeted about it, and you want to try and connect with him on some creepy level. @TheChronicEndorser is the funniest in his AHL form when he can be found feigning endorsements to prove to the fans, and himself, that he’s a somebody even if NHL GMs wouldn’t trust him to fill in even as a benchwarmer. “Blahblahblah Sports is the ONLY place I get my skates sharpened!” Really, so if I go there, I, too, can hope to fall short of the mark and achieve total mediocrity? Beautiful.

3. @TheFashionista or @TheSeanAveryesque: “I tweet about fashion because I want to fuck models. I know about fashion because I want to fuck models. I’m kind of a bitch about fashion because I want to fuck models.” We get it. And no we don’t care that your plaid shirt, which looks like the ones they have at Walmart for $10, by the way, has a designer tag that most of us have no idea who or what it is. Well at least I don’t care, but I suppose you probably do. Bear in mind that I don’t actually follow ANY NHL players on Twitter, and that I’m also in my Uber Cunt phase right now, if you haven’t already noticed.

4. @PermaPRMode: This is the player that never makes an original tweet, yet you still praise him like his three daily predictable tweets are somehow literary genius:

Tweet #1: @PermaPRMode: Just had a great skate this morning with the boys. Bring on the #VisitingTeam!

Tweet #2: @PermaPRMode: On my way to the rink. Huuuuuuuuge game tonight!

Tweet #3: @PermaPRMode: Huuuuuuuuuge win/tough loss tonight! The energy in the building was amazing as usual.

Wow. Exciting.

5. @TheInappropriateFlirt: The player that uses his Twitter account to flirt publicly with any blond, or skinny, or over-tanned, or half naked, or tit-pic’d avatar that shows up in his @mentions. When will guys learn that if a girl chooses to show parts of her body instead of her face in her profile pic, it’s probably because it ain’t all that. Who am I kidding, this is the very age of the butter face, after all. But still, if you act like this line of tweeting is anything but mildly amusing in its pitifulness, then I don’t even want to know what levels you drop to when you make your contribution to the alternate dimension that is the Twitter feed. Of course, public flirtations always lead to public dramas, so I guess there’s some attraction to following this particular player.

So there you have it; the extent of the hockey player contribution to Twitter in a nice little package. If the world wasn’t composed of a terrifying majority of jock sniffers and celebrity whores, then I’m sure Twitter would have already completely destroyed whatever image hockey has attempted to maintain. You know, if I haven’t single-handedly done that already, as they say.

Countdown to my sabbatical in NHL Land: 85 days. Please note that I can’t guarantee that I’ll be out of Uber Cunt mode by this time. Enjoy!

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Thursday, September 29th, 2011

S.O.C. 09/29 (for the sake of it)

… I write this for the sake of writing, and because I’m ready to accept that I have a real problem with authority of any kind, and I think that’s the one thing that makes me an emblem of my generation. The majority of us are supposed to feel entitled. Like our B.A. degrees are supposed mean we don’t have to start from the ground up. Our M.A.’s are supposed to make us smarter than the people with 10 years of industry experience, and not simply certified proof of another wasted 3-4 years on “higher thinking,” that would actually be better thought of as tunnelled confusion. I’ve never actually felt this way. I pissed off to every icy port I could find during my academic years, instead of actually attending a class. Got that piece of paper, though – great. I remember sitting in an English class, one of the few times I actually went, in fourth year while some girl babbled on about how she wants to do an M.A. in English, but also go to Law School…at the same time… Fuck off, seriously. Why the fuck would anyone waste their time on both? If you’re going to be a lawyer, then save some of the bullshit wasted on analyzing yet another Margaret fucking Atwood for whatever dusty courtroom you wind up in. Some people. Why are the intellectuals always so terrified about life? Though, I’m one to talk. I go through life floating on a storm cloud, hoping to get as far as I can before the rain comes and washes away everything I ever thought I had or had done. The difference is I don’t use the lack of destination, or end game, or magic white light in the distance to stop me from going. From trying for the sake of trying, even if I don’t know what I’m trying for. Sometimes I wish I knew what I wanted, but I can never be sure if I want everything, or nothing, or death, or immortal life. But I’m rambling for the sake of rambling. My point about authority is that I can’t respect idiots. Or, I can respect them, but I have to let them know when they are being absolute retards. That’s another thing. I like to be offensive for the sake of being offensive. I reclaim epithets and transform them into flexible and interchangeable adjectives, nouns, and verbs. Cunt is the new fuck. And a retard, or semi-retard, is never a disabled, or abled, or whatever the colourless PC’d are calling them these days. They are assholes, and dicks, and lousy fucks, and Capricorns that have to, at some point or another, be made aware of the inferiority of their superiority. “Umm your collarbone has been enticing too many men. Find a way to cover it up.” Unfuckingbelievable. I wasn’t aware my collarbone, you know, the thing about 1/2 an inch South of my neck, and a good 5 or so North of any possible hint of shrouded cleavage, was some sort of sex organ. Mind you, I’ve lost my mind more than a few times when two lips have happened to find their way along those particular peaks and valleys. How does a normal person react to such ludicrous lunacy? I think they smile and nod, respect authoritahhhhh, and protect the job they clearly give more than two fucks about. Why can’t I be the doormat that can welcome bullshit with a smile and sunbeams streaming out of my ass? “Yes sir! I’ll start wearing a sensible muumuu, and scarf, and snowsuit, and veil, and a man’s body if you prefer, Mr. Authority, sir! I’d hate for all my cock scented coworkers to get inklings from the recesses of their fragrant junk trunk.” No lie, I don’t know how often I encounter the smell of penis in one day. Like actual cock smell. Not balls. Dick. There’s a difference. A connoisseur, like myself, can identify the apple-ish undertones within the greater man-cider that is the universal smell of cock. Maybe I’ve given this too much thought, or maybe it’s because I tend to fuck for the sake of fucking, like some 17 year old that exists in a town of 20,000 with chilling -45oC winters, and no Tim Horton’s. The cock smells of my life are never friends. My male friends have been humanized beyond the point of spikes and handcuffs. The last time a guy told me he loved me, I laughed and kicked him in the chest. He would try again one more time, but it was really more of a whisper before his words trailed off and disappeared into whatever dimension or lifetime that would consume him as well not long after. I don’t want to sound… whatever… but there’s something profoundly wrong with anyone that finds themselves thinking of the likes of me with any sort of affection. I don’t know, though. He was a Libra, so I guess that explains it. Oh shit, today is his birthday. Happy fucking birthday wherever you are, and whoever you are. Speaking of Libras, one thing I’ve noticed is that guys fuck like their zodiac signs, and I can honestly say I’d be a very happy nun if another Capricorn never put their hands on me again. Libras, on the other hand, really are a Gemini’s perfect mate. I remain undecided about Scorpios, but, if you ask me, their reputation is falser advertisement than the falsies stuffed into the hollow chests of your least favourite golden Thanksgiving trophy wife. Are the wealthy flashy for the sake of being flashy? I’ll never know. But I do know it’s never the good that die young because only the rich can afford to feed the hungry… worms. And, please, before that PC crap about the rich being humanitarians, and all that stuff, save it. I know that’s true for some. “But do you expect me to believe that the women that grow up and groom themselves to Stepford status are anything more than the human embodiments of Vanity and Greed?” cries the pointy finger of Lust. The mandatory charity dinners are the veils no one wants to see through. And what of the man that drops millions of dollars to pay for aesthetic love? How does he think he looks? Like a hotshot? Like the lowly paupers all wish they were him? If anything it makes his life look like a sham, and that he wouldn’t know a good blow job if it bit him on Vesling’s line. But, hey, I told you I like to be offensive for the sake of being offensive. I judge people by how they handle the stream of blue profanities that roll so easily off my tongue, and taste as comfortable as an evening alone with an extra large pizza and the TV remote. And, truthfully, I’m totally zen about the trophy wife thing now, but sometimes I get all activisty for the sake of being activisty. The truth is, I don’t like things, and jewels, and fancy cars and shit, so why do I care if fake tits over there is enjoying the setup she’s got with the rich and famous? Obviously, he’s not the man I want. Besides, there is some security in being middle class. Like I said, only the rich can afford to die, the poor go through life chipping away at the debt they can’t saddle on their loved ones, and it’s almost like as long as their bankbook is scarred and scarlet, they’ll always be alive. I think we go through life being colour blind, and not in some lame PC early 90’s kind of way. Oh, just a quick aside, everyone always says to me that the Japanese think the English colour green, is actually the colour blue. Somebody explain this one to me, please? If we say “green,” they don’t say “blue.” They’d say some friggen Japanese word, which should, to them, signify green, no? Maybe I’m too dumb to get my head around this concept. I’ve lost a lot of braincells to margaritas and good company. Anyway, back to my point about colour blindness. I think we are confused into thinking life is all things green, when really living is so many shades of red. However, death is never open to interpretation; it’s always in the black, black, black, black, black…

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