Edmonton 0ilers - New York Ranger5 Post-Game

Hendricks's Lindsay Buckingham impression is pretty sad, but this is the only photo that wasn't a Rangers goal celebration. - Derek Leung

There was some hockey. This part of the page is meant to draw your attention so you read this article, but since it was mortally impossible for this game to catch the eye what chance does a mere fucking blog post have?

The latest Edmonton Oilers death march is drawing mercifully to a close. We have almost built the bridge for our sadistic captors, the trains are rolling, the monsoon is approaching, all that remains are a few formalities before we are machine-gunned into our shallow graves. Isn't that nice?

I mean, we allowed a shorthanded goal to Rick Nash that involved Justin Schultz's frankly remarkable Poor Man's Sebastien Bisaillon impression, that was pretty cool. We got out-Corsid... I can't count that high but it was a lot. Glen Sather spent sixty minutes placidly sucking off his unlit cigar while his team filled an arena he helped build with blood and feces. Jordan Eberle missed a net so open a homeless guy was able to grab Cam Talbot's water bottle. Ryan Nugent-Hopkins and Ryan Smyth ran the worst two-on-one since... okay, fair's fair, such superlatives have lost all meaning with the Oilers setting new lows every game for almost a decade. Even with score effects on our side we spent the third period getting beaten so badly Luke Gazdic instinctively tried to take credit. There's no reason to do anything but drop to our knees, stare at the disturbed earth, and think about Heaven, because we know what Hell looks like.

Did you notice the way Scrivens reacted to the third goal, when the puck was bouncing out of the back of the net and Scrivens feebly pawed at it, like his very spirit was broken and he had nothing left but embracing Death whenever it finally arrived? He's fitting into the Oilers very well.

The only thing you can rely on with the Oilers is that they will always be unreliable. When it comes to tank battles Daryl Katz is Zhukov. He didn't invent the art, wasn't even the first expert within his own country, but he honed it to perfection and will always be associated with it. Oh, Buffalo's got us licked, don't get me wrong, but given how much rebuilding we've done this is a fucking remarkable 29th. Where's the "BAM! Stanley Cup"?! I was promised "BAM! Stanley Cup"! Buffalo's not even a real hockey market whereas I'm only stuck writing this because our usual PGT guy willingly went to an Oilers game, without a gun pointed at his head or anything. The Sabres may out-tank us this year but we know who the real calamity kings are.

Should I talk about the hockey game a little? I'd rather not. I tried to watch the thing but there was a problem with the web stream I used and it showed an ECHL game by mistake. I saw Mark Fraser, Luke Gazdic, Philip Larsen playing on the wing, Anton Lander, Anton Belov, and Tyler Pitlick, while Mats Zuccarello broke a scoreless drought by popping two goals and an undrafted 26-year-old rookie posted the shutout. So you can see, hilarious though that experience was, it doesn't qualify me to discuss the NHL game that was surely going on at Rexall Place. Surely.

The game was an endless moraine of utter boredom with disastrous consequences, like standing in Hiroshima City Centre watching that big bomb fall. Look, I'm sorry, but I just can't get excited for things like a Jordan Eberle miss anymore. I like Eberle, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he went Full Hemsky when he was finally traded to something resembling an NHL team, but an Oiler muffing a chance just isn't news. Ben Scrivens taking it up the poop chute for sixty minutes is only remarkable in that it made up for those times he completely bailed this sad-sack team out, giving them points they didn't deserve to even look at covetously in the shop window. And oh look, Badger Schultz can't play defense, he literally is incapable of doing it, whoever would have thought, at this point even Marc-Andre Bergeron is flinging bottles of vin ordinaire at the television and shouting "tabarnak, vous singe de merde, puttez-vous some fucking effort in already!"

Yeah, I miss Ales Hemsky too. I also miss Lubomir Visnovsky, Sheldon Souray, Joni Pitkanen, man, I even miss Dick Tarnstrom. (Not Ryan Whitney though.) But I miss Hemsky more. The only consolation is that he is free of this. I know some birds weren't meant to be caged, and our cage is electrified with 15,000 volts. The inmates proved it again tonight.

In short, you know those Oilers who've spent the entire season disappointing us and playing really badly? They're going out the way they came in. You have to admire that sort of consistency. Look at the Toronto Maple Leafs: they had a hot streak that hid their true mediocrity and now their hearts are being torn out. Our hearts were never thrust in. 'Tis better to have never loved at all than to loved and lost, I think that's how the expression goes, I've been huffing a lot of lighter fluid.

Ah, well. This is the last post-game I am likely to write this season, I think, so for my final thought to the Edmonton Oilers I hand the pen to a good friend of mine, Mr. Robert Zimmerman.

I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes,
And just for that one moment, I could be you.
Yes, I wish that for just one time, you could stand inside my shoes.
You'd know what a drag it is to see you.

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