One Hand On My 'Ockey

Caught between trying to explain the Canadiens loss to the Hurricanes tonight, and wanting to write a hockey-love poem to pacify E at Theory Of Ice's angst at the Habs standings nosedive, I ended up in a state of compromised ideals.

Now I hate compromise!

I would rather be sandwiched in a Rita McNeil-Rosie O'Donnell Crisco inspired threesome, than choose between loving and hating my treasured Habs fate.

While yesterday, there seemed to be hope, each mounting loss feels like nails in the coffin.

Six damned losses, four games in which I felt the team played well enough to win. If anything, I have learned that effort minus discipline equals nothing.

There are merely 20 games of the season remaining. With 95 points being almost a bare minimum for playoff achievement, the Canadiens need at least 14 wins to qualify for what would seem like a fruitless post season.
I wonder if it is worth it.

I question whether GM Gainey shouldn't tear this squad apart and become a seller, big time, as the trade deadline nears.

Who, really now, believed the Habs were nearing Stanley Cup contention?

Other than a 5 game win streak in mid-December, this bunch of incompatible personages has hardly resembled a championship team.

I really can't add much to what has already been touched on in autopsies of the team. My ass crack is parked firmly on the fense in regards to half of the teams composition.

My guess is that come Febuary 27, Bob Gainey will have 6 cellphones in his hand, planning for next year.
My eulogy, my epitaph for the 2006-07 edition of these Montreal Canadiens, reads like a broken hearted diary of promises gone wrong.

I took a spin in the car after the game, to calm my disapointment, with the radio loud to distorting. As Queen's "We Are The Champions" faded into Alanis Morrisette's "One Hand In My Pocket", I sang Habs mocking lyrics all the way home.

I wasn't soothed by my cynicism.

One Hand On My 'Ockey"

I'm injured but I'm playing hurt

I'm paid but my elbow stings

I don't backcheck and I can't score, baby

I'm trying but I'm getting benched.

I'm waivered and I'm left unclaimed

I'm rich but I'm on the fourth line, baby

What it all comes down to

Is that we haven't won in six fuckin' games

I've got one hand on my 'ockey

And the other one is giving the ref a bird sign

I got the puck, the net's open

I score, but it's disallowed

I'm getting paid millions for doing shit, baby

My coach knows I'm worthless

I'm here and my contracts up

I got a breakaway, but I'm offside, baby

What it all comes down to

Is I haven't scored in sixteen games, cause

I've got one hand on my Sherwood

And the other one's punching the goalie's face

And what it all comes down to

Is I might a well be traded to the L.A. Kings

Cause I've got one hand on my 'ockey

And the other one still can't find my balls

I'm on my knees, but I'm stopping pucks

I'm making saves, but I'm left alone

My defense is I'm helpless, baby

My goalposts are my only friends

My backup is just chicken shit

Might as well pull my hamstring, baby

And what it all boils down to

Is our power play really sucks right now

I've got one hand on my 'ockey

And the other one is playing 2007 Nintendo

What it all comes down to my friends

Is that this team just can't seem to win

I've got one hand on my 'ockey

And the other one is placing a bet on the Predators