Sitting in my living room watching the Buccos of Suckitude game last night with my BIL who had just come from the hospital where Pens Fan Sister is currently laid up with Texas Death (and you all thought I was exaggerating how awful Texas Death is. She was hospitalized because they were afraid her throat was going to close up. But it’s okay. She’s on morphine. Yay, her!)
BIL: So … Marian Hossa.
PG: You know when Jaromir Jagr left way back when, I didn’t hate him, not even with his “I’m die-wahhhh-ing alive here” crap. I never spoke badly of him. Never hated him. I hate Marian Hossa.
BIL: I don’t wish him ill. I don’t want him to get injured. I want him to have the season of his life with Detroit. I want them to go to the Stanley Cup Finals and I want him to choke. You know why? Karma.
PG: I’ll drink to him getting some karma shoved up his ass. Pass me my Zima.
So yeah, Marian Hossa chose Detroit over the Pens, as he said he would do. He just didn’t name teams before. He said he’d take less money to play for a winner. Problem is we all assumed that he meant the Penguins.
He did not.
I hate him. I could handle it if he left for money, for a long term contract, for anything OTHER than just leaving because he doesn’t think he can win with us. It’s an insult.
I hate him.
I hope his hair never lays down right.
I hope his collar always rubs against his neck wrong.
I hope his jeans are always scratchy, his deodorant always sticky, and his girlfriend always bitchy.
I hope he takes a laxative and then can’t get his pantyhose off. (tm Golden Girls)
I hope his ass never stops itching, his faucet never stops leaking, and his nose never stops running.
I hope he gets a corn hull stuck in his throat for days and can’t get it out no matter how much he goes “KGGGKKKKKKK.”
I hope his car gets keyed, his house gets TP’d and his wallet gets stolen.
I hope he grows man-boobs and ear hair.
I hope he can’t ever get it up.
I hope his Windows crashes with abandon.
I hope he is regularly noogied, wedgied and Indian-burned.
I hope he never ever dreams that he can fly.
I hope his girlfriend leaves him for Tom Brady.
I hope he skates poorly, trips often and sneezes much.
I hope he hits his funny bone with force.
I hope his dog pees in his skates and I hope his cat barfs hairballs into his cereal.
I hope the sticky notes never stick for him, the lights never change for him and the ProActiv never works for him.
And finally, I hope Sidney Crosby skates right past him with the Cup hoisted high above his head, and I hope Sid winks.