Coffee and chairs and eyes, oh my!

(the hockey reminder...)

My fellow Dragons:

I'll be honest: what slays me is the fact that he's not even drinking his friggin' tea.

I've dropped Gee off to a soccer practice and I've got some time to kill. So I've headed to Starbucks to grab a coffee and use their Internet and then wander through Chapters to look at books and potentially bump into and then heroically resist the French-accented bespectacled librarian of my childhood dreams.

And as I walk into Starbucks I see one of the comfy chairs just sitting there, waiting for me -- or is it just waiting there for me to be sitting? Regardless / Irregardless, there's a comfy chair awaiting me to be a-sitting.

"Did you throw your jacket on the chair in order to mark your territory?" I hear you ask. No, I reply. Why would I do that when karma had so generously nodded in my direction?

Alas karma (like fate, luck, destiny and my brother's girl friends one, five and eight) is a fickle bitch. And perhaps I, in my Doctor Who t-shirt, hooded sweatshirt and jeans did not seem as attractive to karma and the comfy chair as this pocket notebook writing, tweed-pant wearing, heterosexual-ish Oscar Wilde-looking dandy. He got the chair but I, according to my doctor, have good cholesterol, strong kidneys, wonderful electrolytes and a fabulous prostate!

So screw you, you not-drinking-your-tea bastard. You may have the chair, but I've got a moderately wonderful bill of health that is sure to act as an enticing and irresistibly powerful aphrodisiac for Swedish stewardesses around the world.

Oh and one more thing: did any of you hear the story on CBC radio about the Canadian artist who went to Panama to get her eye colour changed? She got some kind of implants to permanently change her eye colour from brown to green, but it turns out the operation has had the nasty side effect of effectively leaving her blind.

A couple things spring to mind: who the fuck flies to Panama for an operation? Why the fuck would an *artist* pay a doctor in Panama to mess around with her vision and thereby mess around with her livelihood? Who the fuck has eight thousand dollars for elective surgery like this and still thinks that Panama is the best place to go for the surgery? And didn't this candidate for the Darwin Awards ever hear Crystal Gayle's song and take heed of the warning: don't it make my brown eyes blue?

(Oh and as a side note -- my teammate VR said that he heard the same story, but "I didn't actually feel that bad for her though. Is that wrong?" To which I replied "Yes, it's wrong that you don't feel bad for her. But you're right not to. And by agreeing to both of those seemingly contradictory statements, we prove ourselves to be geniuses!!!")

And with that, and finally!, the 21st Century middle-aged dandy has left the Starbucks and the comfy chair is mine!! Karma delayed is still Karma received as she has smiled upon me and my magnificent prostate once more!

(Hmmmm, is Karma a woman for women, too? -- I wonder.)

Hockey! Sunday night!!

We take to the ice down at the MCC at 7:45 against CIP.

No, I don't know what "CIP" stands for, but I'm glad you asked. It could be the "Canadian Institute of Planners". It might be the "Certified Insurance Professionals". But I suspect it stands for "Certifiably Ignorant about Passionately-pleasuring-partners". In my mind they are therefore known as CIP-PP. And that of course is ridiculously close to "See my pee-pee" which is a goofy name for a hockey team (if forced, I would have chosen, CWS, which would of course would stand for "See my Wonderful Schlong") but, hey!!!, it's their bloody team name, not ours.

Sunday night we shall defeat them and silently mock them because we know their Rumpelstiskin-like hidden name and their anti-Casanova hidden shame. They deserve to lose because of their lack of partner pleasuring prowess. And they deserve to lose because I've discovered that winning is tons of gawddamn fun and I'm not about to give up on it now.

Hope to see you Sunday night. Let us know if you cannot attend. I'm now going to leave the comfy chair and tempt fate as I resist the fantastical siren call of the illusionary French librarian of my dreams.

Oh how I love coffee shops that have bookstores next door.

All the best,
Kevin.

Last Dragons of 2011

The last letter of the year to my team. Christmas, New Year and good cheer all around.

My Fellow Dragons:

One of the few Christmas presents I would have liked this year is, alas, not to be.

I was hoping that the fine supervisors at the Hockey Association would look at this week's game time and realize, "Hey, that Sunday start time doesn't work for Kevin Pasquino! What the fuck were we thinking? Who the hell cocked the fucking times up? Frank!! Was it you, you ignorant twat? Change the bloody game time for the Dragons you witless, clueless, fucking moron!!"

Alas, Frank's enormous error in judgement has not been caught by his supervisor and the game time remains as personally and egocentrically awful as it was a week ago.

So rather than joining you on Sunday, I'm going to be at a family Christmas gathering.

Oh what miserable pseudo-joy.

Imagine dear old Aunt Judith, still clinging on to dear life, and still as sloppy and generous as ever with her kisses. Even my boys fear going near their great-aunt.

Imagine my slightly estranged brother, Jim, who is going to be awkwardly and uncomfortably friendly, but I know that if there is a beer (or twenty) in sight that the drinking will start, followed by the flirting with every spouse he's not *immediately* related to, followed by the inevitable fight, and then finally the drunken pathetic tears of apology and embarrassment. Hopefully the afternoon lunch-gathering will impede his drinking.

And imagine my wealthy uncle's second wife, the beautiful trophy wife, Janet, who doesn't want to be there, hates everyone in her husband's family and loves nothing more that to give Jim all the alcohol he desires and thereby insuring that he'll make a pass at her so she can steal attention from everyone and leave the party in a brilliantly staged scene of scandalous indignity.

Yes. Families get-togethers can be so much fun. Can you see why I'd rather be playing hockey? --> Fucking stupid scheduling guy Frank the idgit fucking jerk-off.

(Of course, my family is nothing like that. I don't have an Aunt Judith, brother Jim or hot replacement Aunt Janet. My family and I all manage to get along fairly well. But nevertheless it would be fun to rush from the Christmas lunch to the hockey game. But a friggin' 2:10 start? -- Alas, that's friggin' impossible.)

Gentlemen!!!!

You will be playing the final game of the year against the copy-cat named Black Dragons. They're the bottom place team, but they lost 6-3 last week just as we did, so the Magic Eight Ball of Hockey Love remains cloudy with its analysis. Nevertheless, I smell a pre-Christmas victory (I also smell turkey because my wife is hosting a staff Christmas party tonight and she's already cooking -- but victory is what I smell for the team!).

Best of luck tomorrow. I wish I could be there and it honest to hell saddens me that I won't be. I detest missing the last game of the season and the final game before the holidays. But it will be nice to see my family and (let's be honest) maybe I'll even score a nice present or two. Which would be fun because lord knows I can't score a goal on the damned ice.

Have a blast tomorrow. And I'll see you all in 2012.

Merry Christmas. Seasons Greetings. And a wonderfully, terrific and joyous New Year's for everyone!

Julie Newmar's sweet candy

hockey greeting...

(First off, congrats to Brent for being the top player on the "Playmakers" list, and also congrats to Dave for being #15 on the list. You men are the talented bookends to a bunch of lesser players in between. Congratulations guys.)

(Second thing, turn your clocks back an hour this weekend. This Saturday is the "Fall Back" daylight savings time thing-ee that always causes confusion as people try to figure out how to reset the digital clock on the stove, microwave, bedside table, car radio, etc. etc. ad. nauseum. The nice thing is that if you forget to re-set your clock you will actually be *early* for the game. The bad thing is it means that gremlins have an additional hour of mischievous playtime to create chaos as they loosen the bolts on the wheelchairs of the elderly and scare the crap out of William Shatner while he's flying. Me? -- I'm happy with the extra sleep.)

(Third thing: how about those Leafs? Whodathunk?)

My fellow Dragons:

Halloween candy is evil.

There, I said it.

Halloween candy is the equivalent of a time machine'd Julie Newmar coming from the past and purring at you, "Come here, little boy. I'm from the time period when you were only three years old. It's a total paradox that I'm even here talking to you. And let me tell you that a time paradox is even better than a trip to Las Vegas because what didn't happen in the past can't occur in the present and certainly doesn't count in the future. So help me out of this Catwoman costume and I'll let you tickle my pussycat."

Halloween candy is just friggin' like that!! I didn't pay for it -- therefore it doesn't count. I didn't ask for it -- therefore it doesn't count. And it's just lying around the house looking so delicious and tempting -- so it most certainly does not count!!!

Friggin' Halloween candy -- love you, want you, but don't want to go near you.

So, heck, I don't know about you but I wouldn't mind burning off all of those Kit Kats, Aero bars and teeny-tiny bags of chips this weekend.

Sunday!! 8:15 pm. Down at the MC (or it might be "across at the MC, but most certainly not "up at the MC") we're playing the Sharks. Unlike our class act of Brent and Dave, who are bookending the playmakers' list, they have Thomas Reynolds (Ryan's younger but slightly taller third cousin twice removed) who stands atop the knuckleheads' list. Shame on Thomas and shame on the Sharks for the 42 minutes in penalties that they racked up in one game. May I suggest that we show our displeasure at their conduct by thoroughly trouncing them in our game this Sunday? And afterwards we can share some tea and crumpets and then play some polo.

Sunday 8:15 MC 2.

And stay away from those candies and that time machine'd Julie Newmar. Both are wonderful but seductively and deliciously evil.

Patrick and the Playoffs

(A month away from the blog?!? Credit the volunteer work and two weeks of practicums (and the up until 2, 2 and 3:20 in the morning work that went with it) which all made me like Jack in "The Shining" (without the ax and the "Here's Johnny!" attitude). The playoff reminder for the team looked like this...)

- Where am I?
In the village
- What do you want?
Information.
-Whose side are you on?
That would be telling. We want information... information... information.
- You won't get it.
By hook or by crook, we will.
- Who are you?
The new Number Two.
- Who is Number One?
You are Number Six.
- I AM NOT A NUMBER. I AM A FREE MAN!

My Fellow Dragons:

Congratulations on the regular season and ending up as Patrick McGoohan in "The Prisoner" because in the end we ranked number six in our division.

But, let's be honest, the regular season results means sweet f.a. as we head into the playoffs cuz come the playoffs it's a whole new thang.

Two losses will mean a team is eliminated. Get to the end with no losses and you are not only crowned the winner, you also get an hour-long conservation debating the necessity of tax increases in the United States with Sarah Palin while wearing a two piece bikini. But to be clear: *you* will be wearing the bikini, cuz to picture Ms Palin in a bikini is disrespectful and sexist. But, yes, she will be keeping her hot librarian glasses on during the entire encounter. And you will be allowed to drink as many diet ginger ales as you'd like.

The playoffs start on Tuesday at 8:30 down at the MC Centre -- the site of our awesome and inspiring victory last week. And as Brent so eloquently said to my e-mail that read "victory rocks my little world," he replied "I like victory. It beats defeat ever time!"

And hence the new Dragons motto: "Victory Beats Defeat Every Time!" As a motto it states an absolute truth, but also conveys the passion and drive towards excellence that the entire team strives for. And thus it will replace the functional but slightly less inspiring former motto of "We could probably defeat Helen Keller, but no farm animals will be accepted as payment."

Gentlemen! The playoffs! Get your game face on! Bring you i.d.! And if it helps, go take 20 kids to The Smurfs movie this weekend and get angry about how you could have gone to see a good film by yourself and then spent the remaining money on beer!

Game face! Game Face!! GAME FACE!!!

Tuesday night 8:30 against the Penguins. We've tied them twice and have yet to beat them. So they're due for a beatin' Tuesday night.

Gentlemen, it's the playoffs: separating the men from the boys, the winners from the losers, and the debonair drinkers from the disgusting drunks for generations!

Sarah Palin and an unlimited quantity of diet ginger ale await!

Hope to see you at the first game,
Kevin.

GAME FACE!!!!

Dragons, beer and coffee

(Pity my team that gets these greetings every week. Pity them as you envy the verbacious joy they so unnecessarily receive!)

My fellow Dragons:

Listening to CBC Radio this morning, I was treated to a Bay Street businessman talking about his daily bike ride to work.

(This was after an interview with a bike store owner who basically told potential new-fangled biking-to-work cyclists to watch other cyclists in order to see how many rules of the road they should observe.

In other words: watch other cyclists to see how rude you can act and how much you can get away with.)

All of this in honour of Bike to Work Day.

So this Bay Street dude is talking about his daily two-wheeled commute and the show's host asks why he enjoys his self-propelled voyage. And this banking big-wig big shot replies, "It's good for the body, the mind and the soul."

And I thought, "You schmuck. Did you really say that? You better pray that your boss isn't listening.

"Cuz you need to make up your mind: either you're a Bay Street master of the universe or you're a car-hating hippie. You can't be a friggin' cow-killing meat-munching carnivore and an airy-fairy tree-hugging vegetarian at the same bloody time. Pick one and stick with it, you dick!"

This was my reaction without having a cup of super-caffeinated extra-large espresso coursing through my veins.

Oh, and as a side note to this side note, I also wonder this...

Has there been a study into the effects of coffee on the male libido vis-a-vis how incredibly horny my mid-afternoon coffee makes me?

And if no such study has been done, how do I go about getting a research grant so I can have electrodes attached to both my brain and to my willy so I can drink lattes and watch attractive women walk by?

Because I'm pretty sure some that at some point some Harvard grad has been given the cash to study the effects of beer on your average girl-watching guy, but what about coffee? -- Will two cups of coffee have the same shagadelic-inducing effect as a couple of beers?

Surely I'm not the only one curious about the results. Give me the money and I will find the answers to these unanswered questions! In cash there is truth!!

Hockey-hockey-hockey.

Tuesday night at 9:30 down at rink 3.

We play Very Tired who have won some and lost some but have tied none so we are tied with them in points. One could argue that because we're tied with them and they're tied with the Huskies, that they do in fact have wins, losses and ties -- but since they have more penalty minutes than we do, they are actually below us.

And below us they should stay. After last week's stunning -- I say *stunning* -- victory I figure we're on a roll upwards toward greatness...

("Can anyone 'roll upwards towards greatness'?" asks Dave. "Shhh, you know how volatile he can be," replies Darcy.)

... and I figure humiliating these Tired puppies should be a delicious cake walk.

("'Delicious cake walk'? How can he write crap like that?" inquires Dave. "I don't know," says Darcy, "but his use of punctuation is excellent!")

Tuesday night. Rink 3 at 9:30.

And now, time to do the census. I'm so cheesed that it's not the long-form format that I'm thinking of watching an old Marx Bros. movie as I do it. I shot an elephant in my pajamas! Three on a midget! Yeah, that'll show 'em!

Hope to see you Tuesday night,
Kevin.

Dragons return!!! Mothers rejoice!!!!

Oh I have been oh-so naughty in my abstinences. (Hmm, that doesn't sound right.)

Oh I have been oh-so delinquent in my do-me's. (Nope, not right either.)

I've been bad and I need to make amends (There. That'll do it.)

So, in order to return with a spurt of energy that would make a rabid rabbit revel in wacky wonder, I'm going to post the team reminder I sent out for Mother's Day. Then I can play catch-up (or, as we say in Canada, ketchup) and talk about Doctor Who, The Sex Talk, Xombi, Attack the Block, Thor's day and other all-over-the-place kind of stuff.

Here's what my teammates read the evening of Mother's Day as we started our summer season of Tuesday night hockey.

Ahh Mother's Day: a salute to the women who bring so much joy to the world, while always keeping in mind that you should never be too Norman Bates about the whole thing.

My Fellow Dragons:

I truly and sincerely hope that you've done you're best to ensure that your most beloved ones of the opposite sex have had a terrific Mother's Day. But having said that, I also hope that you've kept in mind that you're playing hockey this Tuesday night.

Preparing an extra special and supremely fancy-schmancy meal for your mom as a surprise treat so she doesn't have to cook -- that's fine.

Doing a special load of laundry for your wife in cold water and set on 'delicate' so that her naughty knickers are properly cleaned -- that's fine.

Wearing the special slave girl outfit so your honey can be the gladiator for a change -- hell, that's fine too.

But I pray to the gods of hockey that no Dragon was out there doing too much gardening and has therefore hurt his back -- because that would be truly unacceptable.

Remember remember remember and repeat after me: "Honey, you know I love you and I will do the dishes, paint your toenails and happily wear the blindfold on this most special of days -- but I gotta play me some hockey on Tuesday and you know I can't risk straining my back! So, woman, I am telling you and I am begging you -- tie me up, tie me down, flip me over and spank me like a naughty teenager from the 1950s, but do not make me overdo the gardening cuz that sweet-sweet siren named "Dragons" is calling my name and I cannot resist her gloriously beckoning song!"

Of course it would have helped if I had sent this e-mail *before* today's gorgeous and potentially hazardous gardening weather, but between my wife receiving her Canadian citizenship, having to supervise my niece as well as my two boys for the weekend and ensuring that today was memorable and relatively hassle-free for my lovely wife -- well, my plate was full to the point of overflowing.

So, I hope your back is not suffering due to this e-mail's relative tardiness.

HOCKEY!!!

Tuesday night we return at the oh so very late hour of eleven o'clock. We're playing Wolfpack 2 -- and I have to figure these guys are inferior sequels to the original Wolfpack. These guys are no Godfathers or Dark Knights; much more likely they're like Charlie's Angels, Lara Croft or, dare I say it, The Matrix and they're merely a poorly carbon copied repeat of a more glorious and awe-inspiring original concept.

I don't always hate sequels, but I already hate these guys. So let's play film critic to their tedious, tired concepts and tear them to shreds.

Hockey. Tuesday late at night.

Hope to see you there,
Kevin.

p.s. - And nary a "mother joke" in the whole e-mail. Shocking. Simply shocking.

Victory. Sweet, Sweet Victory

I've decided: winning is fun.

And it was a week ago tonight that I came to that realization.

Oh part of the fun is definitely just playing the game, especially if you're fortunate enough to be playing with a bunch of people who are a pleasure to spend time with (because I've heard many a horror stories about teams that are driven to madness due to the poisonous actions of a couple players).

But winning is the cherry on top of the ice cream on top of the brownie on top of the Baked Alaska on top of the delicious glass of ice wine on top of the dvd of the best movie you're ever seen being held by your favorite person in the whole wide world who says, "I've never seen this film before, but I know you really love it, so let's watch it together."

That's how good victory feels. And it's even better when you've had to slush through a year of ups and downs and too many losses and yet somehow made it to the finals and then miraculously managed a victory.

Okay, "miraculously" is perhaps over-stating the matter, but part way through the 2nd period I don't think any of us were expecting to pull off the win.

But with minutes to spare in the game we tied it all up. And then with less than 2 minutes to go in the game, we took the lead for the first time.

And even when they pulled their goalie and had the extra attacker, it wasn't even close.

At the end I think we were shocked that we had won. After being behind the whole game and tying it up only to have them take the lead again and again, the go-ahead goal was astonishing. And the victory goal and then to keep the lead until the final buzzer -- friggin' astounding.

Because it had been a pretty bad season for us. A lot (and I mean A LOT) of losses. But after getting shifted from division to division and finally finding (or falling to) the right level, it started to go in the right direction.

And now, a week later, I'm still kind of amazed and thrilled and proud.

I'm fortunate enough to play hockey with a great group of guys. Winning simply adds to the pleasure.

And while it's only been a week, I'm already missing playing alongside them.

Thank god summer hockey, simply the most decadent kind of hockey, starts in a just a matter of weeks. Cuz what's summer -- with the heat, humidity and patios -- without a little bit of hockey thrown in?

See what I mean -- it's a wee bit decadent.

Of Course You Can't Force a Horse with Water, But You Can Lead Him Down the Path

(This was last week's greeting. We did manage to emerge victorious. Now it is onwards to the Championship game.

This was the team's inspiration / distraction / reminder for the game...)

My Fellow Dragons:

This Sunday we do battle in the semi-finals.

So think not of the Maple Leafs and their semi-feeble and certainly frustrating attempts to move towards the playoffs.

And think not of Charlie Sheen and his self-centred ramblings and self-inflected ruin.

Instead think only of victory. Sweet, sweet victory. Victory that tastes like the delicious nectar of the gods that is poured by wood nymphs who never say "No" and instead say only "Yes, we could try that."

Because the team we will be beating know not of Olympus or nectar or wood nymphs or sweet, sweet victory. The lone time they gained points against us was on October 31st when we chose to graciously cancel the game. And, because they did not show the same class and aplomb, the league saw fit to penalize us and give them two undeserved points.

These were not points earned: these were points unjustly bestowed upon an unworthy adversary.

And for that reason, we shall beat them this Sunday. We shall reflect upon their unearned advantage and then proceed to remind them on the battlefield (or, if you prefer, the 'icefield') that victory cannot be granted; victory can only be achieved through passion, sweat and honour. Their shame shall be their downfall.

(Oh, and we'll also win because their top two playmakers are also their two top penalized players and, on top of that, their goalie is a total hot-head. And somehow I'm somewhat certain that someone on our team might ever so slyly and and with smooth subtlety convince the nutty netminder into taking a humiliating but hilarious penalty that will contribute to their team's defeat. Not that I would ever suggest hassling a goalie -- no-no-no! But their goalie is so quick-tempered that I imagine that he will create problems for himself.

Truly, there is no need to antagonize the goalie; instead, we will merely present him the opportunity to display his over-the-top instability. We will show him the path and he will then willingly and merrily skip along the path and knock on the door of Grandma's House of Stupid Penalties. He will then recklessly race through her home as he strips off his clothes and casts aside his suit of sanity, he will dash into her backyard, and then with complete and total abandon he will joyfully leap into the awaiting quicksand of cwaziness. Cuz that's just the kind of guy their goalie is.)

So, Sunday. Semi-finals. Do or die. Let's have some fun and beat these guys.

Let us know if you can't make it. Otherwise, I look forward to seeing you there.

Game face on,
Kevin.

Dragons greetings: time off

(Here is the team's greeting of a non-greeting nature from last week. Due to our playoff schedule, we actually had the week off. Oh what to do on a hockey-free weekend...?)

Dragons this Sunday...

... are not playing.

We've got the weekend off before we do battle *next weekend* Sunday, March 20 at 2:30 against a team to be determined.

I will, of course, send you a reminder about the game next week. I might even mention antelopes in the e-mail; we'll have to see how it goes.

Until then, enjoy your Dragons-free Sunday. And, hey, here's an idea: don't tell your partner that there is no game -- make it sound like it's *your idea* to make the day hockey-free!

She'll say, "You want to spend the whole day with me? You're willing to miss hockey so we can have all this time together? You are so sweet!"

And you can reply "Yes. Yes I am. And you're worth it, my little love pillow."

And later, that night, as she's wearing her especially functional evening gear and climbs into bed, you'll be able to roll over, fall asleep and snore with the satisfaction of knowing that calling her 'love pillow' is something no man has ever dared do before and you will never, ever be able to do again, but by missing hockey you were allowed this one time to get away with something that sounded oh so very stupid.

Isn't that a great idea? -- Enjoy your week off. See you next Sunday.

Into the playoffs

(And what was extra nice was that we won 4-2. And I managed to score. For someone reason, winning and scoring a goal helps to make everything feel better. I'm not sure if that's childish or if it's just life.)

Dear Daring Dragons:

This Sunday at twelve o'clock will be High Noon for the frankly disgusting Screaming Eagles.

Now, you know that I don't like to tell tales about other teams, but the Screaming Eagles are known to go to funeral homes and make farting noises with their armpits.

They have been known to eat beans and cloves of raw garlic for lunch, make dinner reservations at expensive restaurants and then proceed to 'stink out' their fellow diners.

And they are known to make plans to visit your female relatives, send them exotic lingerie in order to build the anticipation and then cancel the rendezvous by texting them!

There are other disgusting things they are known for doing -- having to do with baby rabbits, beetle dung and duct tape -- but describing the horrible scenes of depravity would probably cause you to ralph on your keyboard.

Need I say that we must beat them on Sunday? -- If not for ourselves, but for the sake of our civilization?

Sunday. Noon. Rinx 3.

AND AS FOR SUMMER...

The cost is going to be approximately $275. There are still a couple of players that are question marks and pending and uncertain and other words of a 'maybe yes maybe no'

variety. Therefore the cost may change. But that's a darn good estimate.

Bring a cheque on Sunday. Or do that Interac-esque transfer thing. But do it now!! Otherwise you'll forget and I'll get upset and it will result in someone in tears. And it's tough to play hockey with your eyes stinging and swollen from crying. You know what I mean.

See you Sunday,

Kevin.

The Game That Will Decide

(Every week I send out a reminder to my hockey team about when and where we are playing. The time changes and the location changes each week. I sent this out Friday night before the Olympics match...)

I was tempted, sorely and most severely tempted, to send this e-mail in three hours or so.

Which would be *after* tonight's game which will decide who battles the Americans for the gold medal in hockey.

And the e-mail would be witty and eloquent and insightful and all of those P.G. Wodehouse kind of things.

But then, with a realization of Deadwood and Mamet eloquence, I thought "Fuck it" and decided to send it now.

Gentlemen. Dudes. My fellow Dragons: we are blessed -- *blessed* I say -- with a late evening game this Sunday.

Some might say that late evening games are a bitch because it's impossible to fall asleep before two in the morning because you're so incredibly wired after you've played a fabulous game.

But this week our game time is a gift from the Gods of Hockey (Howesky? Orrmieux?) because we will be able to watch the final Olympics game and then take to the ice ourselves. Blessed are we who can enjoy the battle for the gold, drink a bunch of beers and then still have time to consume a ton of coffee in the feeble but noble attempt to sober up and prepare for the Dragons game.

Sunday 10:20 Rinx 3.

The final game of the regular season.

The game that will decide our position as we head into the playoffs.

The game that will decide whether blueberries or broccoli is the more healthy food.

The game that will decide whether Raquel Welch or Julie Newmar is the ultimate '60s sex symbol.

The game that will decide whether Betty or Veronica would be better in the sack.

The game that will decide whether Greece's economy will stabilize or collapse like the will power of a nymphomaniac at a Chippendales convention.

The game that will decide whether or not I can keep doing these thing all night or will eventually give up and have some chicken wings and watch the Canadians in the semi-final match.

Gents, I hope to see you Sunday.