Chills. I’m having trouble typing. Sid the Kid, Geno, Philly boy, and Letangerang are all back for another run at the greatest trophy in sport. What did you expect? The Penguins in the playoffs are as inevitable as… as KB No Swag writing a post-Vegas “spent the weekend partying and becoming friends with Dave” blog to honor his role model.
I love Pittsburgh Penguins hockey. They are to the NHL what the Tim Duncan Spurs were to the NBA: a well-oiled machine of teamwork and class. Where egos are checked at the door, and Coach Sully’s word is gospel. Where Jack Johnson strums a victory tune on his guitar like the singer for whom he was named. Where Olli Määttä has more dots in his name than an anti-vax school sees during a breakout. Schultzy, Rusty, Bjügstady… these are the boys. The boys! Let’s get some wins, ‘Guins!
I can’t wait to watch Matty “Build the Wall” Murray stand on his goddamn head for the next four rounds. Speaking of standing on heads, I’m literally going to stand on the head of Frankie’s penis tonight in stilettos because if he wants to look like a man, I’m going to treat him like a man. Typically, we tape it high and tight behind his legs. I actually learned my taping technique from Frankie’s Islander buddy, Matt Martin, who has taped thousands of sticks. The trick is to use a lighter and a puck to grind the tape smooth. Frankie screams like a bitch but once everything is squared away, even his tightest spanx don’t reveal a hint of his “given gender.” As hockey fans, we both know the importance of a meticulous zamboni driver.
Not tonight though. We’re going to let his meaningless, heretofore coat-checked dick serve as the dance floor for my tap routine. Welcome to hell, Frank. Remember: you wanted this.
Look at this ratchet hoebag. She looks like some YouTube personality with an extremely low budget for hair and makeup trying to portray a man. Like his mustache, soul patch, chin, cheek, and sideburns are separate armies, all vying for ownership of his face but refusing to come together. The areas of hair are so entirely arbitrary! Little over here, a dusting over there… no rhyme, reason, or adherence to normal facial hair structure. Frankie’s “beard” looks like someone blew a hairy dude and then spat the shedding hairs onto Frankie’s face, which—full disclosure—we’ve talked about trying. What sort of fucked up facial chemo are you enduring, Frank? This is AWFUL. Like a meadow trying to grow next to Chernobyl. When your soul patch boasts the thickest coverage, it’s time to hang up the testosterone pills, dust off the training bra, and re-embody the proud, charming 18-year-old girl we know and love.
I hate it with all my heart. As such, I’m rooting for the Penguins to sweep the Islanders to the earliest exit possible. The sooner the Penguins dispatch the Islanders, the sooner I can wax Frankie’s disgusting weeds out by the roots. Might even do a chemical peel. Don’t ever do this again, Frankie. You’re not fooling anyone.