Side note: DST has ended, so I can stop insolently insisting on calling it "PDT."
Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see.
TRANSMIT - initiate Coyotes signal - RECEIVE - initiate phosphorous prayer frequency - DOWNLOAD - initiate Clayton Keller lexicon - AS SEEN ON TV - initiate pillar of salt protocol - DELIVER US FROM EVIL - initiate the Dave Tippett Curse cadence - MUST REDEEM BEFORE EXPIRATION - the red spectrum - WITNESS - the Arizona Coyotes.
Initiate geomancy. There is power in bisecting lines. Stand at a crossroads and feel the thrum of energy in the ninety degree angles. Listen. Preternatural dramas all around you. The city is a honeycomb of horror, each cell barely cognizant of the others. Black feathers in a playground. The odd stain on the sidewalk. The flicker-flash of a winged thing in the headlights. The vagrant holding a wriggling bag. The moons from the apartment above.
As you read these words, a scene unfolds. Close. An alley. A neon head shines in the seedy Glendale. A monster writhes, broken and bloody, on the ice. Its teeth gnash. IT looks up into the eyes of its assailant, and two sticks reflect back in the crucifixion glow. To pray devoutly. To pray mercilessly. The hands folded serenely drip with blood. Even monsters have bogeymen. Eh, sweetling?
The crossed ones. The Stanley Cup keepers. Protectors of Gila River Arena. Wealthy fraternities. Solemn oaths. The Arizona Coyotes. A familiar name, but truths huddle more deeply in time than books are willing to confess. We came to them in Glendale. They heard the electromagnetic singing of insect cherubs. The Tower of Phoenix commanded maximum reception. Commands. The past tense is a lie. The tree-flesh texts transmit, in dead letters, that the Tower fell. Do not believe.
Initiate the secret histories. From the Tower, two brothers ruled all they could see. They could see all. There was a falling out. One brother took to Glendale and gathered brethren to study the mystic and vanquish supernatural evils. From conception, this secret society fought. They fought in Los Angeles and Vancouver, Anaheim and San Jose. They assimilated the skills of every warfaring culture.
Enter another player. The Washington Capitals did not play the same game. Their plots walk sideways, like crabs. The children of Washington let loose Alexander the Great, and broke all of the Coyotes' toys. The headed ones never got over it.
Time passes - you call it the Dead Puck Era. Mayflies have such tiny timelines. The headed ones grow strong, grow bold. They leave the shadows. With Great One sanction, they set out to rule the NHL publicly. The Arizona Coyotes.
Hubris never goes unrewarded. The Capitals tickled their web, and King Jaromir Jagr and Pope Olaf Kolzig danced. They accused the Coyotes of heresy. Many knights burned. From above, they twinkled like stars. The king was free of his Coyotes debt and pocketed his pretty treasures.
We were there the day they put the last Great One to the flame. Even as he crackled, Shane Doan shouted his order's innocence. He challenged the King and the Pope to meet him at the throne of their god within the year. Soon after that, the Pope retired. And soon after that, the King moved on. And only fourteen years later, the Los Angeles Kings withered on the vine. The headed ones returned to the shadows, their old friend. Humiliation teaches lessons. Never again a religious agenda. Never again a public face.
Listen. In that alley, the neon head flickers, humming a prayer. It forgot the words. Do you hear? Time passes, first with silence, then a roar. The Coyotes grew - Clayton Keller, Niklas Hjalmarsson, Antti Raanta. They hurled the Capitals from the continent. Righteous rage! The children of Washington fled to the Verizon Center and never came back.
Crusaders walk these streets of steel, cement, and glass. Time moves not in lines, but in circles. Others call them antiquated. They are. The roots run deep. But the New Coyotes' movement coils out. New blood blows, hereditary lines are opened to new thought.
Listen. Something is happening. They bum. The headed ones have always been wary of talent, yet many of the players are among them. They control the largest prospect pool in this world. Old books open. Words older than geological bodies are read. The muscle of the Coyotes' army tense. The dark days are here, as they always knew they would be, as they have trained for since they gathered in the shadow of Winnipeg.
Listen, sweetling. Do yo hear? When the lions of the NHL roar, the others listen. Some call them fanatics and zealots. To Coyotes eyes, evil reins over compromise and corruption. Therefore, their empire must be incorruptible, must be uncompromising. They must suffer no demon to live. Measuring the lengths one must go to is redundant when there are no limits.
WARNING: holy radiation poisoning imminent. Listen to the riddle in the vibrations of the broken wings: What is the price of conviction? Initiate the Oliver Ekman-Larsson syntax. Those who seek monsters can become monsters, and in the NHL, the abuses not only stare back, they bite.
On the grim-grime ice surface, a dying moth writhes under the headed glow. Its tattered wings, soaked heavy with blood, flap and spasm like a fallen angel who forgot the way home. Can you hear the buzzing of the wings?
Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see. TRANSMIT - initiate Capitals signal - RECEIVE - initiate NOW frequency. DOWNLOAD - initiate NBC Sports Washington broadcast - NEW AND IMPROVED - initiate Alexander Ovechkin, Braden Holtby, and John Carlson prerogative - THAT'S THE WAY TO DO IT! - initiate the Barry Trotz cadence - YOU MUST BE PRESENT TO WIN - the blue spectrum - WITNESS - the Washington Capitals.
Cue curtain. The Punch and Judy show. O child-wandering-in-the-dark, do you remember the puppet show? See Mr. Punch beat puppet after puppet with his stick. The lesson: we lose in the second round. See the puppet master manipulating the brutal slapstick and drinking from a hidden flask. Behold the conspiracy of conspiracies, the most secretest NHL team.
They began in Maryland, during the Dead Puck Era. We came to them on the tears of Milt Schmidt. But that was not the first beginning. Sweetling, do you really think this in the first age? Ever dream of the Long Ago? Ever gasp awake, remembering beginnings before the Original Six?
Cue curtain. A new age. Time moves not in lines, but in circles. Ancient ideals pass down the generations, transcend cataclysms. Old becomes new, different yet same. Powerful mystics take the ice, form a team, and call themselves the Enlightened Ones. Initiate Latin translation: Washington Capitals.
The children of Ovechkin fertilize DC. Can you see them, sweetling, through the time refraction in our text? They pollinate the skulls of wings, centers, defensemen, and goalies. Thoughts germinate and bloom. They vie to guide humanity towards an esoteric culture, influence the world through the house of the Capital One Arena.
Pluck the petals. The centuries tumble like she-loves-me-nots. The scenes change - Kolzig, Jagr, Gartner, Hunter, Langway - but the plots and plays remain the same. Always, the Capitals gather trophies and treasures. They rise behind each new throne. And always, they encounter the Penguins.
The team siblings snatch forwards, defensemen, and goalies, and great thinkers like coveted toys. The dolls break in the tug-of-war. The Capitals grab players and coaches. The Coyotes clutch the old guard. Vicious games of tag ensue. Sometimes one flees, sometimes the other - that familiar dance. The Capitals skip east, fostering high culture in Washington. In New York, they meet the Rangers. Tag, you're it. They skip back west. Now three great factions dance. These NHL teams - these migratory birds flying from one arena to the next, according to schedules. Always there is the price: the lands of milk and honey, the Stanley Cup.
Cue curtain. The new NHL. A misstep in the dance. A sprang. The Capitals limp west. On the new coast, away from their enemies, the children of Washington weave a new backdrop infrastructure so tightly that none of the other teams have been able to gain a foothold here ever since. Cue psychic scoring exchange. Cue the viral pyramid. The one dollar bill is always watching.
Defeats in the playoffs taught the Capitals to play more subtly. Since then, they have been the most secretive of these teams. Their clever fingers learned to make shadow puppets. Decoy ciphers dance on the dank wall. While conspiracy theorists chase the echoes of the Oilers, Maple Leafs, and Canadiens, the true Capitals have room to work.
Cue curtain. The dark days. The Capitals are a well-oiled machine, serrated cogs lubricated on aptitude, ambition, and ruthlessness. In this epoch of a salary cap and equality, the Capitals are king. The ruled do not complain if they detect no ruler. The Capitals spill seminal thoughts into the gravid heads of the masses, while other teams flail to the old dance.
:
Perlini - Stepan - Keller
Domi - Dvorak - Fischer
Martinook - Cousins - Rieder
Rinaldo - Richardson - Duclair
Ekman-Larsson - Demers
Goligoski - Mermis
Connauton - Schenn
Raanta
Wedgewood
:
Vrana - Backstrom - Oshie
Ovechkin - Kuznetsov - Smith-Pelly
Stephenson - Eller - Wilson
Walker - Beagle - Chiasson
Djoos - Carlson
Orlov - Chorney
Orpik - Bowey
Holtby
Grubauer
All lines are a complete guess and were lovingly ripped off from dailyfaceoff.com at almost 4 a.m.
If we lose, I'm blaming Jakey53.
TRANSMIT - initiate Coyotes signal - RECEIVE - initiate phosphorous prayer frequency - DOWNLOAD - initiate Clayton Keller lexicon - AS SEEN ON TV - initiate pillar of salt protocol - DELIVER US FROM EVIL - initiate the Dave Tippett Curse cadence - MUST REDEEM BEFORE EXPIRATION - the red spectrum - WITNESS - the Arizona Coyotes.
Initiate geomancy. There is power in bisecting lines. Stand at a crossroads and feel the thrum of energy in the ninety degree angles. Listen. Preternatural dramas all around you. The city is a honeycomb of horror, each cell barely cognizant of the others. Black feathers in a playground. The odd stain on the sidewalk. The flicker-flash of a winged thing in the headlights. The vagrant holding a wriggling bag. The moons from the apartment above.
As you read these words, a scene unfolds. Close. An alley. A neon head shines in the seedy Glendale. A monster writhes, broken and bloody, on the ice. Its teeth gnash. IT looks up into the eyes of its assailant, and two sticks reflect back in the crucifixion glow. To pray devoutly. To pray mercilessly. The hands folded serenely drip with blood. Even monsters have bogeymen. Eh, sweetling?
The crossed ones. The Stanley Cup keepers. Protectors of Gila River Arena. Wealthy fraternities. Solemn oaths. The Arizona Coyotes. A familiar name, but truths huddle more deeply in time than books are willing to confess. We came to them in Glendale. They heard the electromagnetic singing of insect cherubs. The Tower of Phoenix commanded maximum reception. Commands. The past tense is a lie. The tree-flesh texts transmit, in dead letters, that the Tower fell. Do not believe.
Initiate the secret histories. From the Tower, two brothers ruled all they could see. They could see all. There was a falling out. One brother took to Glendale and gathered brethren to study the mystic and vanquish supernatural evils. From conception, this secret society fought. They fought in Los Angeles and Vancouver, Anaheim and San Jose. They assimilated the skills of every warfaring culture.
Enter another player. The Washington Capitals did not play the same game. Their plots walk sideways, like crabs. The children of Washington let loose Alexander the Great, and broke all of the Coyotes' toys. The headed ones never got over it.
Time passes - you call it the Dead Puck Era. Mayflies have such tiny timelines. The headed ones grow strong, grow bold. They leave the shadows. With Great One sanction, they set out to rule the NHL publicly. The Arizona Coyotes.
Hubris never goes unrewarded. The Capitals tickled their web, and King Jaromir Jagr and Pope Olaf Kolzig danced. They accused the Coyotes of heresy. Many knights burned. From above, they twinkled like stars. The king was free of his Coyotes debt and pocketed his pretty treasures.
We were there the day they put the last Great One to the flame. Even as he crackled, Shane Doan shouted his order's innocence. He challenged the King and the Pope to meet him at the throne of their god within the year. Soon after that, the Pope retired. And soon after that, the King moved on. And only fourteen years later, the Los Angeles Kings withered on the vine. The headed ones returned to the shadows, their old friend. Humiliation teaches lessons. Never again a religious agenda. Never again a public face.
Listen. In that alley, the neon head flickers, humming a prayer. It forgot the words. Do you hear? Time passes, first with silence, then a roar. The Coyotes grew - Clayton Keller, Niklas Hjalmarsson, Antti Raanta. They hurled the Capitals from the continent. Righteous rage! The children of Washington fled to the Verizon Center and never came back.
Crusaders walk these streets of steel, cement, and glass. Time moves not in lines, but in circles. Others call them antiquated. They are. The roots run deep. But the New Coyotes' movement coils out. New blood blows, hereditary lines are opened to new thought.
Listen. Something is happening. They bum. The headed ones have always been wary of talent, yet many of the players are among them. They control the largest prospect pool in this world. Old books open. Words older than geological bodies are read. The muscle of the Coyotes' army tense. The dark days are here, as they always knew they would be, as they have trained for since they gathered in the shadow of Winnipeg.
Listen, sweetling. Do yo hear? When the lions of the NHL roar, the others listen. Some call them fanatics and zealots. To Coyotes eyes, evil reins over compromise and corruption. Therefore, their empire must be incorruptible, must be uncompromising. They must suffer no demon to live. Measuring the lengths one must go to is redundant when there are no limits.
WARNING: holy radiation poisoning imminent. Listen to the riddle in the vibrations of the broken wings: What is the price of conviction? Initiate the Oliver Ekman-Larsson syntax. Those who seek monsters can become monsters, and in the NHL, the abuses not only stare back, they bite.
On the grim-grime ice surface, a dying moth writhes under the headed glow. Its tattered wings, soaked heavy with blood, flap and spasm like a fallen angel who forgot the way home. Can you hear the buzzing of the wings?
Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see. TRANSMIT - initiate Capitals signal - RECEIVE - initiate NOW frequency. DOWNLOAD - initiate NBC Sports Washington broadcast - NEW AND IMPROVED - initiate Alexander Ovechkin, Braden Holtby, and John Carlson prerogative - THAT'S THE WAY TO DO IT! - initiate the Barry Trotz cadence - YOU MUST BE PRESENT TO WIN - the blue spectrum - WITNESS - the Washington Capitals.
Cue curtain. The Punch and Judy show. O child-wandering-in-the-dark, do you remember the puppet show? See Mr. Punch beat puppet after puppet with his stick. The lesson: we lose in the second round. See the puppet master manipulating the brutal slapstick and drinking from a hidden flask. Behold the conspiracy of conspiracies, the most secretest NHL team.
They began in Maryland, during the Dead Puck Era. We came to them on the tears of Milt Schmidt. But that was not the first beginning. Sweetling, do you really think this in the first age? Ever dream of the Long Ago? Ever gasp awake, remembering beginnings before the Original Six?
Cue curtain. A new age. Time moves not in lines, but in circles. Ancient ideals pass down the generations, transcend cataclysms. Old becomes new, different yet same. Powerful mystics take the ice, form a team, and call themselves the Enlightened Ones. Initiate Latin translation: Washington Capitals.
The children of Ovechkin fertilize DC. Can you see them, sweetling, through the time refraction in our text? They pollinate the skulls of wings, centers, defensemen, and goalies. Thoughts germinate and bloom. They vie to guide humanity towards an esoteric culture, influence the world through the house of the Capital One Arena.
Pluck the petals. The centuries tumble like she-loves-me-nots. The scenes change - Kolzig, Jagr, Gartner, Hunter, Langway - but the plots and plays remain the same. Always, the Capitals gather trophies and treasures. They rise behind each new throne. And always, they encounter the Penguins.
The team siblings snatch forwards, defensemen, and goalies, and great thinkers like coveted toys. The dolls break in the tug-of-war. The Capitals grab players and coaches. The Coyotes clutch the old guard. Vicious games of tag ensue. Sometimes one flees, sometimes the other - that familiar dance. The Capitals skip east, fostering high culture in Washington. In New York, they meet the Rangers. Tag, you're it. They skip back west. Now three great factions dance. These NHL teams - these migratory birds flying from one arena to the next, according to schedules. Always there is the price: the lands of milk and honey, the Stanley Cup.
Cue curtain. The new NHL. A misstep in the dance. A sprang. The Capitals limp west. On the new coast, away from their enemies, the children of Washington weave a new backdrop infrastructure so tightly that none of the other teams have been able to gain a foothold here ever since. Cue psychic scoring exchange. Cue the viral pyramid. The one dollar bill is always watching.
Defeats in the playoffs taught the Capitals to play more subtly. Since then, they have been the most secretive of these teams. Their clever fingers learned to make shadow puppets. Decoy ciphers dance on the dank wall. While conspiracy theorists chase the echoes of the Oilers, Maple Leafs, and Canadiens, the true Capitals have room to work.
Cue curtain. The dark days. The Capitals are a well-oiled machine, serrated cogs lubricated on aptitude, ambition, and ruthlessness. In this epoch of a salary cap and equality, the Capitals are king. The ruled do not complain if they detect no ruler. The Capitals spill seminal thoughts into the gravid heads of the masses, while other teams flail to the old dance.
:Perlini - Stepan - Keller
Domi - Dvorak - Fischer
Martinook - Cousins - Rieder
Rinaldo - Richardson - Duclair
Ekman-Larsson - Demers
Goligoski - Mermis
Connauton - Schenn
Raanta
Wedgewood
:Vrana - Backstrom - Oshie
Ovechkin - Kuznetsov - Smith-Pelly
Stephenson - Eller - Wilson
Walker - Beagle - Chiasson
Djoos - Carlson
Orlov - Chorney
Orpik - Bowey
Holtby
Grubauer
All lines are a complete guess and were lovingly ripped off from dailyfaceoff.com at almost 4 a.m.
If we lose, I'm blaming Jakey53.
