Sunday satire, part 2 – Pathetic Red Wings crash Penguins’ opener

Those zany Penguins and special helper Taylor Swift have a trap all set to go for doughnut-loving Red Wings goalie Chris Osgood and his cronies

Link to – Sunday satire, part 1 – Pathetic Red Wings crash Penguins’ opener

The not unattractive, not untalented, not unwholesome, not un-All-American singer-songwriter had performed a concert the evening before at Mellon Arena, where Staal, Kennedy and Talbot had befriended her.  (author’s note: this is not a joke).

Swift admired her reflection in the pressbox window, smiled, straightened her Penguins sweater, checked her fingernails, then combed her hair.

Talbot: *sigh* Women … always primping themselves.
Swift: Excuse me?
Talbot: Ah, nothing.  Ahem, I was speaking French … to myself.  Alouette, gentille alouette… Frere Jacques, frere Jacques…
Kennedy (to Swift): Ignore him.  Now let’s review.  What’s the code name for our plan?
Swift: Operation Love Story.
Kennedy: If the Red Wings don’t fall for Billy’s pizza, what happens?
Swift: Gonchar and Geno aim the nuclear warhead at them anyway.  Then Fedotenko lets loose with the Flaming Moe’s.
Kennedy: And if that doesn’t work?
Swift: We invoke Operation Love Story.
Kennedy: Which is?
Swift: You boys fire doughnuts at Chris Osbad and rain down stereotypical Swedish items at Zetterberg, Franzen and Lidstrom.  I then descend to centre ice from here on the tow rope, just like for my concert.  At the faceoff dot, a surplus two-four of Labatt’s from Jordan’s brother’s illegal bachelor bush party will be waiting for me.
Kennedy: When you open it, what will you find?
Swift: A bottle of Blue with the fake label “Antidote to the Lingering Curse of Marian Hossa“.  I make a pouty face and wave it at the Red Wings alluringly.
Kennedy: Good girl.

As the quartet in the pressbox were gluing the last ABBA CD to the last IKEA “BÖRJE” chair, (surely named in honour of former Swedish defenceman Borje Salming), Kris Draper emerged from the Zamboni entrance with a megaphone in his hand.  “Citizenry of Pittsburgh … I adjure you to leave this arena, single-file, while we peacefully claim what rightfully belongs to us.  Disobey and face the consequences.”

Boos, jeers and Mellon Arena’s trademark nachos rained down on Draper.  A full platter of salsa hit him square in the mouth.

“SPEAK UP DEUCE!  No one can hear you,” Guerin yelled, hidden behind the boards.

Before Draper could respond, he looked down at the trail of pizza.  A sign from the caesars, he thought to himself, “or Little Caesars,” he chuckled, patting himself on the back for his wittiness.  Like lemmings, the Red Wings committed the rookie mistake of putting their heads down as they skated in open ice, collecting pizza all the while.

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Unable to restrain himself any longer, hard-hitting Penguins defenceman Brooks Orpik jumped out of his post at the home penalty box, tore off his hockey sweater to reveal full army fatigues and a diagonal ammunition belt fixed to his chest.  “IT’S OOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” he bellowed.  Skating at full speed onto the ice, Orpik laid a thunderous check on Draper, crumpling the Red Wing to the ice and sending the megaphone skidding right to the Penguins bench, where Ukrainian-born Fedotenko picked it up and screeched, “TIME TO MAKE SOME CHICKEN KIEV!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Like clockwork, Guerin, Crosby and Kunitz jumped over the boards as if on a line change and locked the Zamboni entrance.  Fedotenko unleashed a volley of Flaming Moe’s as the terrified Red Wings stood frozen, incredulous at the enormity of the nuclear weapon being trained on them by Gonchar and Malkin.  From above, Kennedy and Staal dropped a steady tattoo of ABBA-IKEA ‘nades, while Talbot started slapshooting doughnuts at Osgood.

“What are you doing Max?” Kennedy shouted, noticing that all the doughnuts were sailing past Osgood.  “Don’t fire them past him.  Hit him with the doughnuts!!!”

“I’m trying!” Talbot replied, adjusting his aim.  “But all I can think of is Game 7!”

The fans roared, hooting with delight and chanting, “DEUCE-Y!  DEUCE-Y!  DEUCE-Y!” as the Red Wings struggled to scramble for cover from the steady ground attack provided by the Guerin and Gonchar brigades while Kennedy’s crew unrelentingly assaulted them from the air.

It was a total rout.

After five humiliating minutes, Draper waved his men to retreat.  They dashed towards an open side tunnel exit, but not before walking a gauntlet of ice-level fans who pelted them with nachos, Yuengling beer, soda and hot dogs.

“Not in our house,” Crosby shouted, having seized Draper’s megaphone.  “If you want the Cup again, earn it!”

All the fans cheered and gave Crosby and the Penguins a ten-minute standing ovation.  Patrons in the upper and lower levels put their arms up to enable Kennedy and Talbot to crowd-surf all the way back down to ice level.  Jordan Staal emerged from the pressbox with Taylor Swift sitting on his shoulders.  The crowd roared again and likewise helped them crowd-surf down to the ice.

Finally assembled together at centre ice, the Penguins raised their sticks to the crowd, bowed in unison, then broke off to the dressing room to get ready for the opening game.  As Staal neared the boards, Kennedy motioned him over, pointing to a red welt-like mark on Staal’s neck.

“Did Taylor leave a hickey on your neck?”

“No.  I asked her out but she said I was too young for her.  Then she punched me in the jugular.”

“Dude.  Burn!”

“Whatev.  At least I got her autograph.”

Photo sources: Flickr Creative Commons [1], [2]