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Recap

Holy fuck, boys, did you see that game last night? The Detroit Red Wings fin’ demolished the Florida Panthers, 8-1. It was like watchin’ Randy tryin’ to play ice hockey—just a big, greasy mess. Ricky: Alright, so the Red Wings come out swingin’ like me at the liquor store. Four goals in the first period, four in the second. That goalie Pandarin or whatever, he was like a brick shit house—let in only one goal outta five shots. Reminds me of my ball hockey team in jail. We had a goalie named “Concrete,” ’cause he was tough as fuck and could stop anything. Same deal here, boys. Bubbles: Ricky, it’s Panarin, not “Panda-rin,” and it’s not “Concrete,” it’s “Concrete Charlie.” Get it right, bud. But yeah, the Wings were hot as a fresh litter of kittens, bud. They were on fire. Julian: Yeah, Ricky, it was a total beatdown. Those forwards—xBeanZy-, TokeNxsty, and BejimoSzn—were like a fuckin’ machine. Combined, they had 15 points. They could score on Lahey, and he’s blackout drunk half the time. TokeNxsty had 7 hits, playin’ like he’s tryin’ to knock the shit out of Randy for eatin’ all the cheeseburgers. Bubbles: Jules, you’re right. The Red Wings were smooth and ruthless, like a pack of alley cats on a fish truck. That uStooPiiD guy, funny name but he had four fuckin’ assists. He was passin’ the puck like I pass out cat food on a rainy day. Florida’s defense was floppin’ around like a drunk kitty in a storm. Ricky: Bubs, it’s YourStooPiiD, not “Stupid.” Get your facts straight, bud. But yeah, the Panthers were fuckin’ useless. That goalie Bray4x_Fyb, poor bastard, he had a rough night. Eight goals on seventeen shots? He couldn’t stop a beach ball in a wind tunnel. And their forwards, Popeskill and Jockurrr, were about as useful as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Julian: Exactly, Rick. Panthers’ defense was a joke. Alpha-33x and GUTLESS-I53I? More like Clueless and Gutless. Minus seven for the game. Fuckin’ embarrassing. It’s like they were playin’ with their heads up their asses. Hey, boys, I got an idea. We should start a hockey training camp for losers like the Panthers. We can teach ’em the basics, charge a ton of money, and make a fortune. Whaddya think? Bubbles: Julian, are you nuts? We’re gonna get ourselves into more trouble than Ricky at a free drink night at the Legion. Plus, Ricky can’t even spell “hockey,” let alone teach it. We should stick to what we know, like recycling and kitties. Ricky: C’mon, Bubs, I can spell “hockey.” H-O-K-E-Y. See? Fuckin’ nailed it. And Julian’s right, we could make some serious cash. Maybe even get a new trailer outta it. Besides, we’ll just tell ’em to shoot the puck and hit hard, like they’re smackin’ Randy’s greasy gut. Bubbles: Rick, it’s H-O-C-K-E-Y, not “Hokey.” Jesus, Murphy. And no, Julian, this is a bad idea. We don’t need to end up in jail again. Let’s just enjoy the game for what it was—a total fuckin’ beatdown. Leave the schemin’ to someone else. Julian: Alright, Bubs, maybe you’re right. But we gotta find a way to capitalize on this somehow. There’s money to be made in hockey, boys. We just need to find the right angle. Ricky: You said it, Julian. We’ll figure something out. But for now, let’s just celebrate the fact that the Red Wings kicked ass, the Panthers sucked, and if anyone says different, they can fuck right off. It was like watchin’ a train wreck, and I fuckin’ loved it. Just goes to show, sometimes you’re the Ricky, and sometimes you’re the Randy. Julian: Right on, Rick. Let’s get a drink, celebrate this shit show, and maybe even teach these Panthers how to play some real fin’ hockey. Bubbles: Sounds good, boys. Just gotta make sure the kitties are fed first. Priorities, ya know? And that’s the fuckin’ breakdown, boys and girls. Stay greasy!