Looking back, I guess it was pretty stupid of me to think it was just a lucky coincidence that this so-called party Kelly was taking me to happened to be scheduled at the exact same time the Canada vs. USA Gold Medal Hockey Game was being played. Initially, I thought the party would serve as a perfect alibi. Like, when my Dad asks me what I thought of the game, I’d have a legitimate excuse to offer. No need to get into petty quarrels about my personal protest against the Olympics over stolen native land, the corporate pimps, human rights violations, government funding, juice monkeys, etcetera.
Imagine my surprise when we get to the party. There’s tons of beer, barbecued farmer sausage, chips and dip and to top it all off there’s all these people who I love intently focused on a gigantic, totally gorgeous, flat screen TV. Without really looking, I peeked out of the corner of my eye and I just knew what they were watching. It was the final hoorah of The Olympiad….The Gold Medal Men’s Hockey Championship.
What was I supposed to do? I mean, I’ve read the bible. I know all about the devil and his tricky ways. I was not about to abandon my principals on account of some super sexy high-definition devil TV with surround sound displaying the sports rivalry to beat all sports rivalries. I knew I’d need to keep myself busy with trivial things throughout the game. Idle hands, mine were not. I practiced finger tricks like the one where you pretend you lost a thumb then it magically re-appears. If you have ketchup on your hands when you show that trick to kids they freak out and start to cry. Like, grow up already. It’s just ketchup. God. Anyway, between practicing that trick and apologizing to the other parents for freaking out their kids, I managed to avoid watching almost the entire game.
Just when everyone seemed to think it was all over, something happened in the game that made everyone in the room jump out of their chairs and scream and shout like a bunch of goddam lunatics. It was difficult to say who was yelling what. I just heard so many voices all at once: “NO!!!! Oh God! NO! Kill me now! I don’t want to live! I shit my pants! etc. ” The American team had scored (goddamit) with less than a minute left in the game. I asked Kelly if it was time to go home. He said “nooooo, now it goes to sudden death over time”.
Ya’know how in movies when a person has all these repressed memories and then years later, something trivial happens that “pulls the plug” so-to-speak and a flood of forgotten thoughts and feelings come pouring back into the person’s mind? That’s totally what happened to me when Kelly said “sudden death overtime”. In a single moment, I remembered how much I loved hockey. I felt warmth in my heart as if I had just sipped some steamed milk my Mommy made me. But it wasn’t steamed milk that was warming my heart. It was love. Not love for The Olympics but love for Canada. Love for Hockey. Love for Sidney Mutherfuckin Crosby.
Cut me some slack okay? Everybody knows that kids have no way to resist Satan’s temptations (obviously) so just like a hyper little kid, I jumped up on to my Uncle Satan’s lap and watched Canada kick the shit out of the Americans! Oh did I laugh at those fart-heads pouting like little babies when they got their silver medals and broccoli bouquets for being the first losers (Satan likes when you laugh at people and belittle their achievements). The thing about Uncle Satan though is he’s a bit of an over-zealous dork. He actually told me to defriend all my American friends on facebook to prove my love for Hockey and for Canada but I was like, “That’s aboot the most immature thing I’ve ever heard. Plus after my American friends read this they’ll probably defriend me. So, get bent Uncle Stupid”.
I’ll be four years older the next time The Winter Olympics are on so maybe I’ll be more mature than I was this round. Sorry if you’re disappointed in me. I’ll try to do better next time.
PS. Sidney Crosby called me up right after the game and asked if I’d go on a bunch of dates with him and I was like, “Oh Sid, gimme a break already. Don’t you have interviews to do or something?” and he was like, “I don’t care, I want to talk to you on the phone for a few hours — y’know, about feelings and stuff” and I was like “too bad” (click). Hockey players are the worst (um, Sorry Dad. Sorry Dale. Sorry Berk. Sorry Team Canada).