Welcome to Aw NHL Naw. A column where our mini sticks are always curved for your pleasure.

Russian Futurists: The NHL, the IOC and the IIHF are still in the process of sorting out whether or not National Hockey League players will be allowed to participate in the 2014 Olympic Winter Games. (And also whether or not they’ll get access to the IBM Costumed Sex Pavilion open to all athletes, vendors, officials, execs and people that have a drycleaner that can get genital fluids out of a matador’s cape. BIG STAKES HERE, FOLKS!) An Olympics without the NHL is supposed to be a terrifying proposition, but there doesn’t seem to be anything scary about it.

If NHL players are able to compete in Sochi, that’s neat. If they don’t, we get a cool rogue season where players like Alex Ovechkin have sworn off playing in the NHL in 2013-2014. That’s when shit could get all nutball crazycorn in a hurry. It won’t happen, but I like the fantasy of European players just pissing all over the leather chair of Gary Bettman and splitting to be celebrated as heroes at home before competing for national pride, followed by a return to NHL play in 2014-2015.

Another scenario if NHL players are barred from competing in Sochi: The men’s Olympic ice hockey tournament is settled Battle Royale style. A middle school class from each qualifying country is drugged on a field trip and forced to play for Gold on a remote island. Special collars are attached to each player’s neck and will detonate if they refuse to compete. Weapons are available and totally sanctioned. A lighthouse is involved somehow. Make it happen, IOC. You could have the best Olympics ever if you let this happen.

As a Canadian, I have a deep rooted distrust of the IIHF, so it’s essential that I patriotically note that IIHF President Rene Fasel seems like a colossal knob and I assume he’s in the pocket of Skoda. YOU LOOK LIKE A BANKER THAT TEAMS WITH A SUPERVILLAIN UNTIL YOU OUTLIVE YOUR USEFULNESS AND HE THROWS YOU OUT A SKYSCRAPER WINDOW, RENE.

Hot Evergreen Raccoons vs. Cyril’s Bears Action: Exciting ice hockey drama from Canada’s premier socialist cartoon!

I Chortled: The Los Angeles Kings continue to handle their Twitter biz at a championship level.

Rubbing elbows with record label goons and dudes that may have been weed carriers for Rascalz: This week I have a media wristband for Canadian Music Week. (That’s why this column is going up early and it’s a lot shorter on hockey content than usual. Sorry!) I enjoy that sort of nonsense. Y’know, waiting in line, seeing A&R types “network” their taints into a sweaty foam, arguing with security because THAT VODKA BOTTLE SMUGGLED IN MY BUTT COULD HAVE BEEN PLANTED! YOU DON’T FUCKING KNOW! It should be fun, but I’m a bit of a lamewad. Super secret show at 3AM inside an abandoned pencil sharpener factory? That sounds unpleasant and it could cut into valuable game show watching time. NO DICE, MUSIC BAND/THING THAT I PROBABLY DON’T LIKE! WHY ISN’T EVERY BAND ORANGE JUICE AND WHY DOESN’T EVERY BAND PLAY AT LIKE 8PM IN A PLACE THAT SELLS EXOTIC CANDY BARS? *self immolates*

I’m getting old, so I’m way less easygoing about shit at concerts I don’t like. Please don’t kick me in the head. Please don’t vomit on me. Please don’t stick your cameraphone in my face. Please keep the fingerbanging around me to a minimum. I’m a squinty looking fuckface in an army jacket. I do a good job repelling people outside of concerts, why can’t I pull off this feat inside a club? Fuck you. Fuck your youth. Fuck your willingness to go to this concert and spend the entire night in the bathroom snorting coke instead of actually being there for the act you came to “see”. ADDITIONAL OLD MAN WHINING BECAUSE I AM OLD!

All my grumbling is misguided, to be honest. Does my goofy ass bring much to the table as a concert goer? Not really. I’m a doofus that dances like a bear that’s trying to get an invisible hula hoop off its butt. I’m normally at the show alone, so security occasionally gives me a “oh shit, this better not be another Dimebag Darrell situation” look, which is always exciting. Also, when the band wants someone in the audience to show their tits, they’re never appreciative when I pull mine out.

I’ve got to bring more to the table as a band-looking-at-er.

Enough of that treble clef and bass solo themed blabbin’. May your hockels be plentiful this week!


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