Poo on you, Maxim Lapierre, and you have a STUPID name.
I cannot be consoled.
First of all, this was the COMPLETE OPPOSITE of my happy Wednesday. I’m in a corner of the bar with my laptop trying to finish edits for Sunday’s paper, watch the hockey game, watch the baseball game AND guzzle lunchboxes (it’s a drink, okay?) with the Frankster with absolutely NO FAN SUPPORT. It’s a lot of pressure. It’s so much pressure to be the ONLY person in a crowded bar watching hockey.
“What are you, Canadian?”
That’s what they say.
Are they WATCHING the game?
Do they SEE my Boston hat?
Oh, I see. You’re just generalizing. Because everyone who likes hockey is Canadian.
Okay. I get it. Because I think you’re a douche. You know. Because everyone who annoys me at this bar is a douche. Oh wait. That generalization is TRUE.
So yeah, bad company.
I hate you, Maxim Lapierre.
I hate you and I’ve always hated you and I just want you to know that every move you make, Santa is watching.
And now I have MORE stress in my life for a Monday.
Really. Are you guys even CONSIDERING my feelings when you refuse to score? And, as we all know, Lauren spends a lot of time in Canada… (because I really do love it and want to live in Vancouver someday. You know, when MAXIM LAPIERRE is extradited to hell) and has a lot of Canadian friends… who send LOTS of annoying Canadian text messages when the Bruins lose. I would like to point out that MOST of these friends are Montreal fans. So sending me text messages DOESN’T EVEN MAKE SENSE.
Oh, and fake Vancouver fan at the bar? You don’t make sense either.
“I’m from Oregon,” she said, batting her eyes.
THEN WHY THE FRICK DO YOU LIKE THE CANUCKS?
I have family in Oregon. And they HATE the Canucks.
Oregon, see, stupid batty eye girl, is not another country. It is another state. IN AMERICA. And, the guy that was talking to me just now? He was ridiculing me. RIDICULING THIS SPORT. You are not going to get any brownie points with Fratty McFratterson by pretending to be “into the rivalry.”
And I’m happy about this. Not because I want Fratty McFratterson to myself, mind you. Because you two would make some really stupid children. And the world has enough STUPID children growing up into STUPID adults. STUPID adults like you, MAXIM LAPIERRE.
But… and here’s something neat. I was soooooo stressed out by your ineptitude, hockey gods (that’s right. I’m blaming the gods for this one) that I quickly and succinctly finished ALLLLL my work for tomorrow. This is a big deal. You don’t understand. I make college all-nighters look lowkey. So. Now it’s 1:08 a.m. And I am about to watch Cheers on Netflix. You know. For the remainder of the night. In the morning, I will enjoy sunshine. I will go to the Farmer’s Market and imagine all that glorious sunshine melting that stupid Canadian ice. Then I will imagine you, Maxim Lapierre, sinking into a water hole in the ice and crying baby tears. And not just any baby tears, the tears of a baby whose friends make fun of him because at age three he wears headgear and smells like cheese. That kind of baby. You know, the kind that, at six-years-old, already knows he won’t have a date in ten years for prom. And his parents know it too. That’s why they make deals with other parents to get the baby invited to all the birthday parties. Stupid Maxim Lapierre.
Red Sox, thank you for your patriotism.
Bruins, I can’t even look at you right now. You stress me out.
Maxim Lapierre, I hate you.