OK, Coyotedog, ya want dysfunction? Here’s somethin' you can really sink them molars into. Now I wanna talk about droopy members. Nah, nah -- not the slackers on the Buffalo defence. I'm talkin' about the decline and fall of the national pastime. That's right. It's playoff time, the season when real men rise to the challenge. And once in a while that means a little high-stick action. Yeah, that's right. You know what I'm sayin'. But them refs, they're callin' everything now. So no swingin' your lumber on the ice. And lemme tell ya, we could use a little more wood in the air. Yeah, you heard me. Now this ain't a problem for me. No siree. One stiff breeze from a passing Zamboni and she’s harder than a Volchenkov slapshot. But take a look at them ads they're showin' on the games now. Can we roll the ... huh? Do we have ... OK, now look at these flabby guys standin' round the barbecue talkin' about their little blue pills. Pathetic! And all the other ads are for brewskis and SUVs. So we got a nation of plastered guys flaccidly tooling around in their big honkin' cars. But we're not alone out there. Let's put some numbers up on the big board. Yeah, I done my research. Hugh betcha. Now according to this, one in nine guys in the Unexcited States of America can't salute the flag. Nope. That's cuz all the real men -- 'cept maybe Chris Chelios, gotta love him -- are over in Iraq, tryin'a-find Osama. And when you, uh, fully extend the numbers, holy Toledo, you get six million Italians and 20 million Brazilians who make like frightened turtles. No wonder them Brazilians can't play hockey. Cuz, ya know -- what, we’re outta ...? Looks like we're finishing a little prematurely – no, I don’ mean … aw fer -- jeez Louise! --
