MADISON SQUARE GARDEN, New York, NY (GlossyNews) — A puck rang off the iron heads of the NHL’s finest this weekend as Gary Bettman announced Barack Obama recipient of the coveted Lady Byng award. The players, who had waited all season for this the crowning of the league’s choicest pussy, spat like Gatorade their red wines onto the seats before them.
The women in the audience, white and working class bred, traveled faster than a sleazy slap shot to the exits, their gaudy purses trailing them in neon streaks. They sensed their husbands’ rage seething from the depths and whistling out through rows of broken teeth. They divined a lump of bruises vying for room on their faces, the way grown men heap together in a sweaty penalty box. The lights dimmed and the room paused in an eerie, hysterical silence. Obama took the stage, quiet, calm, and brandishing his latest trophy.
And so set the tone for the president’s acceptance speech, amongst other things, a courageous assessment of the Post-Steve Moore NHL. The delivery was impeccable and interspersed with the humor and humility characteristic of every succession of Obama utterances, fully commendable, truly aesthetic; however, very difficult to capture in a paltry news article. Thus we have delivered the achingly grand transcript:
Coaches of the league, sportsmen big and tall, fans with assorted drool-chins: I receive this honor leaning into the wind and detecting an ungracious odor. I stand here unguarded, both physically and spiritually. I have not in my pockets or in my ears and so hear your wary belch and obnoxious cop sirens.
Yet I’d be remiss if the next time I sat down, finger wiggling the lining of my nose like an inverted mineshaft, face slack in a dumb can’t-find-the-remote reverie, Oval-office alight in equivalent croaks, murmurs, and distant SportsCenter updates, I didn’t pinch myself at a rhythm and whistle gently the melody “Oh-ho, he who don’t know, OH!, whoa (wait, how’s it go?) give an Afghani’s taint about hockey, no!” (Confused laughter)
While I commend the great sense of achievement one feels when their favorite team wins everything and one wins nothing, I couldn’t be compelled to watch an entire game if the alternative were a sportive night’s stay in Guantanamo. (Confident laughter, this time). I’ve often released classified information in social settings just to avoid a run through of who beat whom, who got hammered, who got chiseled, grinded, and gored.
But should that disqualify me from receiving this prestigious award? I’m just a man at your mercy, begging for a shave like a horny Komondor dog. Should I have any reason to believe that this decision was made by a rogue waft of stale farts pandering to what appears a worthy cause so that they may remain standing as they bend over for pleasure and purpose of Empire? Well, now. I’m not going to answer, because those questions are rhetorical.
I would do well, however, to take myself seriously as either a potato in the microwave hopin’ for popcorn, or a nightly sports analyst with moon beams of insight delivered into his lap by stork (or low hanging cloud), and a complex mathematical theorem to extrapolate the very small but present possibility that the New York Yankees may, someday, be inducted into the Rock N’Roll Hall of Fame. To no astonishment, I choose the latter. It’s important to have a strong moral standing, and it’s important also to recognize and encourage progress.
And so I stand before you today, you muculent studs. So I stand before you today, ingenue-wives that can and the loamy crotches that will. You’ll all doubltless achieve great things. Some will hoist the Stanley Cup above their heads, wearing smiles that somehow say no this is not genuine. Others will watch on in despair, and envy the falsity it takes to inspire envy. But your job, girls, will be the hardest. You will have to write a five hundred word essay on why, in any respect, you’re distinguishable from that stupid trophy.
However, each of you should be lauded fittingly, the helpless fans, players, and wives. At least you don’t spend your time playing acoustic guitar. But, I digress, to more presidential matters. While it’s beyond my talents to propose effective legislation for the league, I would like to praise the game for becoming increasingly civilized, in this the nuclear age. Some may snicker at this proposition, but, shut up, you’re illiterate. Some may peacefully disagree, but again, shut up, you’re a terrorist.
So let us end on a positive note and recall the fateful blow that ended Steve Moore’s professional career. Fascist Republican party members in attendance that night, we’ve learned, immediately upon the attack sent their deformed disseminators of propaganda to the major media outlets. They fabricated a palatable story for the masses, which the media happily bought and sold, that had Moore questioning the size of Bertuzzi’s head just before the hit (Anyone who’s played hockey, professionally or otherwise, knows this can really put an itch in your jock). To quote Moore,
Hey look at this thing, it’s a doozy!
The miniscule head on Bertuzzi,
I’ll bet his wife goes insane
When he says to her plain
Compared to my piece it’s an Uzi
In this case, the Republican’s whitewashing of the truth should be deplored. But as the progressive party we invite you to debate the point endlessly. When someone invokes the facts, don’t take them as self-evidently objective things in the world. Invite your nasty irritants to a masturbatory academic seminar. Sit them down over coffee, chatter more or less intelligibly for two hours. When a winner is declared, he or she thumps the loser with a hockey stick. Afterward, shake hands like great toothless men. Then hot and bothered on empty slogans like hope, change, no fear and no mercy, watch the Tiger’s team bus as it runs over your girlfriend, and passes by your bedroom window.
Thank you, and goodnight everyone!
[Editor’s Note: I have no clue what this article is about, but it is beautiful in the same way the whine of friendly incoming is beautiful right before it pounds the assembled masses of drooling zombies into the hereafter, just before they overrun your wire, leaving you to fight another day. Or the sound of a beautiful woman singing in the shower when your wife is out of town… ]