Recent public filings by the Toronto Maple Leafs indicate that the team is of the view that they effectively have a veto right over NHL franchise re-location, claiming that placement of another franchise in their “home territory” would require their consent. The NHL (and most likely the Canadian Competition Bureau) disagrees.
As a life-long fan of the storied franchise (and by “storied”, I mean financially successful and competitively abhorrent), I truly hope the Leafs win this battle. Because nothing fosters on-ice performance and trading activity more than the knowledge that your team’s financial future is wholly independent of the product that skates onto the ice every night in front of a sold-out crowd. After all, why bother competing when you can completely insulate yourself from competitive forces and rest on your laurels? Remember the glory days of the Leafs from the 1950s and 1960s? No, neither do I. But I hear those were great times! Why sully the memory of yester-year’s heroes with a run for the Cup when we can forever live in the past!?!
And think of the cap space the Leafs have!! If that doesn’t excite a hockey fan, I don’t know what will! I am sick of all of those nay-sayers complaining about the fact that the most financially successful team in the NHL hasn’t won the Stanley Cup since the 1960s, and has barely made it into the Playoffs for most of the intervening years. Look at the big picture, people! Specifically, the financial statements… Think about those poor bastards down in Pittsburgh, who have struggled for years to even stay financially viable. Do you think their fans are happy simply because they built a phenomenal team in a few short years and won the Cup? Of course not! Such joy is hollow and fleeting. What any true hockey fan cares about is how well the team is doing as a going concern, not how well they perform on the ice. Enterprise value always trumps win/loss percentage.
In conclusion, I look forward to several more decades of financially successful mediocrity, backed by a complete absence of competition, sporadic and equally pointless post-season runs every 5 years, and a flurry of excuses / empty promises in the off-season. Thank you, Leafs, for continuing to find inventive ways to crush my soul on an almost daily basis.
It’s a well-known fact that when Germans turn their collective minds to something, they usually dominate it (just ask the Poles). Yet the most fascinating thing about (post-1945) Germanic domination is that they are a people who choose to excel at arcane areas of “sport”. In this sense, they have a great deal in common with Canucks (with perhaps the exception of the whole “domination” thing…). Both nations love the trifecta of “ice track” sports (bobsled, luge and skeleton). Germans are passionate about handball, whereas Canadians have lacrosse. Germany loves field hockey, while Canada prefers a version of hockey that is not played by teenage girls…
However, the one area in which Germans have a leg-up (metaphorically and otherwise) on the Great White North is that of synchronized bicycling. Try as we might (and we don’t), Germans run things when it comes to the zany world of synchro bikes….
I don’t know whether to be proud of these wunderkinds, or to box-punch them. How many hours of wasted youth did they devote this endeavour? I cannot help but feel that these two frauleins are going to look back on their lives one day and have nothing to show for the first 20 years of life other than massive quads and a fervent passion for lesbianism (not that there’s anything wrong with that).
What pisses me off more, however, is the crowd watching this uber spectacle on wheels. What the fuck does it take to impress you people?!?! I was jumping up and down in my cubicle like a school girl on crack from the first moment the two “athletes” mounted their tricked-out beach cruisers, and you lot sit there like it’s a chess match! What the hell were you expecting? You specifically came to the high school gym to watch the European Junior Championships of Indoor Cycling (apparently), and yet you seem confused by the perfectly executed performance that is unfolding before you.
Hey, you’re the idiots who found time in your day to attend the event - the least you could offer would be a periodic golf clap and a “huzzah” every now and again. I’m sorry, were you not impressed by the fact that these girls were able to balance their admittedly masculine toros on the inverted handle bars of a bike, in unison, while moving in concentric circles in reverse? I’m sure little fatty Uter in the front row could pull that move off in his sleep, if he weren’t so full of chocolate…
In conclusion, I give the cyclists 4 nationalist leotard onesies out of a posible 5, while the crowd gets a Munich Steamer (it’s like the one from Cleveland, only more efficient…).
PS - I am pretty sure that is Bryan Adams I hear in the background… Not only does that make the performance that much more impressive, it also cements my theory on the shared Germanic-Canadian heritage.
“What else do you want me to say? If I could go back in time and just join a gym instead of Al Qaeda, I would. But what are you gonna do? Live and learn.”
I missed out on the KISS phenomenon by a good number of years. Looking at it from a distance, the whole gimmicky-costumed-metal thing seems kind of silly, but I try not to judge. Of course, this is almost certainly because I know that, had I been a teenager in the late 1970s, I would have been a huge fan. After all, I have a strong affinity towards showy arena rock, I watched professional wrestling well into my mid-20s, and just this evening I forced my girlfriend to watch me play the opening sequence to the new Batman XBox game, because she had “no idea how cools this looks”. I feel these are pretty strong indicators that I would have been a deeply devoted, if awkwardly skinny, knight in Satan’s service.
So when I say that Gene Simmons is one of the most unfathomably ridiculous human beings on the planet, please know that it has nothing to do with his music and/or stage persona. No, the Gene Simmons I know and can’t stand is the guy who, at the ripe old age of 60, still does straight-faced television interviews with visibly uncomfortable strippers sitting on his lap. He’s the guy who has sullied the good name of Canada’s First Lady of Softcore, The Right Honourable Shannon Tweed, by refusing to make her an honest woman and marry her. And above all else, he’s the guy who subjected an unsuspecting and innocent populace to his “t-shirt mandatory” sex romp video (photo NSF…well, anything), and then had the balls to claim it was recorded and released against his will. I’m no econonimist, but when there’s way too much supply measured against such very, very little demand, I believe it was John Keynes himself who said, “blame it on the creepy aging rock star. Always.”
Simmons’s other crimes against human decency are legion, such that I’m slightly embarrassed it took so long to put him on this list. In fact, if we were to rank our inductees for sheer punchability, he would almost certainly be numero uno, were it not for the Kroeger factor. In any event, better late than never. So with apologies to Rivers Cuomo, we present the many maddening mugs of the man born Chaim Witz. And wouldn’t you know it - not a one of ‘em is painted.
The “You Weren’t Home, So Hopes You Don’t Mind That He Helped Himself to a Popsicle”
The “Continues to Rock, Despite Broken Hip”
The “Come Away With Me, My Love…To the Men’s Room at Hooters”
Well, it’s come to this. We truly have nothing left to say. The “Last Starfighter” was the last item in our pop culture closet. We are spent. Done. However, we realize that Food Court Lunch may be the only light in the dark, pathetic lives of our readers, and so we feel obliged to post something. We’ll do it, but dammit, it is not going to be good.
I would like to take this opportunity to broadcast a grievance that is near and dear to my heart. I am a fat man, dear readers. “A fat blogger”, you say? Yes, it’s true. As a fat blogger, I have honed by excessive caloric consumption to a near science. I know what shit I like to it, and I know how I like it prepared. I am finicky. Sure, that characteristic might not be gleaned from observing me eat out a bag of caramel corn like it was made of Megan Fox’s pelvis, but it’s true. I have my dietary pecadilloes. Here’s one:
That’s a Tim Horton’s Breakfast Sandwich. Sausage, pre-formed egg slab, cheese and a buttery, buttery biscuit. Fucking delicious. Well, delicious if properly prepared. Like many things I get pleasure from, it needs lube. Lots and lots of lube. And by that, I mean a silicon-based gel ketchup. On Saturday morning, I will often pull into a Tim Horton’s drive-through and order one of these bad boys. However, my order is not that simple. I will request that they put ketchup on it. And every single fucking time, they will tell me that they can’t do that.
Oh, you’ve got time to pose for a photo, but no time to sauce my sandwich?
Really? Can’t do it or won’t do it? I know that you make those fucking things to order. I have seen you do it. I have seen the awkward and unappetizing tray of steamed egg slabs, the slices of low grade cheese, and the troublingly grey sausage being slapped together when I order it. How fucking hard would it be for you to put a squirt of ketchup on it? I’m driving, okay? Do you know how hard it is for me to open and apply those little fucking packages when I am going 70 kmph? If someone dies, it is entirely the fault of those donut-slinging bastards. And don’t tell me to pull over and put that ketchup on. Who the fuck are you? Stalin? I want that shit my way, and I don’t want to have to do it myself. Do you want me to cook the eggs and sausage and slice the cheese as well? Fuck off, and fuck you. Gimme my fucking ketchup so that I can enjoy my 510 calories, 950 mg of sodium and 33 grams of fat in peace. Either that or I will shit on the floor of your bathroom. Your choice. Let’s conduct this transaction with a little dignity, shall we?
If you’re like me, you still harbour dreams of NHL scouts drafting you from your Wednesday night beer league, you miss the McPizza (or for les Quebecois among you, “le McPizza“), and you have grave regrets about your “career” choice on an almost hourly basis. Also, you love science fiction movies (and midget porn, which is in many ways similar to science fiction…)
The latest science fiction (or “sci-fi”, as it is known in the biz) release to take the BiMonSciFiCon by storm is District 9. Apparently it is fantastic. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t go to see it. Instead, I chose to sit on my couch and re-watch The Last Starfighter, having convinced myself that it would be just as good and would require far less effort. I was 50% right.
I should preface this discussion by confessing that I LOVED The Last Starfighter when I was a kid. After all, who’s NOT a fan of Lance Guest? For those who (a) lived a sheltered childhood, or (b) were born in the 1980s, The Last Starfighter is the thrilling tale of a young Alex Rogan who becomes the last starfighter in the galaxy (hence the title, I suspect) after unwittingly completing a recruitment module disguised as a videogame entitled “Starfighter”. It was cross-marketing at its finest - a movie about a videogame, that subsequently spawned a video game about the movie. It was also one of the first films in history (together with Tron) to use CGI. On that theory alone, I assumed it would stand up to a re-watch two and a half decades later. I was wrong.
The movie starts out as your typical teenage love story: boy meets girl who lives next to him in a trailer park. Boy excels at a videogame, and gets recruited to assist in an inter-stellar battle for the universe by an alien in a fedora and a (slightly) modified DeLorean. Boy leaves behind alien clone (”Beta Alex”) to ensure that his absence goes unnoticed by his friends and family at the trailer park. Apparently gay clone rebuffs sexual advances by trailer trash girlfriend. Meanwhile, boy somehow becomes the last starfighter in the galaxy and single-handedly destroys the invading alien hordes (with the assistance of his star navigator, Grig, who bears a striking resemblance to the alien in Enemy Mine… Don’t look at me like that - we were all thinking it). Boy eventually returns to the trailer park, kidnaps trailer trash girlfriend, and heads back to space to kick some alien ass. The only thing missing was an appearance by Poochie.
In any event, on re-watching this gem, I have to admit that it wasn’t quite what I had hoped / remembered. CGI apparently has come a long way since 1984. Also, so has acting and screenwriting. Then again, what the hell do I know? After all, it was good enough for an off-Broadway musical adaptation in 2004… In fact, if you do nothing else today, PLEASE go to the website for “The Last Starfighter - A New Musical, Cast Recording“ and rock out to some of the musical offerings from Skip Kennon. Seriously. It will change your life.
Somebody, Somewhere, Something(containing the insightful lines “I’ve gotta be somebody who goes somewhere and does something…” - Skip’s life motto, apparently)
Zandozan! (how could it be bad with the following intro: “I was having the bitchingist dream, me o my, Miss July, sittin’ on the sofa”)
In conclusion, while the movie may not hold up as well as I had hoped, it has fostered in me a new-found love for off-Broadway musicals. Thank you, Lance Guest. You truly are the Last Starfighter…
(1967. Worcester, Massachusetts. An eight-year-old J.P. Ricciardi operates a lemonade stand in front of his house)
L’il J.P.: Lemonade! Get your world class lemonade here! Best in the neighbourhood! What, you don’t want some?
(Man in a suit carrying a briefcase walks by)
Man: (smiling warmly) Well, hello there, little fella. Say, it sure is hot today. Tell you what - I’ll take one glass of your nice, cool lemonade.
L’il J.P.: Thirty-four dollars.
Man: Now, here’s 25 cents, but you can keep the…excuse me - did you just say “thirty-four dollars”?
L’il J.P.: Cash only. Next!
Man: You…you can’t seriously expect me to pay you thirty-four dollars for a glass of lemonade.
L’il J.P.: Alright. Let’s do business then. Make me a counter-offer.
Man: (aghast) Well, twenty-five cents!
L’il J.P.: (rolls eyes) Get the fuck out of here. Next!
Man: Excuseme? I have half a mind to tell your father about the language you’re using, young man!
L’il J.P.: Yeah? And I have a full mind to tell your father that his son is a skinflint who doesn’t recognize great value when he sees it!
Man: Look, there is no way that lemonade is worth more than 10 cents. Lemons alone don’t cost more than [draft note: research price of lemons in 1967; insert].
L’il J.P.: Have you ever tasted this lemonade before?
Man: Of course not.
L’il J.P.: (pours an ounce into a paper cup) Here.
Man: (takes sip) Well…it is good.
L’il J.P.: Damn right it is. That’s my best product that I save only for the hottest afternoons. It’s called my “Hell-a-day” mix.
Man: (finishing cup) Mmm. Is that a hint of nutmeg I taste?
L’il J.P.: It’s a secret ingredient. So, what now?
Man: It’s still not worth anything near what you’re asking.
L’il J.P.: Are you crazy? Where are you going to find another cup like that in this neighbourhood? At Normy Maguire’s stand? Let me tell you, that kid’s hands haven’t been washed since baptism.
Man: Look, I’m not saying it’s not good lemonade. But I think you are grossly over-estimating your bargaining position.
L’il J.P.: What? Who else is there? Robbie Pentall? Puh-leeze. Those coloured twins? That cootied tease Sally Rooter with the pig tails? Listen, she may say it’s sugar, but her stuff is all sweetener…(winks)…if you follow me.
Man: I don’t. And you, my foul-mouthed little friend, have just cost yourself a sale. Good day to you. (walks away)
L’il J.P.: Go on - hit the bricks, pal! Go buy a can of that frozen, “from concentrate” garbage! [draft note 2: was canned lemonade around in 1967? Ask grandfather] He’ll be back.
(A slightly older, heavyset child with a thick Bronx accent approaches the lemonade stand)
L’il J.P.: Hank, my man! Whadda you say? Can I get you a glass of lemonade? You must be thirsty from walking that whole block over here.
Hank: Very funny. I wanna buy your lemons.
L’il J.P.: All of ‘em?
Hank: Yup. My stand is running low.
L’il J.P.: Alright - $700 dollars. And I’m going to need you to throw in two bags of lemonades that aren’t quite ripe yet.
Hank: I’ll give you twenty-five cents.
L’il J.P.: Are you crazy?
Hank: I’ll give you twenty-five cents.
L’il J.P.: Get the fuck outta here, Hank.
(Hank picks J.P. up by his ankles, holds him upside down and shakes him repeatedly)
Hank: Do we have a deal?
L’il J.P.: Go to hell!
Hank: Wrong answer.
(Hank takes J.P. over to a nearby tree, and ties him to a branch upside down by his shoelaces)
L’il J.P.: You’re supposed to make a counter-offer!
Hank: (filling his backpack with lemons) Where do you keep the cinnamon?
L’il J.P.: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Hank: Yes you do. Your “secret ingredient”?
L’il J.P.: How do you know about that?
Hank: You kidding me? Everyone knows. You won’t stop blabbing about it to the entire east end.
L’il J.P.: (sighs) Underneath the stand.
(Hank lifts the lemonade stand, and picks up a large jar of cinnamon)
L’il J.P.: Actually, I forgot the cinnamon inside. That’s rat poison.
Hank: (slaps a quarter down on the stand) Pleasure doing business with you. (walks away with lemons and cinnamon)
L’il J.P.: (yelling after him) You think you’re so big and tough, ever since your dad bought that fancy colour television network!
(A tiny child suddenly leaps out of the bushes, grabs J.P.’s plastic cups, and scurries off giggling)
L’il J.P.: Oh, son of a bitch. (yelling after him) You’ll pay for that, Epstein, you precocious little bastard!
For brevity’s sake, I am going to call you “Ben” for the rest of this letter. Well, for both brevity’s sake and because I doubt that I will be able to spell your name properly on a consistent basis. Crap, I may already have fucked it up and, to be frank, I am too lazy to check to see if I did. “Ben” it is.
Ben, Ben, Ben. It’s been a difficult couple of weeks, hasn’t it? Rape allegations? Wow. That kind of came out of nowhere, didn’t it? I bet that’s what she said. I’m kidding, Ben. Rape allegations are no joke. Well, at least they aren’t a joke I can do without spending a bit of time on it, and I am a lazy, lazy man. It’s not an attractive quality, true, but it’s light years ahead of being a rapey, rapey man.
Summers just aren’t good to you, Ben. Wasn’t it just a few years ago that you spent the off-season convalescing from a serious motorcyle accident? The Steelers should probably keep you in an “Altered States”-esque chamber from February to when mini-camp starts. If they could put a treadmill in one of those things, you would be both safe and in shape. You can tell Tomlin about this and pretend it was your idea. Anyway, motorcycling without a helmet? That’s two summer activities for which you should have worn a helmet. Ha! Seriously, if she got pregnant, you would have been fucked.
Anyway, there is a reason for this open letter. I’m not here to judge you…well, actually I am here to judge you, and judge you harshly. This isn’t about the rape allegation. We’ve all had our own personal issues with civil sexual assault litigation. Oh, we haven’t? Just me then? Wow, that’s cause for introspection. Regardless, what I do take issue with is much more important. I’m not sure if you have denied having sex with the plaintiff, Andrea McNulty — rather, as I understand, you simply have denied the sexual assault. Let’s assume that sexual activity did occur, and further assume that it was consensual. This is what you dropped a load into:
Jesus H. Christ. It looks like you, shaved, in a wig, with a cowboy hat. Not only does that sound like a murder in “Clue”, it’s fucking disturbing. What’s with this, Ben? Your sister won’t put out? Are you taking A-Rod’s vanity to a new level?
You make an unattractive woman, Ben. You probably shouldn’t be trying to fuck yourself.
Regardless of the bizarreness of you apparently seeking to have Tomax-and-Xamot-style intercourse, I have a real problem with the fact that you may have hooked up with Ms. McNulty. My problem? You apparently forgot that you have (or used to have) this at home:
Missy Peregrym. Remember her? No? This ring a bell?
Still nothing? She’s wearing a hat in this one, so look closely:
Wait, here’s you two together. See if this jogs your memory.
My guess is that Missy might not be pleased with your alleged Lake Tahoe exploits. So, to be clear, you jeopardized your relationship with Missy (who, by the way, is the star of “Stick It”, the best gymnastics movie ever made that didn’t involve the term “Gymkata”) by fooling around at a golf tournament. And, to top it off, your choice of partner is essentially your doppelganger with tits. Fuck, man — I know you are Super Bowl champion, but if I can give you some advice for your life, Ben, here it is:
1) Don’t cheat on Missy Peregrym. Why? LOOK AT MISSY PEREGRYM!!!! The best you could hope for is different, not better.
2) Don’t cheat on Missy Peregrym with someone that looks like Andrea McNulty. If you have any question as to why, see advice point #1. You just won the Super Bowl. You don’t need to be hitting slump-busters in the offseason. Fuck, man, I can only assume that you somehow suffered an eye injury like Orlando Brown.
3) Wear a fucking helmet. It will likely prevent further brain injuries and will help out with number #2.
Ben, you know how they say that QBs have a sixth sense with which they can sense blindside rushes? Well, I have another sixth sense for you: common sense.
The Josh Hamilton backslide incident and Manny Ramirez’s brief fall from grace have once again taught us the value of the carefully-worded professional athlete public apology. But who in today’s workaday world has the time to craft an apology that both satisfies the general public’s schadenfreude-driven bloodlust while sneakingly deflecting responsibility for the offending acts?
Fear not friends. Food Court Lunch has managed to get its hands on a “fill in the blanks” apology that can cover any situation in which a professional athlete finds him or herself! You say you bludgeoned an equipment manager because he put Stanazolol instead of Dianabol in your locker? No problem! Ran over a bat boy while watching porn in your Hummer? We’ve got your back.
Food Court Lunch’s Professional Athlete Public Apology Generator
During the 6-week period that Canadians affectionately refer to as “summer”, there’s not a heck of a lot going on in the Great White North. The entire nation pretty much shuts down (if you’re looking for us, we’re all at our cottages). In fact, it would be a great time for a foreign power to go “Red Dawn” on us (I am looking at you, Russia, with your fancy “claims” to the northern half of our country…)
In short, Canadians effectively hibernate during these “hot” summer “months”, awaiting the return of our Hoth-esque winters. That is why the recent unveiling of our national hockey team’s olympic jersey is the equivalent of stumbling across porn on cable on a Sunday afternoon - it’s incredibly exciting, highly unexpected, and leaves you feeling sleepy (and mildly ashamed).
For those of you who have not seen our new jerseys (i.e., everyone who does not watch the CBC or read the Globe & Mail), here is what they look like:
At first glance, they look pretty similar to our old jerseys. Upon closer inspection of the “crest”, however, you will discover that they contain their own delightful (kinder) surprise:
That’s right, bitches - our jerseys have beavers on them!! And not just beavers - we’ve got whales, loons, Inuit art, fish (possibly salmon), moose, fleurs-de-lis, and what appear to be geese. In fact, these bad boys cover off every Canadian heritage icon imaginable (except Bryan Adams, who declined the honour…).
Admittedly I was a little skeptical when I first read about the proposed jersey design. After all, it’s tough to look bad-ass when you’re skating into the corner with a smiling beaver on your chest (for our friends south of the border, a “smiling beaver” is a uniquely Canadian sexual move. Ask for it by name!).
However, having seen the final product, I have a horrible confession to make… I love them. Seriously. I feel so ashamed… I couldn’t even muster the energy to write a post mocking them because I was too busy surfing the Canadian interwebs (which is exclusively dial-up) in the desperate hopes of purchasing my very own…
In conclusion, I would ask forgiveness of our readers and my fellow bloggers for this shameful moment of weakness. I trust the scathing comments below will provide you with the daily dose of cynicism that you so richly deserve…
DISCLAIMER: In the event that you are inexplicably confused by our site, this is parody (poorly executed, but parody nonetheless). For the sake of clarity, however, please note that the opinions expressed in the Comments section of this site are NOT moderated or endorsed in any way by the authors of this site, who do not understand HTML and can scarcely manage to post items themselves
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