Sadly, It's Not Nearly as Scary as Sid's Actual Life Must Be...

Cindy Crosby the French Bulldog is scared by Spooking Cindy...

Alas and alack, friends and readers. My occupation continues to cockblock me from serving as your Shepherdess of SportSquee. It also cockblocks me from having anything resembling a social life and human feelings aside from disgust for tourists gathering like Whoville Who's around the 30 Rock Christmas tree and enthusiasm over eye-catching statistics that can be easily disseminated into lower-third football graphics.

Yet, I managed unblock my proverbial (perhaps) cock in order to squeeze in a breakfast summit with my favorite illustrious empresses of the blogosphere, Pookie and Schnookie of the legendary Interchangeable Parts a few months ago. During our delightful meeting, which was far too brief, we talked about our favorite subject, Sidney Patrick Crosby, subject of IPB's past writing contest, Chasing Sidney, in which gentle readers were challenged to write a coming-of-age tale about the Kid that had to include a European trip and one or more of the Lemieux(es?). With the spirit of Halloween fresh in our veins, we discussed how fun it might be to a spooky tale about Sir Sid. Challenge accepted. On my frequent airplane/train trips to and from work locations (which pretty much constitutes my "free time") I was able to work on my R.L. Stine-inspired horror opus, Part 1 and 2 of which are available on IPB. The Youse Attractive boys have been pretty quiet lately, so consider this a temporary substitute.


Your Cindy Crosby Reading List:


First came Chasing Cindy, your classic coming-of-age tale about a robot just learning about who he really is.


Then Spooking Cindy, Part I, a thriller about a an orphaned robot boy trying to catch a break...and a killer!


Then Spooking Cindy, Part II, the next chapter in the chilling tale!


And, finally, the conclusion, Spooking Cindy, Part III, the terrifying finish to a horrific tale.



Enjoy, bitches.

(m.a.) Dany Heatley a Shark, Also a Tool

I'm sad to say: "You suck, sir."

So it has come to pass that obscenely talented winger (my annoying) Dany Heatley has been mercifully granted a trade from the Ottawa Senators to the San Jose Sharks, bringing his extended testicle squeeze of Bryan Murray to a mostly bloodless end. The lambs sacrificed on (m.a.) Heatley's altar of discontent are Milan Michalek, Jonathan Cheechoo, and a future 2nd Round pick. This whole soap opera has made (m.a.) Heatley look like the USS Massengill, Space Station of the Doucherockets. This is sad for many reason, not the least of which is my own passionate past with the Bowie-eyed goal machine. Let's take a look at the ways in which this whole thing has sucked.

10. His history

Let's just go ahead and call a spade a spade. (m.a.)Heatley really didn't have much room for error once he got to Ottawa. With his accident and subsequent trade request in Atlanta, most people seemed to accept that the guy had demons he needed to escape from in Atlanta. Though some thought he essentially got away with something you or I would have been jailed over. Ottawa really gave him a clean slate to move ahead with his life, especially on a team as imperically talented as the Senators, and a town as hockey-savvy as Ottawa. Now, people are ripe to drink the Haterade, swish it around, and spit it back in his face. Whether it's true or not, it can certainly look like he's squandered a fresh start on a wildly talented team in which he was given an opportunity to flourish. The bad driving jokes are going to increase tenfold.

9. His tooth

I still miss the pirate smile. Not over it.

8. Cheechoo!

I think most seeing, hearing, feeling people can agree the Jonathan Cheechoo is an adorable cocker spaniel puppy of a guy. He's from a town next to where Santa Claus lives, where everyone makes mooses (meese?), and when he went to sleep every night as a child, to the sound of polar bears doing it, he dreamed of being a San Jose Shark. His dream came true in a big way, with a Rocket Richard Trophy to show for it, courtesy of Joe Thornton's freakish passing ability. He hasn't delivered nearly as much since his Rocket year, but he's nonetheless been a good, hard-nosed player. A player who has been ripped from the arms of his maker and dream team. It's sad. All that said, Cheechoo could very well develop chemistry with Jason Spezza, who is only slightly less heralded as a disher than Thornton. Also, he attractive and might find himself with a new best friend.

7. It's Uneven

The truth is, unless the Senators received Joe Thornton himself, or a clonable zygote of Pavel Bure, this trade was going to be lopsided. Cheechoo and Michalek are solid players, but (m.a.) Heatley is a top ten player. He can pass and shoot like a laser. While he's no Datsyuk, he is defensively responsible when the situation calls for it (like when Alfredsson was out all that time and he saw his ice time go up). And he's a hearty motherfucker, isn't he? He's rarely injured. Not even a devastating car wreck could keep him out of the game for long. And he's half-blind, remember, but still scoring 40-50 goals per season. That's kind of ridiculous. The Sens got hosed.

6. Me and (my beloved)

Freaders of sportSquee know that (m.a.) Dany Heatley was my original and most severe hockey crush. With the hair that made him look like an extra from Breakin', the missing front tooth, and the mismatched eyes, Heater was my hockey husband. As time went on, we grew apart. Also, he started balding, got regular haircuts, and had his tooth fixed. And I moved on. But just like the middle school boyfriend I occasionally see dealing meth by the 7-11, it saddens me to think that someone I so fervently supported has so thoroughly disgusted me.

5. Jay Cutler

Denver Broncos QB Jay Cutler was the other star who requested a trade this year (coincidentally, he is also one of my most shameful and inexplicable long-term crushes). In his situation, a new coach, Josh McDaniels, was brought into the organization and immediately tried to trade him away for a career second-string quarterback, Matt Cassel. This venture failed, but word got out in the press. And Cutler, who is a real-deal franchise quarterback, was rightfully disturbed that his new coach would try to trade him at all, let alone for a guy who hadn't started a game between high school and the moment when Tom Brady's knee was crushed. Thus, Cutler requested a trade. And even though Cutler has since gone out of his way to prove what an asshat he is in the press, that was a warranted trade request. And it puts Heatley's complaints in a different light. Heatley wasn't essentially betrayed by his coach, he had his ice time cut. He was moved on the power play. That's part of being on a team. You know what Steve Yzerman did when his ice time got cut? He played the shit out of his new role and became the model of a two-way player. That's what the best players do.

4. Edmonton

Add the City of Champions to the list of geographic locations that hate his guts. (m.a.) Heatley requested a trade and was granted a trade, to Edmonton. Headed to Ottawa in exchange were Andrew Cogliano, Ladislav Smid, and Dustin Pennersquee (remember that guy?). Yes, a good trade, a fine trade, just like (m.a.) Dany Heatley requested. And then (m.a.) Dany Heatley decides to use his no-trade clause to block the trade that he himself had requested. So the body count includes Cogliano, Smid, and Pennersquee, who now know that their team considers them expendable, and the Oilers organization, who have three presumably bitter players, and have been rejected by a guy who claims to be desperate to get out of his situation. He's like a fat chick hungry for a boyfriend, but turning down a date. Way to be Pronger II, dude.

3. Jumbo Joe and Heater!

No matter how stinky this trade is, you have to admit, the idea of (m.a.) Dany Heatley getting served by Joe Thornton could give even a casual fan a major hockey-boner. Or, as my roommate texted me, "Heat and Thornton should be nasty together..."

2. Jumbo Joe and Heater!

To which I replied, "until the post season!" Because, let's be frank, both guys have faced criticism for their playoff disappearances. Thornton's name is practically synonymous (deserved or not, Sharks fans) with playoff goatery. And (m.a.) Heatley was a cipher when the Sens were in the Stanley Cup Finals. The Sharks are bordering on cliche with the regular season dominations followed by histrionic failure when it counts (not unlike my Mets, sniff).

1. Shadowy Circumstances

(m.a.) Dany Heatley's trade request was originally sold as the result of his unhappiness with his new role on the team and dislike of new coach Cory Clouston. But as the months wore on, you had to believe that there was more to the story. Especially now, because Heatley is making reference to some "personal" things that transpired within the club. Did Daniel Alfredsson make fun of his bald spot? Was Chris Phillips stealing Dany's lunch money? Love affair with Chris Neil gone bitter? Something happened. And the gossip in me needs to know. Perhaps Jason Spezza never told him, "youse attractive."

Grace the Norfolk Terrier on... Michael Vick

Grace the Norfolk Terrier and Cindy Crosby the French Bulldog are at odds over how to feel about Michael Vick's reinstatement.

Word has come down from the NFL that nationally-loathed quarterback Michael Vick has been officially been granted reinstatement, to begin in Week 3 of the football season. Vick's rehabilitation (or perceived lack thereof) has been a hot topic from ESPN.com to 60 Minutes. Some (i.e., the city of Philadelphia), are all too pleased to welcome Vick back into the NFL with a clean slate. Others (i.e. dog lovers), will not be satisfied until his balls are covered in barbecue sauce and waved in front of starving pit bulls. Should we accept that Vick has served his time and should be allowed to reenter society? Can we really stand by and let someone who drowned and electrocuted innocent puppies earn millions of dollars per season and otherwise live his life as if he hadn't murdered a bunch of innocent puppies? We here at SportSquee decided to consult with an expert. Yes, we went directly to a dog. We tracked down Grace the Norfolk Terrier in her hiding spot under my parents' bed and persuaded her (after several baby carrots and Dick Van Patten brand dog treats) to weigh in. Here are her thoughts.

It seems natural that my human Margee would consult me on the Michael Vick Issue. I consider myself an expert on this subject, after all. I'd say I'm happy to do it, but, let's be honest, I'm not happy to do anything. It takes time out of my schedule of licking my paws, sitting under chairs, and trying to sneak out of the backyard to hang out with the Latino kids across the street who feed me bacon. They're awesome.
Michael Vick is both out of prison and an Eagle. So what? Are you surprised? It's the easiest city for him transition in, isn't it? Philadelphia's probably not all that much different from Gen Pop. I mean, Chris Pronger lives there now. He's not a good fit there. So I hear. Do you really think a purebred has the time to follow football? With the paws? And the chairs? And the bacon neighbors? You think I have the time? Pshaw!
Anyway, Cindy Crosby the French Bulldog, who reads the New York Post every morning before she pees on Margee's roommates' bath towels, told me that there are billboards in Philly saying "Hide your Beagle, Vick's an Eagle!" First of all, HA! That's hilarious. I mean, I like how it rhymes. Don't even get me started on limericks. Plus, a Beagle is the Teri Hatcher of dog breeds. No one actually likes them, because they're yippy, hump everything, and smell bad, but they're still inexplicably popular. Additionally, as I dictate this very missive to Margee, the Eagles are playing the Jets and I've noticed that each commercial break features at least one dog-centric ad. Purina! Beneful! Some bank commercial that features some bitch who rescues dogs! I think I laughed so hard I peed the floor. Well, I peed the floor, at least. Don't judge me.
But seriously, folks. Let's leave Vick alone. I think the guy is a fool. With herpes. But he went to jail for almost two years. With herpes. If we believe in the American justice system (and I don't, really, I just believe in bacon), then we have to believe that he's served his time and now gets a clean slate. I'm not going to trust the guy with a litter of chihuahua puppies. But he should at least be able to go out and earn a living. With herpes. Let the man fill his Valtrex prescription and move on.
I don't condone what the man did. Unless there were Beagles or Beagle mixes involved. Or Teri Hatcher. But it's stupid to dwell on it. Let him hold Donovan McNabb's clipboard, for Pete's sake. We all have better things to do. I, for one, have paws to lick.

An Open Letter to the Readers of SportSquee...

Dear Friends and Readers... Freaders, if you will:

SportSquee has been conspicuously dark for the past few months and I feel that I owe you all an explanation. Especially when the sports world has been so ripe for snark, with the Rise of the Tavares, the Patrick Kane Cabbie Punch-Out, the Voodoo Curse on the Mets' various limbs, the emotional eighth-grade girl that is Dany Heatley, and the emotional eighth-grade girl that is Brett Favre, I feel that I truly owe you all an explanation for the desertion.

First of all, ye olde MacBook has fritzed out, limiting my ability to physically write for this here site. So, there's that. Then, I moved. And in doing so, found myself not exiled to Spanish Harlem, but able to leave my home after sunset and enjoy the city without having to cuss anyone out in Nuyorican. Thirdly, I was promoted. Which, I suppose, is a good thing. But it's also terrifying and comes with the unfortunate side effect of having to do more work. Which eats up a bit of time. And no, it has nothing to do with my reading the comments on my work on Yahoo Sports. Especially not the girl who said my writing made her want to vomit. Or the guy who said desperate groupies who want to bang hockey players and don't know anything about sports shouldn't be allowed to offer their opinions. It didn't make me question my purpose or talent, or knowledge. And it certainly didn't make my hands shake every time I opened up my laptop and clicked on my shortcut to SportSquee. Because that would be silly. I have a much thicker skin than that. My skin is as least as thick as that rigid, delicious layer on top of the kind of pudding you get at a diner. Yeah. That hard. Thank heavens I don't take things personally.

SportSquee has been a refuge for me in the past, and I hope it has served the same purpose for you. At least, I hope it doesn't make you want to vomit. SportSquee is a safe place. We can talk safely about the empirically good-looking, the oddly appealing, the inexplicably loathed, and Tyra Banks, too. I started SportSquee so that girls had a haven on these here interwebs where we could talk like dudes about other dudes. Or at least like those gals on Sex and the City, but with the sports pages clutched in our manicured fingers instead of Page Six. And I don't think I have to apologize that.

And just to clear the air for anyone who may think, even for a millisecond, that this is a site that supports or understands puck bunnyism, I have to tell you, I think it's hilarious. The horror of a woman fantasizing about rolling around with a rich, handsome celebrity or athlete! It's appalling. The truth is, any man worth his salt will admit that he would fuck a famous woman, any moderately attractive famous woman if given the chance. This, in part, explains why Madonna is still pulling in hot, pubescent strange even though she's scary, has an Adam's apple, and it seems like her vagina could snap your weener right off with one bite. Famous men, of course, are far less discerning than famous women. This is why Jennifer Aniston will only date her co-stars and douchey, well-endowed, college rock singers and George Clooney and Michael Phelps exclusively date tranny-looking cocktail waitresses. Also, Monica Lewinsky. It is a far more realistic possibility that a girl can snag a snog with a famous male than a man can mack with a famous lady. So, I call jealousy. And, regardless, I probably wouldn't fuck any famous athlete with Madonna's vagina. If there is one gift the internet has given us, it's to let us know how gross famous people are when they are not nestled in our TV screens. And, since most of you know my profession, you know that I've had ample opportunity should I want to get my bunny on. But I don't care to deal with syphilis even if a Dion Phaneuf is the one to give it to me. But that doesn't mean that I can't, or shouldn't, wonder what's like to run along the beach with Rick DiPietro. As long as he doesn't get a concussion or something. Anyway, the point of this is to say that our admiring an athlete's hotness is no different than a man opening up the Victoria's Secret catalog and admiring Marisa Miller's boobs (they are spectacular). To think about beach-jogging with Ricky DiPietro is to admiring Marisa Miller's boobs. It is a human right. And we here at SportSquee support human rights.

In closing, I am not shutting SportSquee down. I will continue, albeit on a more scattershot basis than SportSquee's candy-colored heyday, to make fun of a the world of sports. To speak up for those of you who have come to realize how many cute guys there are on the Texas Rangers. To eavesdrop on Vinny Lecavalier's condo. To pit filthy rich athletes against each other in a craven competition to see who is more worthy of your support. To teleplay Glen Sather's growing dementia. To make fun of Italians. And to make some of you lucky few out there vomit.

Here's puking at you, kids.

Margee

WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Cindy Crosby the French Bulldog's reaction to her daddy winning the Stanley Cup.

Squee-View: Dubious Predictions for Round 2 of the NHL Playoffs

Well, the NHL Conference Quarterfinals are over! And while Boston, Detroit, and Vancouver pissed into the slackened mouths of Montreal, Columbus, and St. Louis respectively, the rest of the matchups were pretty damn exciting. Some series ended in spectacular/odd fashion (the soft last second series-winner on Martin Brodeur, Pittsburgh's mutinous comeback, a series-clincher from Sergei Federov), some were kind of painful to watch (what in the name of Chief Brody is wrong with the fucking Sharks?), and some heralded the arrival of exciting new stars (lo-cal Lucic Dustin Byfuglien, mini-Yzerman Jonathan Toews, Avery-west Alexandre Burrows, actual Lucic Milan Lucic). All in all, the first round was pretty satisfying. Much better than the current Cycle of America's Next Top Model. Yeah, I said it. Teyona is going to win, so we're not bothering with recaps. But we will bother with our useless predictions for the next round of the NHL Playoffs, complete with our looks deep into the SportSquee crystal ball. As with the first round, we are forgoing actual predictions and instead just throwing our least favorite team in the match-up out for the win. This way no one gets hurt. Here is our look into the future.

Eastern Conference

Boston Bruins (1) vs. Carolina Hurricanes (6)
Prediction: Hurricanes in 6
Crystal Ball: Rod Brind'Amour and Eric Staal will take two days to fly to the Vancouver set of New Moon to make cameos as werewolves at the request to Twilight author Stephenie Meyer. The roles will require no makeup. Chad Larose will temporarily blind Bruins goalie Tim Thomas with his heavily lashed blue eyes. Patrice Bergeron will score a goal with his nose; his nose will be credited with an unassisted goal. David Krejci will have a severe collision with Ray Whitney, causing their souls to temporarily switch bodies. Zdeno Chara will eat PJ Axelsson.

Pittsburgh Penguins (2) vs. Washington Capitals (4)
Prediction: Penguins in 7
Crystal Ball: Simeon Varlamov will change the pronunciation of his name three more times, deciding it is good luck to aggravate Doc Emrick. Evgeni Malkin and Jordan Staal will poison Tom Poti by rubbing his jock strap with peanut oil. Brooks Laich and Brooks Orpik will discover that they were once conjoined twins separated by apathetic, divorced parents and plastic surgeons at Seattle Medical Center, and later placed with adoptive parents in Saskatchewan and California. Sidney Crosby and Alexnader Ovechkin will end years of growing tension and passionately kiss at center ice before Game 4. It will be Sidney Crosby's first kiss.


Western Conference

Detroit Red Wings (2) vs. Anaheim Ducks (8)
Prediction: Red Wings in 4
Crystal Ball: Scott Niedermayer's face will be 95% beard by the end of the series. Ryan Getzlaf will collect some of the the Niedermayer beard hair from the team's shower drain and fashion a moderately believable toupee from the leavings. Tension will continue to mount between team captain Nicklas Lidstrom and Henrik Zetterberg when a Detroit-area theater opens a production of Mamma Mia!, leaving the locker room divided over their favorites in the ABBA songbook.


Vancouver Canucks (3) vs. Chicago Blackhawks (4)
Prediction: Canucks in 7
Crystal Ball: Patrick Kane will hit puberty at 3:23 in the 3rd Period of Game 4. Those creepy Sedin twins will regularly appear in the hallways of the team hotel dressed in matching sailor dresses and a tape recording of The Shining soundtrack, just to fuck with Kevin Bieksa. Alexandre Burrows and Dustin Byfuglien will each attempt to out-agitate the other with escalating breakdance moves. Roberto Luongo's diarrhea will prevent him from attending team practice, the 2nd Period of Game 3, and his cousin Salvatore's birthday party.

The SportSquee Hall of Fame: Bea Arthur

No, this has nothing to do with sports or squees. But I think we can all agree that the recently departed Bea Arthur deserves to be in every Hall of Fame on Earth. So we're inducting her into ours. She could win for that line in Airheads about "naked pictures of Bea Arthur" being a terrorist request alone. Ms. Arthur, of course, earned her immortality as beleaguered spitfire Dorothy Zbornak on the amazing, always-hilarious-stoned-or-sober The Golden Girls. Arthur had a long and varied career before she ever slipped into Dorothy's shoulder pads, but the show and the character stand as the best evidence of her comedic genius. No one could threaten their mother with imprisonment in Shady Pines Nursing Home, jab a half-wit from St. Olaf, or cut down a randy Southern belle quite like our Bea Arthur. We could start going into her choicest lines on the show, but we'd never stop! And on the page, they wouldn't have the world-weary, biting line-reading that Arthur always brought to each zing. Or the looks. Just the slightest eyebrow raise, grimace, or fist-bite was enough to make you laugh out loud. And the outfits. Oh, the outfits! Who else could rock a popped-collar tunic over a pair of genie pants with chunky slides and gilded arrowhead earrings? Bea Arthur rocked all that, and a wicked array of scrunch-sleeved jackets. The woman was magic. I remember when The Golden Girls first started rerunning on Lifetime, they had this quiz on the website called "Which Golden Girl Are You?" So, fans that we are, my sisters and I took the quiz and each of us was a different one of the gals. Hanrahan was Rose, Fontaine was Blanche, Devon was Sophia, and I was, you guessed it, Dorothy. And I've never been prouder. Thank you, Bea Arthur. As long as The Golden Girls are rerunning, we'll be watching and laughing our caftans off. You will be missed, Pussycat.

Throw Your Bra At: Mark Sanchez

[Insert Dirty Sanchez Joke Here]

As much as I love the NFL Draft, when my best friend Graz offered me a ticket to the recent revival of West Side Story on Broadway, I had to take it. And I had to take some valium to keep me from hopping up on stage during "Cool." So imagine, as I snapped my fingers and dance-fought my way out of the Palace Theatre, checked my phone and saw 32 messages in my Inbox that the New York Jets traded up with the Cleveland Browns to select USC quarterback Mark Sanchez in the NFL Draft. Needless to say, delirium took over. The Jets, as you know from the Brett Favre Debacle of 2008, needed a quarterback. And Sanchez is the safe, steady quarterback that you would want your team to draft if your team had been face raped by Brett Favre. We don't want to put the kibosh on Sanchez by enumerating his many qualities, as SportSquee has a history of doing. But we will congratulate Mark Sanchez for looking like the love child of Mark Consuelos and Steve Guttenberg. And if you think that's a bad thing, you're on the wrong fucking website.

Dear Diary... with P-Mac

Throughout the playoffs, we will be bringing you selected pages from your favorite players and personnel, courtesy of the SportSquee Investigative Unit, the same department that keeps Vinny Lecavalier under 24-hour surveillance/suicide watch. Today, we bring you the deepest thoughts of cueball commentator and rosy fanboy P-Mac.

Dear Diary,

Today ws an exciting day, indeed. Me and the crew were in Philly for the Flyers-Penguins game. I love Philly, man. It's like Hartford, but with more Ben Franklin statues and fewer Gilmore Girls references. Monster city!

I spoke with Sidney Crosby before the game. He smelled so good. Like Twizzlers and Stove Top. I nuzzled his neck for a while to make sure his skin is as soft as I remember. It is. I just wish I could make a coat out of him and wear him around town. Nowhere big. Just to run errands or something. Maybe stop at Tim Horton's and let everybody touch my Sid Coat, make them all jealous. After the playoffs maybe. Anyway, I spoke with Sid and he said a bunch of things while I bounced quarters off his thighs. Man, that kid is a Monster!

Then I talked to John Stevens. It's a good thing there was cold water around, because WHOA! He's so manly, that just standing next to him, I finally grew hair on my chest! I mean, for a coach, that guy Is. A. Monster.

Well, I'd better go. Bill Guerin just teabagged Martin Biron to tie the game up. Not for anything, but that Bill Guerin is a MON....STER!

XOXO,

P-Mac