Wings in Phoenix tonight.

...which means the game doesn't start until 10 p.m. Eastern time. Hockeytown Static echoes my sentiments entirely when it comes to late games blowing ass.

I would talk about how the Wings are so awesome and are definitely going to beat the Phoenix Coyotes, blah, blah, blah, but Phoenix is off to a surprisingly impressive start, a la Colorado. Sigh. I can't believe I just had to type that...about Phoenix. I think a part of me just died.

Here are some things to look forward to tonight:

1. The return of Pavel Datsyuk--not a definite, but a maybe, which is good enough for me at this point. Whenever Pasha is injured and doesn't play, it always feels like light years pass until his return. Maybe it would help to pass the time if I didn't busy myself in the interim by lighting myself on fire.



2. It's just...time for the Wings' luck to turn around. I don't know. Fuck it. They're winning. Big time. I just said it. And you can't stop me.

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On a semi-related note, did you guys hear about the coyote that got run over by a car, and the people in the car (a brother and a sister) didn't realize the coyote was ALIVE AND STUCK INSIDE THE GRILL OF THE CAR until 600 miles later?! Seriously. That's some crazy shit. Can you imagine how this conversation went? No? I can.

[Bump]

Driver: Uh-oh, I think we hit something. It looked like a dog or a coyote or a dingo or a hobbit or something, but I'm really not sure. [Glances in rearview mirror.] I don't see it anywhere on the road behind us, and my car is steering kinda funny, plus I hear some howling that doesn't seem to be coming from the radio, as I'm not rocking out to "Werewolves of London" (yet), but I'm going to go ahead and make an executive decision. Onward we go!

[200 miles later.]

Passenger [waking up from a nap]: Are we there yet?

Driver: No.

Passenger: Hey, do you smell something weird? It smells kinda like something dead--

Driver: Shhh, shhh, go back to sleep.

[400 miles later.]

Driver [getting out of car]: We're here!

Passenger: Finally. I swear, this car felt so weird for most of this trip.

Driver [lifting hood]: Oh, it probably just needs an oil change. Let me check--HOLY FUCK ON A STICK!!!!!! How did this get here?!

Coyote [shaken, yet characteristically snarky]: Oh, I was hired by the Arizona State Highway Patrol to work as a courtesy technician; I was just tightening up your lugnuts. How in the fuck did you think I got here, asshat?

The bottom line? I can't decide whether these people are incorrigibly badass or hopelessly moronic. Maybe a little of both?

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The Triple Deke has an awesome post pointing it out the stupidity and falsehoods associated with the argument that productivity on the ice always = points scored. It's a response to ESPN's John BucciGROSS's statement that Pavel Datsyuk and Henrik Zetterberg are past their "prime". Yeah. After you're done choking on your own bile and screaming obsenities, check it out here.

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That's it for now. As always, GO WINGS.