It's TWENTY-ten, and I've packed my game face.

We at The Scrappy Octopus turned over the calendar yesterday and, after getting over our epic but much-deserved hangovers, performed an ancient, spiritual ceremony to cleanse both our physical and mental selves of the toxins of the year past. In other words, we collected the following items, grabbed the closest metal barrel, and lit the motherfucker ablaze:

1. Our Owl City CD. (Just kidding. There's no way we'd torch this. We're getting into this all-natural trend and trying to avoid ingesting excessive chemicals, so we use "Fireflies" as our own panacea for impacted bowels. Works like a charm.)

2. Our first-aid kit--because we're fucking sick of injuries, and we're outlawing them. I'm not going to try to make a joke here because this isn't funny.

3. Our stalker-esque diary we've maintained, chronicling our unrequited correspondence between ourselves and Georges Laraque. Ever since we stumbled upon this website and realized that the love of our lives had been so close, and yet so far, for so long, we've been unable to sleep at nights. So many restless evenings, I've found myself pacing in a dreamlike state on my widow's walk, wearing my very best prairie cult frock, performing an interpretive dance of the fury that rages both in my heart and in my loins for Mr. Laraque. I've written him many times, setting my words of passion and truth onto parchment with my finest quill pen set, only to get in return, at first, mere silence, then a stern warning from Mr. Laraque's alleged "legal counsel", and, finally, a formal writ to cease and desist from the proper authorities. Sigh. Such is the rollercoaster that is love. Alas, we're moving onward and upward, the details of which shall be discussed anon. Now that I've set afire the record of my blunders of the heart, maybe I will be able to achieve a peaceful state of mind once more.

4. Our Stanley Cup Finals 2009 gear. Yeah, it qualifies, even though it feels like a lifetime ago. Gone in the fire--now it officially never happened.

5. All whistles have been sent to the furnace. Got a problem with it? Intend to blow me.

6. The memory of Tomas Kopecky ever playing for the team. Why now, of all times, to choose to forget about him? Because he hasn't done shit for Chicago. I know, it seems counterintuitive, but trust me: The way my petty brain works, if he had been succeeding under Q-Factor's tutelage, I would vow never to back down and never to get scared.

7. Wait, Claude Lemieux was on a figure skating show? And he almost won? HilARious. Balls, I must have forgotten that already. Thank Christ for my lame but apparently crucial "Octopus Ink" to remind me of all the things that have pissed me off in my time writing here. To the fire!

8. Once upon a time, I publicly proclaimed that I fucking hated Ville Leino. I was wrong. My tortured soul confused "hate" with unadulterated, animal lust. (Yep, this counts as discussing it "anon".)

9. I once posted a photo of Finn the Whale on here. I apologize profusely. Never again.

Tonight, the Wings play their first game of the new year in Phoenix; most recently, they trumped the Avs at home with a 4-2 win on New Year's Eve. Mr. Leino himself netted a goal, and while I don't want to toot my own horn, I would like to say that I got a direct Tweet from him after the fact saying that he credits his good luck with wearing his lady's favors beneath his armor (read: he totally had the panties that I sent him on his person).

A few New Year's resolutions on TSO's part:

1. To write more consistently than we have over the past month or so. The fact that we won't be tripping off candy cane highs and eggnog lows should help.

2. To figure out finally how to pronounce Mattias Rittola's name. For shame, I never know if I have it correct.

3. To reenact this with Vilster (Did...did they just say what I think they did? It couldn't be...):



4. To live to see Nicklas Lidstrom score a goal. I'm beginning to believe Johan Franzen Halley's Comet Jesus Christ will return sooner.

5. Can January be the next April?

Basking in the afterglow; Canucks @ the Joe tonight.

Yep. Still happy. Still gloating. Still feeling fantastic. We're entitled to that, you know, after the rollercoaster that has been the opening six weeks of the 2009-10 season. Who would have thought that the end of the game would have left me with the same three words as the Toronto game, only with opposite emotion: Fuck. Me. Sideways.

I shall rate my happiness thusly: Happier than a pig in shit. Happier than a fat kid spying cake (simile courtesy of 50 Cent. I know, I know. Most horrible.). Happier than Ken Hitchcock at an all-you-can-eat KFC/Taco Bell/Entenmann's buffet. (Oh, shit. Where are my manners? Happy 1,000th game, by the way. Shithead.)

So, the afterglow doesn't last for long, particularly not today, as the Canucks venture into the Joe for the teams' second meeting this season. Kyle at Babcock's Death Stare made an excellent point in his recap of last night's game in saying that the down side to the Wings' huge victory last night is that they no longer have any excuses; they proved that depth, talent and drive are still present on the Wings' squad, so now they have to live up to the success we all know they're capable of achieving.

I'm going to let you guys in on a little secret: I'm sort of a spy. I mean, I enjoy espionage, particularly when it comes to rival teams. So, I totally got my hands on some top-secret footage of the Canucks' secret weapon on the ice. With Vancouver being so injury-plagued this season, they have a little something they may unleash on the ice against us tonight. Behold:



Yep. That just happened. My apologies for the egregious misspellings, but who can resist the funny that's inherently present in a retarded-looking, clothed whale skating around haphazardly with a T-shirt gun? Not this girl.

Also, if you want to be on the lookout for Fin, you should probably keep tabs on Mason Raymond's vehicle, as I heard through the grapevine that they like to travel together:



It's a great day when I get to make yet another Mason Raymond/hillbilly joke.

Wings @ Canucks tonight.

The Wings take on the Canucks in Vancouver tonight at 10 p.m. Eastern (sigh).

First: Please, please, please help out The Scrappy Octopus decide where it's going to park itself during its trek to Detroit in December by reading this post and commenting with helpful recommendations. So far, the only suggestions are (A) a zamboni and (B) Aaron Downey's potato farm, the former of which isn't very feasible, and the latter of which is just my imagination running away with me.

***

And now, The Scrappy Octopus's lameass version of a preview, in the form of a worst-case scenario list.

Things That Are Worse Than Discovering Your Boyfriend Has a Penchant for Vampire Vag in a Can*

1. Mikael Samuelsson scores a hat trick and not a single one of his shots ends up in another time zone.

2. The Wings get beaten by a team whose mascot is this:

3. The Wings get beaten by a guy who is the proud owner of the most redneck name in all of hockey, Mason Raymond. (I can totally say that; I'm from West Virginia.) Also, he looks like this:

4. The Wings get beaten by a guy who is the proud owner of the second most redneck name in all of hockey, Willie Mitchell. Here's a picture of him knuckle-pillaging his nose:

*Or, for boys who like girls, Things That Are Worse Than Discovering The Hard Way That Your Handy Vag in a Can Has Morphed Into a Vampire Vag (Ouch)