Canadiens say au revoir to Georges Laraque.

Per TSN.ca (and, technically, per Kukla's Korner's retweet of Darren Dreger's tweet, including a link to the article), I present you the following:

Georges Laraque will not play another game with the Montreal Canadiens.

General manager Bob Gainey contacted him Thursday morning and told him that head coach Jacques Martin didn't had any confidence in him anymore and the team believes they can win without the enforcer in the lineup. The club does not intend to play him for the rest of the season and will buy him out at the end of the 2009-10 campaign.

In light of the recent events in Haiti, where Laraque's parents were born, he had the following to say about the timing of his firing:

"Classless," Laraque said angrily. "To do this in the midst of all I'm dealing with in Haiti, the timing is awful. I'm not going to sugar coat anything."

I don't know about all that. Obviously, the recent events in Haiti are horrendous; you'd have to be an absolutely soulless person not to feel a heavy sense of sadness about the aftermath of last week's earthquake.

But, really? Georges Laraque--notably a dirty player with a big mouth, which he completely owns up to having--wants a pass on getting fired for not doing his job for the past two years because of personal turmoil?

That's not the way it works. Laraque of all people should know this. One of the readers of the TSN article commented the following:

Honestly who pulls the Haiti card? The players always say they make business decisions. Does that mean when Gainey's daughter passed away on the boat that not one player should have been planning a new long term deal out of respect.

Agreed. You could make a similar argument for Jose Theodore, whose infant son died over the summer; meanwhile, this year, he's been wrangling with not only Semyeon Varlamov, but also Michal Neuvirth, for the prime goaltending spot in Washington.

Tragedy happens. It's a part of life. In Laraque's case, he hadn't been able to perform his job--the brute enforcer--with consistency, due to his long-suffering back problems and just general suckage, which occurred long before the catastrophe in Haiti.

If I can't perform the specific duties of my job, I highly doubt I'd be able to hold on to it by insisting to my employer that I had had something horrible happen to me personally, well after I had ceased excelling at my daily tasks.

Now, because I can't resist digging in a little bit on this one, I'll leave you with one of my favorite cliches: What goes around comes around. (My super-country aunt particularly enjoys using this adage on the daily.) To me, Laraque is one of the dirtiest douchebags in the League, and while I'm not really a spiritual person, I do believe that karmic retribution comes to all who deserve it, for better or for worse. Perhaps he would have had greater job security if he had made a career out of something other than headhunting (or kneehunting, for that matter).

For TSO's part, though, I did decide to take it easy on Laraque; for example, I did have "AHAHAHAHAHA" in the title, but I thought that might be taking it a little far.

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?

Thrashers @ Wings tonight.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. I apologize to all three of The Scrappy Octopus's loyal readers for the sporadic posting over the past week or so; as Brian noted, I've been feeling under the weather (NOT dysentery, however, thank you very much--it was actually cholera, contracted somewhere between Independence and Chimney Rock; I didn't stand a chance in the wagon). So, this week, it's been no work for me, lounging about in my PJs with my awesome dog Lucy, enriching my brain with the likes of The Maury Show and conspiracy-theory bullshit on ID. (Have you WATCHED that channel?! The mind reels...) I emerged from my lair to write the piece of Georges Laraque the other day because I was too pissed to give lie detector results and paternity testing the full attention they deserve, but other than that, I've been taking it easy.

Speaking of Laraque, he's suspended for five games. Big fucking deal. I wish the NHL would institute a rule for people guilty of dirty hits to be suspended for the duration of time that their victims are sidelined due to injury. Or, I wish Brad May would just kick his ass. Whatever's easier.

So, I'm not going to talk about Monday's game against Nashville, not really because it sucked, but mostly because I didn't get to see it because Versus sucks ass, and I'm even more pissed because I didn't get to see Darren McCarty do his thing. It's kind of a silent protest. It's supposed to accomplish...something. I read about it once. Trust me; it'll work.

So, tonight, the Wings take on the Atlanta Thrashers. First things first: Can somebody please tell me what in the fuck their logo means?



It's almost Sphinx-like in its enigmatic nature, not to mention the fact that the head looks like it belongs to a creature different from the one to which it is attached. It's as if Michaelangelo masterfully drew the head of an eagle...and ran out of creativity and talent, and instead, crafted the rest of the body using a melty turd.

I've never met an Atlanta Thrashers fan. Since I'm assuming none of you have met any, either (because I'm pretty sure there are only, like, 40 total), I present you this. Gear down:



I most enjoy the song--not sure what it is, but I like to think of it as a love child of an "If They Mated" featuring the Oak Ridge Boys and Ricky Skaggs.

And because it's Thanksgiving, I'm going to be generous and give you a bonus:



I'm not sure what to be more impressed by: The fact that this guy cares that much about the outcome of the Thrashers game, or the fact that the following was posted in the comments section on YouTube:

PLEASE DON'T READ THIS. You will get kissed on the nearest possible Friday by the love of your life. Tomorrow will be the best day of your life. However, if you don't post this comment to at least 3 videos, you will die within 2 days. Copy and paste this, to be saved

Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no. I don't want to perish within the next two days! My festive dealer promised me a twofer on dime bags for Black Friday. (Just kidding, of course. I just wanted to make a lame joke. This blog and its writers are on the straight edge. Well, except for Brian. But that's only because he's attracted to the repetitious vowels in quaaludes.)

Have a marvelous Thanksgiving! Go Wings.

Memo to the NHL: Suspend Laraque immediately.

And I don't want to hear anybody's bullcrap about how Georges Laraque "accidentally" stuck his knee in Kronwall's path. Honestly, I would rather hear my boyfriend admit that he cheated on me by "accidentally" having somebody fall on his dick. That statement is less ridiculous than the former.

There is no instance when a hockey player should stick his knee out, aligning it with another hockey player's knee. No decent or legal check or hit results from doing that. End. Of. Story.

Per Puck Daddy, a quote from the gentleman in question:

There were four refs on the ice and they didn't call anything," Laraque said. "If they called a match penalty it would be different. There was no intent. There was no reason why I would try to go and hurt him. It was a pure accident, that's why they called it tripping, so I'm not worried at all.

There was no "intent". I love it. You know, I kind of have that same thing, when I walk down the street, and I just stick my leg out and trip up fellow passers-by. It's an uncontrollable spasm; I can't help it.

Oh, and I'm certainly "worried". Officially joining other Wings' bloggers on this one: I'm not sure the universe can handle the horribleness of Brett Lebda and Derek Meech on the same line. Taking it a step further, I'm pissed at Jonathan Ericsson's performance as of late, so the thought of Meech being paired with him makes me want to grab a wire coat hanger and abort myself.

Getting back to the issue at hand, though, I wonder if there's anything else out there that can help us shed some light onto the situation at hand. If only Georges Laraque had his own website. Wait, what's this? Holy shit, Georges Laraque has his own website!

To describe myself, well I have to say you will rarely see me anywhere without a big smile on my face. I love to laugh, makes jokes, I’m actually quite the prankster and as annoying as it gets sometimes on people, I like to entertain. When I'm somewhere in a big group, you know that I'm there! lol!

Like, OMFG. He sounds, like, such an awesome guy! Maybe we should totally hang out! I wonder if he also enjoys long, romantic walks on the beach? I am, like, totally the prankster in my group of friends, too! One time, I totally saran-wrapped my BFF's toilet seat at a sleepover. Hehehe! She was SO mad, she was like, OMFG, you biatch! (SWF, 23 YO, BRO hair, BLU eyes...call me, lova).

What I do on the ice is definitely not the type of person I am off the ice, I hate violence.

Yay! Because I was really worried that he might try to go all Tonya Harding on me in the bedroom, and while I'm not exactly a prude, I'm certainly not down for any out of control S&M, B&D, BDSM, CBT, D/s, or TT. ROFLMAOCOPTER.

Another thing about me is that I'm brutally honest. I always say something the way it is. I'm never afraid to speak my mind. You would say that in real life, it could be a good thing at times, but when you're a professional athlete, it’s not always a good thing in the eyes of many people, but I don't care. I don't like the cliché answer and don’t always say what's politically correct. I think the fans have the right to hear the truth and the way you feel at all times and over the years, many people know that about me and you can earn a lot of respect that way.

Ever noticed that people who call themselves "brutally honest" are usually total assholes? Think about it. Anyone I've ever heard of in my entire life who says, "I'm brutally honest" usually means they're about to say something shitty--or will say something shitty in the near future--and don't want their relationship with the recipient of the shitty comment to suffer any damage because, alas, they forewarned said person that they're brutally honest, and that's the way it is. It's like that bullshit T-shirt slogan or bumper sticker that skankbags tote that says, "I'm a bitch and proud of it." (I hope you're picturing a person with trailer blonde hair, glittery eyeshadow, and a baby tee at least 5 times too small because that's what I'm working with over here.) Yeah. You might be a bitch and proud of it, but guess what. Everyone fucking hates you. They just pretend to be nice because they're afraid of suffering the wrath, i.e., getting eaten.

I believe in God and pray regularly, I try everyday to be a good Christian and try to help as many people as I can.

Hmm. Well, if you get suspended, maybe you just didn't pray hard enough because God definitely always takes your side, right? Oops. Oh, and proclaiming yourself a "good Christian" when you have a history of being a dickface in the public realm does nothing to negate your dickface history; it just makes you look like more of a dickface.

I would actually recommend three movies for you to watch (down below) that have made a big change in my life. I truly believe that if you watch them it will help your life goals and dreams! And always remember, live your life to the fullest, we only live once!

Movies:
- Pay it Forward
- The Secret
- Deepak Chopra
- 7 Laws of Success

That's actually two movies, one book, and one crazy writer. How can we expect Laraque to understand the rules on the ice when he can't even master counting or differentiating between living persons and inanimate objects? Asshole.

Canadiens surrender; lose 3-2 in shoot out

Thank you to the Montreal Canadians for essentially handing us the game in the first period with SIX POWER PLAYS. That was completely insane; though the Wings certainly did their best to make the game more interesting. Tonights short recap:

1. Jimbaroo certainly played an adequate game in goal with only one borderline questionable goal. Well played sir.

2. Did anyone else out there have a sense of impending doom when that game went to overtime? Speaking of overtime/shootouts, wowie wow wow in regards to Mr. Zetterberg and Mr. Datsyuk.

3. Georges Laraque. Hmmmmm. How do I put this delicately.....I'm not going to say I hope you contract herpes. Actually, I DO hope you contract herpes. What an asshat. I think I speak for just about everyone when I say that didn't look like a short term injury, and I'm quite afraid to read the news tomorrow. I'm even more afraid of my hockey fandom life involving more Derek Meech. Someone hold me. There might have been retribution on Laraque if Brad May were still alive.

4. I'd certainly like to thank the Canadians for taking six penalties in the first. Much appreciated guys.

5. Nice win tonight. I'm glad the guys didn't this one slip away.

And since I have nothing left to say, I leave you with this "fight" from noted wuss Danny Briere. Does it not seriously look like they aren't fighting but rather hardcore making out?