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An Ode to Clean Ice

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It took one blog to prove that everyone everywhere ever loves goalies, and I feel dirty for cashing in on the obvious.  That damn blog had like, 20+ comments in it’s first 20+ hours. 

Imagine if I was a goalie?  This blog would be worldwide, bitches (©Ms. Conduct).

So let’s switch it up, before I starting feeling too “pop culture” for writing blogs like that (that’s what goalies are by the way – the pop culture part of hockey.  The same way that bands like Fallout Boy and Panic! at the Disco claim to be sort of emo, dark and brooding, yet their songs are consistently radio-friendly hits - goalies play the same role.  “Ohhh, we’re so mysterious… enjoy my bobblehead”!  Ahhh, forget it, I’m doing it again). 

Wait, I blacked out… what was I talking about?

Oh yeah, switching it up. 

I have to admit, I somewhat cater to my audience with all the hockey stuff.  I like hockey, but it’s probably not at the core of my being (while freezies, golf, NFL football and stuffed animals probably are.  *Authors note: Justin is still into chicks – albeit just one of them -, so ignore that last item on the list).

But, in breaking into this highly profitable world of writing (as I snack on “Thin Wheats”, because I can’t afford the extra 30 cents to buy non-dyslexic crackers), I’ve had to understand that it’s the topic I’ve got the most credibility on.

So, without further ado, I’m switching styles today, not subject matter.  I bring to you a poem that’s a roundabout attempt at scorning players who don’t let the ice freeze before skating on it.

An Ode to (those who sully) Clean Ice:

 

( With Shakesperian accent)

Why, eager players, must you skate unto fresh, just-bathed rink,

With no regard for your comrades – doth thou not think?

The smooth brilliance, earned by that patient crew,

Can be shattered, will be shattered – by a mindless few.

The puck, she can slide over slick and slippery smooths,

But your skates, too soon, cause those sloshy deep grooves.

The puck will bounce, and scoring, she suffers,

No wonder, it’s defensemen, those dumb motherf*****s

*****

…yeah, I wrote a poem.  Do something about it.

 

freeziesgolf 

 

 

 

 

hard hitstuffed animal

Comments

17 Responses to “An Ode to Clean Ice”
  1. Far North says:

    “Justin is still into chicks”? I’d advise changing that to the singular.

  2. Maria says:

    with the goalie thing is there any other sport where one position is looked at the way goalies are? its weird… my favorite players have never been goalies…like ever…i never even think about them when considering my favorite player hahah (I like the forwards! :-) )

  3. minnesotagirl71 says:

    So sad you have to buy off brand crackers. You should check into blogging for the Kindle through Amazon – people buy a subscription and you get a cut. I think Amazon gets a bigger cut, but “a little bit is better than nada.” I’d pay for a subscription to your blog…just keep the poetry to a minimum.

    BTW – watch out on the chick comments. “Chicks” are a specific category of women. Your future wife might take offense.

  4. Jake says:

    I love the poem J.B. I can’t wait to hear what Hayzee thinks about it. Ha ha.
    jl

  5. Marc says:

    minnesotagirl, I would place money on any girl raised in a hockey family, who was involved (long term) with a hockey player, probably doesn’t mind the word “chick” to put it mildly… just a theory of course though……

  6. Meg Jarrell says:

    Me thinkest thou shouldst recited thou lovely poem live en video. Me loves the notion of thou speaking in Shakespearean tongues.

    And I think your chick of choice would dig it…or laugh her ass off and pelt you with stuffed animals :)

  7. Megan says:

    Excuse me while I ‘aww’ at the beanie baby

  8. SDC says:

    stop wearing Lululemon stuff and writing poetry, and I’ll be more likely to believe you’re still into chicks.

    http://davecunning.wordpress.com

  9. AiH says:

    Nice poem dude!

  10. jtbourne says:

    Lululemon makes unreal guys clothes, and sometimes poetry just happens to a man. You have to embrace it, friend. (For all of you who don’t know, this commentor isn’t just an ass – I was his best man. Check out his blogs, and straighten this unenlightened fool out. He can take it.)

  11. ms.conduct says:

    Sweet. I got a copyright, bitches!

    Though in my experience it’s ALWAYS the damn forwards who are poised at the gate to get on the ice the second the zamboni door closes. I like to be on last in hopes that someone else will get my net set up for me by the time I’m out.

  12. minnesotagirl71 says:

    Marc – we must have different connotations for the word “chick.” The girls I know who were raised in hockey families would kick the ass of anyone who called them “chicks.” The girls who dated hockey players (in high school anyway) are a different story….

  13. minnesotagirl71 says:

    BTW – I was kidding about keeping the poetry to a minimum. You’re showing your depth. I find it interesting that the puck and scoring are referred to as “she”. A bit of a love affair with hockey?

  14. jtbourne says:

    Is it just me, or should my fiance be more offended by your implication of her being okay with the word “chick” than by anyones use of it? Don’t worry, I know you mean it in the right way, but still…

  15. Travis says:

    Write a poem about Zambonis as a follow up!

  16. CMK says:

    “…yeah, I wrote a poem. Do something about it.”

    OK, friend, you asked for it. Let’s drop the gloves and pick up the pens:

    Ode to Pick-Up Hockey

    Cherry-pickers and floaters at centre do hover
    While we, the D-men, valiantly work to recover
    And send the puck northwards
    To our forwards.

    Flying now, they attack at top speed
    Dreaming of glory but with a heart of greed
    Get stripped of the puck,
    Then those lazy f***s

    Meander again to the neutral zone, dejected
    But still like to tell us they’ve backcheck-ed.

  17. jtbourne says:

    Ha, by far the best part of your poem is the “backcheck-ed”. The new rule for all poems on my site is that they have to have one f-bomb. I love it.

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