LOLeafs: KesseLOL

It's hard for me to do some LOLeafs, what with the season over. But, thanks to google images, it works again! In celebration, here's a massive photospam of Phil Kessel being...Phil Kessel. 

Source is here



source: here


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Phil with Monkia is a pair of screen grabs from this video

photo source: right here

Tomas Kaberle in: The Metamorphosis, part 2

Part one is here

Tomas Kaberle Photo source   Franz Kafka Photo source

As Tomas was contemplating all of this, his cell phone rang. It was Francois Beauchemin, who was also meeting with Coach Ron Wilson later that same day. “Tomas, Tomas…” he asked, “ Is everything ok? It is now noon. Do you need any help to be on your way?” At that moment, Tomas wanted nothing more than to tell him every detail, but he confined himself to not do so. Tomas was started at the sound of his own voice, which was tinnier and squeakier than normal, but still his own. “I am fine, Francois. I just had a little trouble with my alarm clock plus a bit of a late night last night. I am fine.” Tomas hung up the phone and his quiet was interrupted again, this time by an unexpected visit from Mike Van Ryn. Mike knocked on the door, weakly, but with his bandaged wrist. “Tomas, Tomas” he called out, “What’s going on?” After a short while, he urged in a deeper voice, “Tomas. Tomas. Are you alright? Do you need anything?” Tomas directed Mike away with “I’ll be ready right away.” Mike whispered “Tomas, I beg you—ah, crap, there goes my wrist again. I think I broke it clean off this time.I have to go get some Tylenol, and maybe a doctor.” Tomas ignored Mike’s cries and was glad that he had locked the door so tightly.

First, Tomas wanted to get up, get dressed and get breakfast, since he had reached the conclusion that lying in bed was not going to solve any problems. It was easy to throw off the covers, however, standing on the floor proved a challenge. He knees felt weak and he felt as though his whole body was spinning, starting with his head and moving all the way down to his feet. It was a truly odd sensation, since Tomas was not a man who was not easily injured or afflicted with illness. He felt as though every step was tentative, as though he wasn’t sure if he could even walk anymore, let alone be an elite defenseman. No matter how he felt, Tomas told himself, “I must not stay in bed uselessly.” However, his lack of equilibrium took a hold of the Czech, and he sat back down on the edge of the bed. He thought about how much easier it would be if he had someone to help him out—maybe John Mitchell or Jeff finger, since they were not usually so occupied—surely people as study as they were would be able to help Tomas get around. Alas, he was home by himself, so no help could be found.

There was another ring at the door. Tomas recognized the study step and the firm greeting of Ron Wilson. Why was Tomas the only one condemned to a team where the slightest lapse commanded attention? Did this mean that every member of this team was a scoundrel and a slacker? Among them was there then no truly devoted person who, if he failed to use just a couple of hours in the morning for defensive planning would become abnormal from pangs of conscience and really be in no state to get out of bed? Must Ron Wilson himself come, and in the process must it be demonstrated to the entire innocent Leaf Nation that the investigation of this suspicious circumstance could be entrusted only to the intelligence of the coach? With his head spinning with questions, Tomas fell onto the floor with a loud crash.

“Something has fallen in here”, said Ron Wilson with his usual gruffness. Tomas tried to think of any situation he had been in that was at all similar to this, and he could find none. He could find no possible way to justify his current state. Tomas heard the creak of Ron’s shoes on his floor as the coach stated “Tomas, it’s me, Coach Wilson. I’m here for you.” “I know”, said Tomas, but not loud enough for anyone but him to hear it.

Friday Youtube Yoinkage RETURNS June 25, 2010

You know, I should do a weekly feature more often. This weeks' theme is MAPLE LEAFS CAPTAIN DION PHANEUF.

Clip one is a dedicated fan performing the Dion Phaneuf song:


Clip two is Dion and some other Leafs hanging out with Easter Seals kids:


clip three is, well...what kind of Dion Phaneuf would this be without some drunken kareoke? Merry f(bleep)in Christmas, indeed!

Tomas Kaberle In: The Metamorphosis.

(Tomas mugshot from NHL.com, Kafka from here.  )

One morning, as Tomas Kaberle awoke from anxious dreams, he discovered that in his bed he had been changed into monstrous trade bait.  He lay on his tightened back and saw, as he lifted his rosy-cheeked face, that the fans who had once supported him had now turned on him.

“What’s happened to me?” he thought. It was no bad dream. His small room hung between the four walls. Above a table was a picture cut out of a magazine set into a nice, gilt frame. It was a picture of a tall, bald, Swedish man who was really good at poker.

Tomas turned his head and looked out of his window. The humid weather, with piercing sunrays, had made him quite melancholy. “Why don’t I keep sleeping for a little while longer and forget all this foolishness,” he thought. But this was entirely impractical, for his right side had never been right since getting hit by Cam Janssen.  No matter how hard he threw himself onto his right side, he always got dizzy and scared, causing him to roll onto his back.

“O God” he thought, “What a demanding job it is to be a player of the Toronto Maple Leafs!  Day in and day out, on the ice, on the road! The stresses of critics are so much more than what’s happening on the ice, and, in addition to that, I still have to cope with the problems of travelling, the worries about jet lag, bad food, Colton Orr snoring. To hell with it all!” He felt a slight itching in the middle of his eyebrow.

He slid back into his earlier position. “This getting up early in the off-season", he thought, “is real stupid. A man needs his rest after playing all of those games. Other hockey players live like bloggers in their mom’s basements. I remember I would leave the ice after a morning skate, only to find that Vesa Toskala was just finishing his breakfast. If I did that, I’d be traded to Columbus right on the spot! But that’s ok, for I am an elite, puck-moving defenseman, whereas Vesa Toskala is a piece of shit. Still, maybe a change of scenery would be a good thing for me. Sure, playing one’s whole career for the team that drafted him would be nice, but if it wasn’t for Tim Horton’s, I would have demanded a trade years ago. In any case, I have to get up. I have a meeting with Ron Wilson about the team’s defensive core at nine.”

He looked over at the alarm on the nightstand next to him. Good God, it was almost noon! Had he slept through the alarm? It could not be possible, since at the moment the alarm was sounding loud enough to vibrate his ears. Tomas thought about how he could explain his lateness to Ron Wilson, since Coach Wilson was not one to screw around when it came to meeting times. Perhaps Tomas could say that he was feeling ill that morning. No, that would not do, since in his eleven years as a hockey player with the Leafs, he had only missed eighty-two games. Coach Wilson would surely call him soft and sic Gary Roberts on him, which would not be wrong. Aside from a touch of drowsiness form oversleeping, Tomas felt fine.

Part 2 to come...

Here's the Thing...

Not too long ago, I saw Prince of Persia. I had intended to make a feature starring Jeff Finger, where he'd make jokes about how Henrik Zetterberg was awesome at parkouring and had practiced diving and falling and how I could totally rock his greasy mom hair better than he does. I had a notebook where I took notes to remember my jokes.


When I got out of the theater and looked at my notes, here's what I saw:

 Now, in my defense, it was dark and I was writing quickly. What I can read doesn't really make any sense to me. But to be fair, what I had was not that great, and I don't want to half-ass things here.

Damien Cox Sucks, Pope is Catholic, Bears Poo in Woods

By now, I'm sure all of you PPP frequenters and lurkers have heard of Damien Cox's little shitfit on Twitter on Saturday morning. While I have an idea for a visual dramatization of why he felt the need to get up at four AM on a Saturday morning to tell a basement cliche with some casual sexism thrown in for spice, I have yet to finish it. In the mean time, I give you this little filler. After all, a cheap laugh is still a laugh:

Maple Leafs Chat: Curse Storm

KesselRun81Parsecs: You guys, I’m goin’ kinda stir-crazy from not playing hackey…
MaiHartWillDion: Yeah, I know what you mean. You can only work out so much before it gets to you.
KesselRun81Parsecs: Uh, yeah, working out… that’s totally what I meant.
KomiKazi: Let me guess, you’ve been drinking beer, eating doughnuts and playing Xbox since the last practice went out, haven’t you?
Schenn_Sational: Mike, why aren’t you wearing a shirt?
KomiKazi: What? It’s freakin’ hot out here, and shirts hinder my ability to have the most intense workouts ever.
KesselRun81Parsecs: And to answer your question, no, I have not been just playing Xbox.
MaiHartWillDion: It’s true. I can verify that Kessel’s a PS3 man, through and through.
KesselRun81Parsecs: Gah, Mike, quit bein’ such a mother douchebag!
KomiKazi:..Douchebag?
KesselRun81Parsecs: I’m sarry about douchebag, Mike, I got low blood sugar.
Schenn_Sational: Geez, I hate “douchebag”. It has no meaning to it.
MaiHartWillDion: What are you talking about?
Schenn_Sational: It’s just “douchebag” gets thrown around so easily, it loses the intensity. The guy that takes forever deciding what kind of coffee to get? Douchebag. The people in charge of BP who let all of that oil spill into the Gulf? Douchebags.
KomiKazi: Dirty cops? Douchebags
MaiHartWillDion: Anyone involved in “Jersey Shore”? Douchebags.
KesselRun81Parsecs: There are 6 billion douchebags on this planet right now.
Schenn_Sational: That’s exactly my point. “Douchebag” gets thrown around so readily, it might as well be another word for “human.” Someone needs to make a new swearword that’s stronger than “douchebag.” A word that means something.
MaiHartWillDion: Hell, we don’t have anything to do in the offseason besides workout and stuff. We might as well try.
KesselRun81Parsecs: Except we ain’t exactly Oxford dictionary.
KomiKazi: Nah, it’s no problem. Did you know that in French Québec TV, they use fuck and other English swear words, no problem?
Schenn_Sational: Really?
KomiKazi: Yeah, but you can’t use the church words. The French swears are still not ok but if you want to tell someone “fuck off” it’s ok. It’s something about how English swears are about shit and sex and the French swears are about church.
MaiHartWillDion: For real?
KomiKazi: Yeah. French people are weird. They got a different word for everything!
KesselRun81Parsecs: How can they understand each other, then?
KomiKazi: Beats me.
Schenn_Sational: Hmmm…now that I think about it, we do have a lot of shit and sex swears, and combinations of shit and sex.
KomiKazi: Which are totally gross together…but dammit, “shit” is versatile. What smells like shit? Where’s my practice shit? What the shit just happened in here? Plus, everyone shits, so it’s not sexist or racist or anything like that.
KesselRun81Parsecs: Whatever we use should have “ass” in it. Ass is a solid curse word and part of bigger words.
MaiHartWillDion: So “Shitass”? I dunno, it doesn’t seem very inspired.
Schenn_Sational: Maybe we can’t analyze and come up with a word. It’s just so contrived and forced. No, it has to be organic and…flowy.
KesselRun81Parsecs: That’s why douchebag works so well. It has no meaning, but it just flows and it fits.
Schenn_Sational: I got it! Everyone finish this sentence: “Chris Neil is a …”
KesselRun81Parsecs: Assbutt?
KomiKazi: Shit-twiddler?
Schenn_Sational: Dork Monger?
MaiHartWillDion: Douchebag
Schenn_Sational:/siiiigh….

A Player's Perspective: Phil Kessel

(You know, it’s been a while since I’ve done one of these—typical fanfic from a player’s perspective! The following story is rated R for scenes of Phil Kessel in compromising positions, and for an appearance by Jeff Finger.I'd also like to thank the lads at Melt Your face Off because they had a similarly themed post about Luke Schenn, even if their archives are nowhere to be found. )

 (Photo: Maple Leafs Hot Stove)

      I was kinda bummed after the season ended in Toronna. I just wanna play the best hackey I can. Ron Wilson said that if I wanted to play better hackey, I had to work on my discipline. I figure I’d have to cut back on my beer-drinking and bacon-covered-donut-eating time, but it if helps out the team, it’s worth it. I asked some of the guys for advice on how to work on discipline, and Jeff finger recommended this place to me. He made an appointment and everything, but it was kinda weird. He said I should tell them my name was “Taylor Hall” because they don’t take your real names. Even though it was weird, I took his word for it. I figure, if Jeff finger didn’t know what he was doing, he wouldn’t be making as much money as he does.

     “Taylor Hall” walked in and it didn’t look like any gym I had ever seen. It was a place where all the staff was girls! No wonder Jeff Finger recommended this place! However, all the black leather, high heeled boots and PVC didn’t really look like workout gear, but they looked real good, so I figured it was some sorta alternative workout thigny. I mean, Mike Komisarek does yoga and acupuncture, so what the hell?

     I met up with the trainer who told me to call her Mistress Leonie. She was average height with black—almost purple—hair, wearing a purple and black lace corset, a leather mini skirt and over the knee spike heel boots (I don’t know how women walk in those, but she had KILLER legs, so I’m not going to question it.) She had those old-fashioned-like librarian glasses on and carried a riding crop. She looked over the glasses and said, “Now Taylor, you are to address me ONLY as either ‘Mistress’ or ‘Ma’am ‘. I’m giving you the choice since I’m feeling very generous today. The safety word is ‘airplane.’

“Cool”, I said. “So is this like one of those boot camp things where they run you until you puke?”

“No”, Mistress Leonie replied coolly. “We just break you down until you finally feel like the lowly slug that you are. Come into my chambers, boy.”


     Her chambers were pretty weird for a personal trainer first off, it was just one room. Second, there were all these whips, things with studs and spikes, and stuff I didn’t even know what it was for on the walls. I hoped to God that these were just part of some extreme massage technique and not what I thought it was.

“Kneel on the table, boy”, Mistress Leonie ordered. I felt like I really, REALLY should obey her, so I got onto the table. Then she added “lean forward and put your hands behind your back, slug.” I did as she told me. As I felt the leather straps tighten around my ankles and wrists, I said, “Look, I’m real sarry, but I think there’s been a mistake. I didn’t come here to—"

WHACK! She slapped my face and stated, “I don’t like you talking back at me, boy.”

I was shocked, to say the least. I exclaimed, “You just slapped my face! Why did you do that?” CRACK! She whacked me across the back with her riding crop. “What did you just said to me?” she sneered. I replied, “I said, ‘You just slapped me—CRACK!—Why did you do that?’” She screamed, “Why did I do that, WHAT?”

What the hell did I do to make her so mad? I followed her orders and everything. I wasn’t the one slapping people and stuff. So, I answered her question, but she cracked me with the crop with every word I said. “I--CRACK!—said-- CRACK!—why¬—CRACK!—did—CRACK!—you—CRACK!—do—CRACK!—that— CRACK!—what—CRACK!..uh, er,…Mistress?”I flinched while I waited for her next hit. She smirked a little. “That’s better, slug’, she told me. I replied, “Uh,--MISTRESS!—I think there’s been a big misunderstanding here, and, uh…airplane. Definitely, AIRPLANE. I think my buddy Jeff Finger set me up to this. He’s the one who made the appointment and everything, so…could I just go home already?” Mistress Leone looked disappointed. “We don’t have any Jeff Fingers that we know of. It’s still $200.”

Two hundred bucks for a woman to yell at you and beat you up? What a ripoff! Goddamn Finger!