« Abril 2002 | Main | Junio 2002 »

Mayo 26, 2002

Who's the ugliest player in

Who's the ugliest player in the NHL right now? It can't be Rod Brindamour, can it?

Posted by King at 05:28 AM | Comments (0)

Game 5

The Leafs won though. Thanks to Cujo. They looked shaky, but they fought off those Raleigh cunts.

Can you believe Pat Quinn? I thought I was going to have a heart attack watching the game last night - poor Quinn is watching it in the cardio ward of the hospital. I thought he was gonna pop during game four. The camera kept cutting to him, and he looked STRESSED out. I'm glad CBC decided not to monitor Quinn's heart during the game for the people at home. I wouldn't have been able to watch.

Jesus Quinn's tough though. He already has two artificial hips. Some of the lazier Leafs ought to take note -- Nothing can stop Quinn. I don't think he even needs a heart... Worse-case scenario: if Quinn goes down, and we lose, there'll still be hell to pay. A vengeful, zombie-Quinn is not something you want to be looking over your shoulder pad for. You know he could do it Reichel.

Posted by King at 05:10 AM | Comments (1)


What am I doing?

It's 5:39 a.m. and I'm exhausted. I'm in a fight with Filion, and I can't stop procrastinating. I didn't even go out tonight. D's got me on to Grand Theft Auto. I've been playing it the whole goddamn night. Now I'm writing an entry about nothing, and drinking a beer I opened four hours ago.

My eyes hurt from the game.

Posted by King at 04:45 AM | Comments (0)

Mayo 17, 2002

One down

I can't believe the Leafs. I really can't. It makes me want to cry. But I cry a lot for a guy I think. Once I didn't cry for seven years. Last week I was clutching Kleenex during Spiderman. (Didn't actually weep though. I fought it. Hard.)

-- Jesus Christ that Kleenex site was boring. Stop. Returning to...


Tonight was a textbook road game. And game seven against Ottawa was fucking ice cold.

This entry sucks. I guess I'll just link to Temple Kung Fu now. It's on my mind because I have to go to my class tomorrow and I don't want to. If you care to, look around the site a bit, and hopefully I'll have time to post about it tomorrow, because the place is Kung Fucked.

Posted by King at 12:06 AM | Comments (5)

Mayo 13, 2002


Game six was shitrocking good. Thank God for Gary Roberts.

Even the Toronto press is pretty positive today. Mogilny's been hailed as a prophet for making a prediction he admits he makes every game, and Domi is finally being cheered for his psychosis.

This site has some good fan writing. And this one has news links.

All these links will probably be dead by tomorrow, so maybe this is a useless entry. But fuck it.

Oh, one more thing. Have a look at this picture. What a piece of shit Robert Reichel is. Don Cherry pointed out last night that Reichel makes a million more dollars a year than Roberts.

The quality's not so hot in the pic, but it's not too hard to make out every single Leaf cheering on the bench while Reichel...I don't know what the fuck to make of his expression. Can anyone tell me what this guy was thinking when they took this picture?

Posted by King at 08:41 PM | Comments (6)

Mayo 09, 2002

Walk In Special

Is this couple hugging because a large plain cheese pizza is $6.95?

Posted by King at 02:56 AM | Comments (3)

Mayo 01, 2002

Bob Gets Job, Talks About Iran

Bob is the new delivery guy at restaurant #1, and Hussein's replacement. He's also from Tehran, and he's at least three times as lazy as Hussein was.

The first time I met Bob, I spun around to find him helplessly shoving an empty coffee cup in my face. I said 'no thanks' and he said 'please, how do I have the coffee?' So I showed Bob how to make coffee. He marvelled as I poured the pre-measured bag into the filter, and I swear I heard him gasp as I dumped the water into the machine. His eyes nearly popped out of his fucking head when it actually started brewing. Ever since this event, he won't leave me alone.

I don't think Bob is a terrorist, but from what he's told me, I don't think it would take too many phone calls to have him taken in for questioning.

Bob says he left Iran for a 'secret' reason, that he is a specialist in animal husbandry and 'genetic study' and that he is looking for a farm where he might apply his skills. He says he knows things that 'nobody knows' about genetics, and that he could 'do incredible things' were he to be invited to work on a farm. (At the time he wouldn't tell me what these incredible things were, but just today he asked me if I'd ever seen white beef!) Unfortunately, he found no listings for anyone needing farm help in any of the city papers (strange, I know) and also, he doesn't want to have to do any physical labour, period.

Bob used to spend most of the day in the restaurant eating and reading Iranian newspapers, but now he's had to cut back on the eating a bit. He went for a check-up last week, and the doctor immediately prescribed a diet involving no meats or creams, and pretty much nothing outside of lettuce. He told Bob his health was in jeopardy, and that he better lose weight, post-haste. Bob's not the fattest guy in the world, but he's not all that tall either.

The diet made Bob really sad. He's been eating these enormous plates of salad with the countenance of a child force-fed brussel sprouts. Only two weeks earlier he had made a delivery to a photo shoot for a magazine, and asked me, in all seriousness, how you get to be one of the people they take the pictures of. In the nicest way possible, I carefully explained that for starters, you're should try and be good-looking.
He thought that over a minute and then said "well how much do they make?"

Everyday he begs me to teach him more slang, but I'm finding it hard to think of any. His slang-thirst is unquenchable. He really liked "What's poppin'?" for hello. But his real English teacher didn't understand it, and told him he should say something else. I said he should tell his English teacher to "fuck off." He asked me why. Explaining this to him made me realise how unfunny it was.

Still, he's a sweet man. He's gentle like a child, and he entertains me with stories about 'streep bars' he frequents all over the city. If I were to judge him on his work habits, I'd say he can't be making all that much money doing deliveries, but maybe there's another, more secret reason he's working at restaurant #1.

Posted by King at 07:52 PM | Comments (3)