Thursday Wonderland Adult Hockey Team

My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.

Monday, August 11, 2008

The Table

Can any words give proper credence to The Table? The object that most exemplifies the reason we come to hockey? The lure of The Table is great. It is compelling. It keeps our beers at reaching height, cradles our mellish and lesser condiments, and provides ample seating for our festivities. The Table is the center of such brilliant conversations as Seinfeld script regurgitation and how to properly milk your prostate. The Table was the birthplace of such comedic genius as "Hey Joe, does your wife know you borrowed her sneakers?" It holds Ray G. up with the strength of Atlas himself, all the while looking dapper in it's Red Barn housepaint.

The Table has etchings...one day people will study The Table like the Rosetta Stone...trying desperately to resolve the meaning of "O'Rourke".

The Table. Our unsung hero of TWAHT hockey.