With our Lord and Savior John Curry having departed for the German leagues, we need some new Curry to spice up our lives. We received an e-mail from reader Clayton regarding Pittsburgh Pirates prospect Matt Curry. We know zero about baseball and the information wasn't sourced, but if you want another minor league prospect to bring some joy into your life, he doesn't seem like a terrible suggestion:

Matt Curry, 1B (AA): After some early struggles, Curry has been adjusting rapidly to AA after making a two-level jump. This past week he went 11-for-25 (.440) with four doubles and a HR. The calendar moving from June to July has made a big difference for Curry. Since posting a .657 OPS with seven walks and 32 strikeouts in June, his July OPS has been .947 with eight walks and eleven strikeouts. Hopefully, he’ll continue hitting the rest of the way and force his way to AAA to open 2012.
Power to watch: Through 33 games, 1B Matt Curry (6-foot-1, 225 pounds, from Red Oak, Texas) is sixth in the league in batting (.360), third in on-base (.456) and slugging (.667) percentages, and tied for fourth in runs (28) and bases on balls (22). Curry also has six homers and 25 RBI. A 16th round draft pick last June, out of Texas Christian University, the left-handed hitter broke into pro ball with the State College (Pa.) Spikes of the New York-Penn League, batting .299 with seven homers and 29 RBI over 58 games last summer, while earning mid-season all-star honors. He has tailed off somewhat after batting .400 in April (22 games).

So, there you have it. We don't know what any of that means, but we're down. If you know of anyone else awesome with the last name Curry, feel free to submit them for review by our papal institutions.

Also, in fashion critique news:

Our friend Stan "shared this image on Google+" for all you social media savvy folks out there.
We really have always loved Gene in all white. Despite his Russian pastiness, he tends to look very classy. We could comment on the expression on his face, but we think he looks quite joyous and healthy and that's about all that needs to be said.

Be well and do good work.
Go Pens.

BRINGING UP THE REAR WITH RUPPER: AN EXTREMELY FOND FAREWELL BY MARY
this post kept breaking itself a bajillion times thanks to Joomla and the Internet, so we've made it a third time and hope you enjoy.

We have said goodbye to Jags.

We have said goodbye to Max.

But now it's my turn to say goodbye to one of my favorite players.

Dear Mike Rupp,

Ever since Shero re-signed Arron Asham, I knew you probably wouldn’t stay with us, but I let myself believe that you might.

I have always enjoyed watching you punch dudes in the face and generally be awesome. I don't care if you don't score a lot of goals. I love what you do and most of all, how you go about doing it.

Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball

I have also enjoyed watching your Twitter feed and seeing pictures of you in tuxedo T-shirts. 

Worn on May 21, 2011, for the purported Rapture

Your Twitter is the best, by the way. You are definitely my favorite NHL tweeter. Mostly because you tweet things like this.

Even cheesesteaks can't save that city

And things like this.

Yes, I retweeted that

And God help me, I laughed harder than anyone when I saw you on 24/7 in that elf suit.

Can I come have Christmas at your house? I promise I’ll bring my own presents. Hell, I’ll even bring presents for your kids.

I will remember you fondly, not only for what you did on the ice, but also for your off-ice pursuits as well.

I can’t think of a player who is more committed to charity work than you are.

Dude went to frickin' Haiti to help out

I hope that you continue to bring that spirit of giving to your new home in New York.

In closing: stay classy, Mike Rupp. I don’t need to remind you of that, though - I know you will.

Keep on being as awesome as you are, wherever you go and whoever you punch

Love, Mary

PS. Go Pens.

In part two of our reconciliation series, we have to open the wound we didn't want to open, the one that probably shouldn't even be there. Not to say that there isn't a perfectly reasonable and altogether necessary explanation for why this all has happened. But we have to treat our disease of longing before it spreads, you see.

Welp.
As with anyone in the nation of Penguins fans that is going to miss Max Talbot, our attachment to the poor man is largely mythical and philosophical. All Game 7 heroics aside, he's pretty much always been a legend in our eyes. Not for anything he did on the ice, of course. No. It'd be the out-of-nowhere comments about how 25 is the age at which he arbitrarily decided that good decision-making skills are important. The almost-vehicular-homicide of fans when he decided to try to break the sound barrier on Centre Avenue in his stupid convertible after the game. The general inability to skate properly or stickhandle which somehow led to a bizarre number of memorable goals, probably memorable because he scored so few of them at all. Wraparounds. Top shelf (you know, like on Cam Ward). Short side snipejob while some fat goalie was looking for crackers (meaning it wasn't a snipejob, just bad goaltending, but we all SAW it go in off of Max Talbot's stick, god damn it).


Max Talbot's rights have only ever been earned by the Penguins in the NHL. He was drafted ridiculously late (like 8000th or some shit) in 2002. There is a very sad article about this somewhere, about how his mom was crying and he became increasingly crestfallen, until someone up at that podium in Toronto called his name and he put on a presumably very blank Penguins jersey. Nobody expected we'd get Max Talbot. But he worked his ass off, to the point that he eventually became the proud owner of some hideous monstrosity on South 16th Street so he'd never be more than 20 steps from Diesel. Everyone loved him. Pittsburgh hipsters, that unapproachable lot, would wear his jerseys on Carson Street on game days while smoking American Spirits. He was a grinder who achieved a sort of celebrity through the sheer power of being an attention whore and kind of a skeez. But a lovable one. And a 100% genuine one.
Still, Max's last season with the Penguins was basically a season of nothing at all. We remember guys like Mark Letestu coming up clutch, but not Max Talbot. Not remembering a player doing jack shit for 82 games is never a good sign, even if his signed glamor shot rookie card is in a keepsake box on your dresser. (We remember very little in general about the 2009-10 season; it should probably be burned.) He definitely had to either earn his keep or get the fuck out. Seeing as he didn't earn his keep. . .well. . .

The other caveat to this is OMG HE PICKED PHILADELPHIA!!!!!
With the Penguins having the rare opportunity in their developmental ranks to construct four lines that have a bit of grit along with a bit of skill, Max's days were definitely numbered.
Where else could he go where his teammates and organization would put up with his shit? Moreover, where else could he go where he'd be at least sort of guaranteed to have more hockey sense than someone on the team--where he'd be valuable as more than just a locker room asset? And what other general manager in the NHL would give him such an absurd contract length? The rationale has not been explained, really, but clearly Philadelphia fits the bill. Seeing as they just gutted most of their actual talent from the roster, it's basically a shoe-in team if you need some fresh motivation fueled by absurdity. Which is, by the way, Max Talbot's specialty. Every possible memorable moment from his career proves this.
And we'll always have the memories.




Even if we basically have to declare you dead to us, you still have a special place in our hearts, lined with rum ganache and silk button-downs. Also, it has a fishtank.

We would also like to interject that the discussion going on about his departure on the girlfriend boards is articulate beyond our ability to express.

Goodnight, sweet prince.

We miss you already.
But everything's going to be okay.

Go Pens.

And now, a farewell letter to Jaromir Jagr, as written by our friend @pghsciencenerd. We don't think you'll be able to find a person more dedicated to Jagr than she is.

Dear Jaromir:

We need to talk. Let me introduce myself—I am perhaps one of your last remaining die-hard fans in Pittsburgh. Admittedly, I wanted nothing more than for you to sign here, let me touch your mullet, lift the Stanley Cup on Consol ice, and retire as a Pittsburgh Penguin. But now, after the dust has settled, for reasons beyond the preservation of my own dignity and sanity, I’m happy you made your decision to sign elsewhere.

Although I succumbed to the charms of your mullet, as did every self-respecting 12 year old girl in southwestern Pennsylvania in the early 1990s, I remain first and foremost a Penguins fan. When you signed with the Flyers, you might as well have been personally responsible for the closure of Chauncey’s, the door falling off of my 1975 Camaro, and every single closure of the Parkway East. Do you realize that had you signed here, I was fully prepared to dress in full hockey equipment and wave the Czech flag while standing on the median at the entrance to the Fort Pitt Tunnel? DEDICATION.

You see, Jaromir, yinzers live and die by our sports teams. When players we absolutely love sign with teams we hate, we take it personally. Pittsburghers are also notoriously fickle when it comes to you, and yes, you’re right, that is silly. I’m sure you can recall the boos that rained down upon you every time you touched the puck on Civic Arena ice as a Capital and as a Ranger.

I’m sure you realize that things will only be worse now that you are a Flyer. By default, all Penguins fans boo all Philadelphia Flyers—this is simply common knowledge. What you should also know that you are heading to a pretty tough town with an even tougher fan base. These are people whose standby insult is making offensive, immature comments about the sexuality of opposing players. Do you remember when they did that to you, Jaromir? I certainly do. The thing of it is, if the team slips up, they are blaming you. Full on assault; I hope you’re ready for it. We can discuss this matter later. For right now, I’ve been racking my brain on trying to understand why on earth you chose the Flyers, of all teams.

I realize that you felt that the Flyers could give you what no other team could—a chance to shape the team into something of your own creation. You want to give a team an identity, but this has already been done for the Penguins by other players.

First of all, Jaromir, I understand that you are a very intriguing yet strange person. Let’s recall several critical Jaromir moments that stick out in my memory:

1. You once explained that he missed practice due to “solidarity with Elian Gonzalez” (the little boy caught in a custody battle between his father in Cuba and his mother’s family in Florida);

2. The wearing of a little girl’s mask after a game instead of performing captainly duties;

3. Claiming that you decided to market his own brand of peanut butter because peanut butter made his groin feel better (unclear if you meant by eating it or applying it);

4. As a grown-ass man, telling Bill Clement “I don’t need a cook, I need my mom.”

STEP OFF GUYS. JAROMIR NEEDS HIS MOM.

(It’s OK Jaromir, as a third-generation Czechoslovak-American, I totally get this. It’s a little on the excessive side, but I’ll allow it.)

Don’t get me wrong; I absolutely adore you despite your quirkiness. Therein lies the reasons I believe explain your decision to not return to the Penguins. Simply put, I agree that the Flyers were the best team for you. Now, some may call me a dirty Jagr-loving mullet apologist, which is kind of true, but I can handle that. I’m pretty used to it by now. You see, I can understand why you didn’t want to return to the Penguins: you can’t shape this team’s identity like you can in Philadelphia.

Perhaps this is all a matter of us both being nostalgic; we want the same thing for ourselves. I wanted to see that mullet fly down the ice. I wanted to see that ridiculous goal salute.

I wanted to see you show up to games dressed like this.

OH YEAH, BABY.

In a way, you wanted all of the same things I did. However, the Penguins aren’t the team on which you can be that person again. You’ve done the right thing for yourself. While once upon a time, Pittsburgh and Planet JaromirMullet occupied the same spatial and temporal dimensions: a time of mullets, Camaros, acid-washed jeans, the scent of Drakkar Noir permeating throughout Donzi’s, and Starter jackets. You know what I mean. Somewhere along the line, Pittsburgh and Planet JaromirMullet drifted apart. Maybe it was the speeding tickets, the gambling, or the dying alive. Maybe we just didn’t belong together anymore, Jaromir. We split apart; Pittsburgh moved on for the better.

I think you’re trying to relive a little of the Planet JaromirMullet of the 1990s, and your choice of team reflects this. I know that many Pittsburghers think it’s about the money, but I disagree. It’s about shaping a team’s identity, being that number one player who defines the team. We already have that here, and I think that Pens fans can all agree that none of us would change a thing with Sid and Geno at the helm. Thus, Jaromir, I wish you all the best, even if it has to be while playing as a Flyer.

As a Penguins fan and as a Jagr fan, I find myself in a pretty tough position here, Jaromir. I never booed you when he played for the Rangers or Capitals (actually, I really liked you as a New York Ranger.) I probably won’t boo you just because you’re a Flyer. How am I going to feel when you score your first goal against the Penguins? Awful, Jaromir, just awful; because just as much as I want my Penguins to win, I also want you to do well. Now, I can’t promise you that I won’t throw Rivers Casino coupons at you, or avoid sliding you dollar bills through the glass, or even not sit behind the Flyers bench while dressed as a slot machine. In all honesty, you earned those. However, I probably will still wear your old jerseys to games, despite taking the risk of being accosted. As a female fan, I usually get cut a lot of breaks when it comes to this matter, and I hope my luck holds out.

Jaromir, I wish you all the best, and I hope that you would do the same for me. Your weirdo agent, Petr Svoboda, remarked that when this is all said and done, we’ll celebrate together. Well, he’s not invited to the celebration, because he’s a toolbag. You, however, are required to show up looking like this:

IT’S OKAY TO BRING YOUR DAD, ESPECIALLY IF HE’S WEARING A TIE MADE OF MONEY.

And when you’re ready to hang up the skates, even if all of Pittsburgh hates you, I’ll still be there. I might give you a very stern lecture, but I’ll be there. Oh, and if it’s possible, bring Petr Nedved. He looks like he knows how to have a good time.

PARTY ALL UP IN THIS BITCH

Love, @pghsciencenerd

PS. Go Pens.

We first need to apologize for being the worst bloggers and not generating any content in this misty desert of an offseason, but let's be honest: not much has been going on, and we're still in recovery from July 1. This is an absolutely godless undertaking, this summer. Few things are okay. Have we posted Steve Sullivan porn yet? No?

Cutie.
As in every offseason, we all want to believe that all of our problems will soon be solved, our feelings set in order with overwhelming sensations of resolution. We know this never happens. We're starting to get excited again. At the end of this fucking Death Valley shit there is hockey. Praise Curry (of the Hamburg Freezers). Start stocking up on Craig Adams jerseys, right? Because he just hasn't broken our hearts yet.

In all honesty, the post that we are working on is a cleansing. Many will be missed and maligned, but after two years of our lives in which things haven't seemed quite right, we're ready to accept the changes and move on to better places that aren't ruined by nostalgia or Asshole Disease. So we will cleanse ourselves of these things, or at least accept the past and the future, and. . .yup. That's what we're working on. Exciting, no?

The world is changing.
Go Pens.

Signings left and right and weirdness. Eric Godard is now a Dallas Star; Texas bitches won't even know. Some NHL.com poll:

Damn fucking straight.  Can't imagine the brain fever on the people picking the Canucks.

We have a post in the works but apparently some of you are impatient.
Drink some hard liquor and call us in the morning.  We hear that cures impatience.

Go Penssssssssssss 

Today, we remember the events of the previous evening.
#jagrwatch hysteria reached an all-time high as many attempted to track Jagr's movements in airspace and throughout the United States. Shero had said yesterday was decision day, but now, all of a sudden, it's today instead; we all probably feel like we got taken for a ride by Jagr and his agent, Peter Svoboda.
But why?
Why, exactly, was it any of our business where Jagr was last night?
Not that there was any crime in wanting to know; there's nothing like an international mystery in the middle of the summer, the registry information of mysterious planes, a hilarious voicemail sequence courtesy of Svoboda, sleeplessness. If you have anything to do with hockey, you ought to know that you're in show business, in entertainment. Just because we believe that we're a class organization here in the world of hockey doesn't mean everyone's going to be classy. Or that everything everybody does is going to be in good taste. But it's just a blip. #jagrwatch is just a blip. In the grand scheme of things, you will remember last night's hysteria, and be like "fuck this, get me a beer."
Shero and Jagr are supposedly talking right now.
We're still waiting for the Hockey Gods to stop forsaking us.
We're still on Jagrwatch here at PH, but we do not begrudge those who are not on Jagrwatch. You're probably more sane anyway.
You keep that good head on your shoulders, troops.
It is fucking June 30, are you ready for tomorrow or what?

Go Pens
who even knows.

It is now Tuesday, and the sun is going to rise on July 1st any minute now, more or less. Shit has already gone down to give us an idea for what climate we will see on that fateful day. This is the easy part of our analysis: the Pens have already locked up two very important forwards--Craig Adams was early to hop back on board, and Pascal Dupuis just did, for a mere raise of $100k in terms of cap hit.

This is the money shot, right here. This is after an empty net goal against the Devils. These are the guys you want on the ice late in a period in a close game. These are the guys who walk around banging people's moms metaphorically via shot block. Unbelievably solid signings. Craig Adams, btw, took a raise of only $125k, which is more significant in terms of his smaller salary, but awesome nonetheless. Pay for a forward is often proportional to offensive contribution, even in some bizarre, insane, mathematically-incorrect way. What Pascal Dupuis does for this team is certainly special, but what Craig Adams does is perhaps more unique, and we've got all that shit on lockdown.

The Pens are now the team that has spent closest to the cap. 6.4 million to mess around with on Friday is still nothing to sneeze at. Seven defensemen are under contract for next season--no worries there. Tyler Kennedy has not been given an offer and Max Talbot will probably go to July 1st. A moment of silence, for Talbot and TK's celebration. Feel free to snicker at the end for Sjostrom's defeat.


Many Pens nowadays, in this Cup era, might not remember a team without TK and MaxTal--even we have to scratch our heads a bit. They are quality dudes with whom we have a long and twisted history. You remember those flashes of brilliance, and those moments you groaned and shook your head in agony. But shouldn't thinking of Tyler Kennedy naturally make you think of a time when we had other options at RW?

WHO IS THAT BACK THERE BEHIND USAIN BOLT

SHIT

Puck Huffers is well on board for #jagrwatch. If the price is right.

Hey, you know who the price wasn't right for?

Brooks Laich.
Not that we don't totally believe that he should be the captain of the Washington Capitals. If you watched Ovechkin's behavior as "captain" in the room it's not difficult to understand why this team loses in the playoffs. Not that we want them to win or anything, but here's the caveat: Brooks Laich is actually a good player AND a good dude in the room, who doesn't appear to fall victim to Bruce Boudreau's absent-dad coaching tactics. Whatever, he's worth more than money to that team; he is the glue that keeps the piñata from splitting at the seams, him and Knuble right now. It's a house of cards. That is raising the market value of wingers considerably. THANKS A LOT GEORGE MCPHEE.

We don't know what else is going to happen, except that more people are going to get overpaid, and we're excited.

Jagr Watches.
Go Pens. Go Shero.

I woke up this morning in the SexCastle. I can't really remember last night, but I do remember something about possibly being the filling of a Jeff Skinner and Pekka Rinne sandwich.

I swear to you, picture of Jagr that stands in for my actual husband on this blog, nothing untoward happened. I think.

Anyway, it was a normal day, I was getting over my SexCastle hangover...and then, around 4 PM, the world exploded.

It's hard to believe the news that was coming across the Internet. Jeff Carter to Columbus? Mike Richards to LA? All for some random dudes? Bryzgalov's getting paid $51 million to suck down cheesesteaks and maybe stop a few pucks for what, nine years?

Say WHAAAAAA??

Up is down. Black is white. And everything you know about Philly is suddenly hilarious, if you're in Pittsburgh.

What are they going to do without two major goal scorers? I mean, someone's going to have to go out there and score some goals. Are they going to rely on Giroux? Hartnell? Or the man with my current favorite name in hockey, van Riemsdyk?

Come on. How can you not love that name? So goofy when printed on a jersey. So awesomely fun to say.

Are they entering some kind of Pirates-esque "perpetual rebuilding mode"?

Are they going to make a big play for Brother Steven?

I have so many questions and there are no answers yet.

Holmgren claims that “this had nothing to do with the financial (part) at all...what we did [today] was make two good hockey trades.”

Yeah. That seems...unlikely.

I do wonder how Bryzgalov is going to work out. It will be kind of neat to see him play more than once a year. I also wonder how Richards will fit in out in LA. We don't get to see a lot of west coast teams out here, so I imagine the news will come in fits and spurts.

The best analogy that I can make is this one:

Imagine that you have a social rival. Every time you go out with your pals, she's there. And you think that she is annoying as shit. It's not that you're jealous because she's prettier or more witty than you; you just hate her. And everything that she does. Irrationally. And when you try to explain this to people, you look like a crazy person.

Dudes think that you are nuts to get bent out of shape about the party that she had, at which she tried to one-up you on the Suzy Homemaker front by cooking everything herself, but not realizing that she can't cook and it all turned out tasting awful.

I Googled "Martha Stewart bitchface" and this is the closest thing I could find

The dudes think you're insane when you protest. But they're dudes. Some of them would eat dirt if you put enough ketchup on it.

Then, your social rival disappears from the scene for a while. You bask in the knowledge that you are awesome. Everyone laughs at your jokes. You are no longer irrationally irritated when you go out with your friends. You wear sparkly earrings and are the Zen master of your universe.

And when your rival comes back? She has two obnoxious kids and a really terrible baby-daddy. Her wit seems to have evaporated. Curry help you, you even take a wicked amount of joy in the fact that she got fat and her hair is all stringy.

You think, "I have TRIUMPHED," even if it's only to yourself. "I'm in charge here. This is my town and no skank is going to take that away from me."

She's the Flyers. You're the Penguins.

Go Pens.

While you were settling in to watch the NHL Awards with Jay Mohr on Versus/CBC/NHL Network or whateverthefuck, we were getting down to business. PH Staff was at the Imperial Palace Hotel on the Vegas Strip, barricading the doors.
The lobby phone rings; it's Gary. "Ladies," he says, "I would hope that you're going to join me tonight at the Palms."
"It's a ruse," we say. "Not your fault, Commissioner, but we have some intelligence out on the street--" (we glance across the room at Darren Helm, always our pool boy, speaking low into his walkie-talkie and making notes on the central whiteboard) "--that certain individuals are trying to legitimize your awards show, and usurp the honors we attempt to bestow upon the Real Winners."
"Well, I mean, they are my awards after all, on television and everything. . ."
"Not even nationally broadcast on CBC, Gary. Not even."
"Well, I--"
"We're blocking all entrances and exits here. We'll only be allowing a small group of people in for the after party. The Awards will be transported under cover of night. We have Tyler Seguin sending messages in Morse code to the SWAT team. Listen, no self-respecting Awards show would be hosted by Jay Mohr and feature the musical stylings of the Far East Movement, and this year, the risk is too high. We just can't be there. Surely you understand."

We slam the receiver down. Nathan Gerbe wanders in with a hi-def TV showing the NHL awards in a live, closed-circuit feed. We share our apricots with him as the festivities begin.
Of course, we are immediately glad that we didn't attend, as Jay Mohr unleashes his rage and fury on an innocent continent, as souls are murdered, as children around the world begin to involuntarily sob at the tragedy that was committed at the Palms. Not everyone saw the NHL Awards, but everyone felt that chill rush down their spine for two hours, the crawling feeling in their consciousnesses that something was very wrong, that a grave evil had been awakened.

As the awards show winds down, we hear a low rumbling. It's the sound of hundreds of footsteps, trying to make their way to our secret location. "Gary must have turned on us!" we hiss, and kick back some shots of clementine vodka. Prepared for battle, we get to the front doors. Amid the screaming and thrashing, we see Tim Thomas and Jon Hamm.
 

"Thank Curry you guys are in there," Timmy says.
"Thank Curry you're here, Timmy!" we say. "We had Darren make you an America red-white-and-blue cake shaped like a cheeseburger."
"Goody!" Timmy says. We let him in.

"Hi there, ladies," Jon Hamm says. Jon Hamm is allowed to call us "ladies."

"Why should we let you in, Jon Hamm?" we tease. He makes a face:
"Oh just come in, Jon Hamm."

With Jon Hamm and Tim Thomas in the Imperial Palace, it morphs into SexCastle.
And the SexCastle must be protected.

"Zoë? Kim? Mary? Why can't we come into the SexCastle? Did we do something to offend?"
"We think that should be obvious, Daniel and Roberto. The grease and the robotics and the creepiness and the too-long torsos. . .we've been over this before. Last year, in fact."
"But we got to come to the party last year!" "Those days are over, boys. We have interests to protect. For example. . .we believe that soulless eyes don't belong in our lives at this point."
"Damn."

Next, we see Robert Pattinson coming toward the gates of SexCastle.
"Oh fuck, no, it's just Brother Steven."
"Can I come into the, uh, the SexCastle, as you say?" says Brother Steven in his best Truman Capote.
There is a hard pause. "You can come in and perform," we say, "Or we'll have to kick you out. But you have to promise to wash all the product out of your hair immediately. . .or we'll make you go sit with Roberto."
"Sure thing, guys," he says. We let him through the gate, and proffer some Organix shampoo. He accepts and runs off to find the penthouse.

We let Kevin Smith into the SexCastle on the Honor System, and because he promised he wouldn't invite Brodeur. That's fine. Next.

How did Darren Criss even find the location of the SexCastle? The world may never know.

As for JToews? How could we not? A for Effort, JToews. We believe that one day, you will be a true (and not just a pity) Member of the SexCastle.

With one look through the gate, Jeff Skinner has made the SexCastle in full. Just one look.
We don't even know how old he is, but we're definitely arriving at Camp Inappropriate Age Difference for a season-long stay.
He is legal, though. We know that much. That smirk may be illegal, but the rest of him isn't.

We now come to a special case. That of Ryan Kesler.
See, we used to love Ryan. But as soon as he arrives at the gate, we've noted that something is off--something is terribly off. Once thought redeemable, all we see now is a brute with maple syrup in his veins and a thirst for moose and hats with earflaps.
And the cold, dead lovelessness of frontier justice.
No, Mr. Kesler, there is nothing in the SexCastle for you.

Cory Schneider's tie, despite having touched something that Roberto Luongo also touched, looks pristine, and we admit him with a smile.

As for The Defensemen, Lidstrom and Chara, we have a few questions for the former.
Chara is allowed in, because he has the Cup. No SexCastle is complete without the Cup, and anyway, he has to deliver it to Timmy.
Lidstrom is asked to admit the evilness of the country of Sweden before proceeding.
"Of course we're evil," he says. "We never denied it, in Sweden. Some of my countrymen have in the past. I feel that this is wrong."

"Welcome, Mr. Lidstrom," we reluctantly say. "At least you know where you stand."

"How about now? Can I get in now? I brought Ted Lindsay!"

We turn to Daniel Sedin and lift a single eyebrow, almost imperceptibly. The Sedin-bot grabs Criss Angel by the wrist, puts him in a headlock, and frog-marches him away. We hear an explosion and smell the faint scent of burning Axe body spray.

"Thanks, Sedin-bot."

We can't think of any reason to admit or deny Dustin Brown, so we send him to Fashion Limbo, to live with the Vera Bradley bags and such. Bye, Dustin.

Martin St. Louis presents us with our most heated challenge yet.
On one hand, he was very classy while accepting his award from the Stranger Bitches.
But on the other hand, he's Martin St. Louis, and we hated his flagrant goal-scoring all up in Marc-André's business, and sometimes we lie awake at night, and then we don't know how to feel.
We let him in on the condition that he keep Brother Steven company and guard the Grand Marnier.
"You're cool running a Campari bar, too?"
"Sure thing."
In goes Martin St. Louis.

As for Corey Perry, he should be rewarded for his innovative use of gray woven plaid, but perhaps punished for his inappropriately-lengthed tie. But rewarded for that sexy Hart-Trophy-shaped thing, yeoowww.

Inexplicably, Shea Weber and Logan Couture arrive together. We temporarily mistake Shea for Logan's dad:

But we quickly realize our mistake, even if Logan isn't wearing a big boy suit yet.
Of course they got into the SexCastle! Are you mad?

Oh, Pekka Rinne, you thought we forgot you. We could never forget about you and your insouciant smile. Welcome to the SexCastle, you delectable Finn.

However, the next thing we realize is that an aura of emptiness hangs over the SexCastle still, and it is far too powerful to be emanating from any Canucks.
Word spreads throughout the crowd.
Where is he? Where did he go?

THERE HE IS, ROLLING UP TO THE GATE IN A LINCOLN TOWNCAR PULLED BY WHITE UNICORNS!!~
Dan Bylsma completes the SexCastle.
And we will be barricaded here until training camp. Fuck all.

Go NHL; Go Pens.

As the sun rises on a new day at the SexCastle, we pull the dusty boards away from the windows. Through the haze left by angry rioters barred from SexCastle entry, we see that the Flyers appear to be migrating...