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...
