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SILVER FOX: DATE WITH AN OLDSTER
THANKSGIVING TRYPTOPHANTASTIC TURPUCKEN EDITION ("Dude, I am so BASTED...")
Ahh, Thanksgiving. It's that time of year again, isn't it? To be thankful. To give thanks. Regardless of whether you celebrate Turkey Day in October (when it first happened), in November or not at all, thank goodness hockey players and fans from Minsk to Moose Jaw have a buttload of reasons to be thankful partyers. Thankfully et croyez-le ou non, I am in fact descended from pilgrim inbreds on my grandmother's side of the family. Which means I'm a motherfucking expert when it comes to giving thanks, getting stuffed and calling out turkeys for the wannabes they think they are. But this year, I'm going ALL OUT with the entertainment. That's right. I am proud to announce that the guests of honor at this year's movable Thanksgiving feast are none other than BRUCE BOUDREAU, REGIS ("PIERRE") McGUIRE and BARRY TROTZ - collectively, TURPUCKEN. And guess what, HJ faithful? They want YOU to be their date! Come for the fun or come for the food, it doesn't matter. Just shut up and partake in the tryptophantastic trip that will henceforward be known as "Turpucken 2010"...
NAMES
BRUCE BOUDREAU
REGIS ("PIERRE") McGUIRE
BARRY TROTZ
CURRENT POSITIONS
BOUDREAU - Officially: Head "Coach" or whatever, Washington CapiTOOLS; Best-Selling Author
Unofficially: TURKEY. STAND-UP BIRD CALLER; AIR-QUOTES ADDICT
McGUIRE - Officially: Ubiquitous self-proclaimed hockey "analyst"
Unofficially: (Rubber) DUCK(ie). ON-AIR BELCHER
TROTZ - Officially: Head Coach, Nashville Preds/Varmints
Unofficially: CHICKEN. DELICIOUS BUTTER SHAVER
FORMER POSITIONS
BOUDREAU - Officially: Maple Leafs Draft Pick; blink and you missed him in "Slap Shot"
Unofficially: Coldcut "Taster" on "Slap Shot" set
)McGUIRE - Officially: No clue. Somebody? ANYBODY? Feel free to jump in!
Unofficially: Awkward Close Talker?
TROTZ - Officially: Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus (a/k/a Bon Vivant!)
Unofficially: Enthusiastic Vivisectionist
)WHY THEY'RE AMAZING
BOUDREAU - A deeply passionate and irreverent man, Boudreau dotes on and chides his players as if each and every one of them was his first-born Siberian lovechild that he and only he can rescue from the evil Romanov-hating Red Army firing squad. Takes his personality personally, and passes that on to his team for better or worse. He's a train wreck you can't stop watching.
McGUIRE - His prowess at hijacking air time is truly amazing. The fact that anybody would allow somebody who looks like him, talks like him and consistently invades peoples' personal space the way he does anywhere near a broadcasting booth - let alone a telephone booth - is also truly amazing. I keed. Regis is not truly amazing in any sense of the word. In fact, he is a truly perverse, greasy cad. But he's the necessary "(p)duck" ingredient to our Turpucken 2010 festivities.
TROTZ - Patiently and long-sufferingly stands behind his valiant Preds year after year, guiding them ever-so-close to the second round of the playoffs but they can just never seem to pinch one off in Opryland. Maybe it's all those fried banana sandwiches... Gives an assload of money away every year to worthy causes. Nobody notices or lauds him because he coaches in Nashville. Would be a very different situation if he took a coaching gig in an Original Six town.
WHY THEY'RE (STILL) SEXY AS HELL
They can't be sexy because they NEVER were sexy, but all three of these geezers could potentially get away with extending a Movember "vacation from themselves" well into the playoffs without looking like "an out of work porn star..." Besides, McGuire already looks like a porn star: LINK
WHAT YOU WOULD DO ON A DATE
According to my very own personal swami/life coach, Dr. Fassbinder, being an NHL coach and/or self-proclaimed hockey "analyst" is one of the most blatant forms of symbolic self-mutilation there is. Accordingly, "blowing off some steam" during the holidays has a very different take for this lot than for the rest of us. It's 2010 dammit, and Bruce, Regis and Barry cordially invite you to a unique, movable 3-way holiday feast in the Nevada desert!
Together, they have devised a rock-out-with-your-balls-out life experience that you will never forget. Naturally, you assume that they're talking a wild rice stuffing-spiked holiday orgy at Wolfgang PUCK's in Vegas, right? Au contraire, mes bitches! What they have in mind is this: You're gonna baste, slather and lightly dust their gelatinous bald asses in mounds of melted butter, bread crumbs and freshly-ground herbs and then you're gonna manipulate their fupa'd flesh into one glorious Turpucken (Bruce being turkey, Regis being rubber duckie and Barry being chicken).
Essentially, you're gonna take care of dinner prep, cooking AND cavity seasoning for all three of them during the same date. Now, raise your glass and snort with me if you think that's fair, okay?
But c'mon now. Give these old men some honest-to-goodness credit. Do you really think they're gonna let on so early in the game? Of course not. Dates aren't fun unless there's full-on deception that may or may not lead to long-term abduction to a boathouse in cottage country. Or the open desert. They convince you that before hitting Wolfgang Puck's in Sin City, you're gonna camp out at a special holiday BURNING MAN festival!
I know - awesomer, right? Ouais, mon mec! BR&B assure you that this is basically the same festival as the regular BURNING MAN except everybody's tripping on tryptophan and poppy seed-flecked packing peanuts. Naked. What they conveniently do not divulge is that the aforementioned hallucinogens trick even the tiniest of brains into thinking that they're seeing naked human flesh as... Turpucken. Or, a coy way of saying 3-Way Poultry. And code for Cannibalfest...
Bruce is the first to strip and he proceeds to down 6 bags of the packing peanuts. He collapses, and does snow angels in the sand: "Dude, I am so BASTED! Hey sweetheart, why don't you hit me with some of that dried oregano?"
Regis follows suit, and starts quacking - convinced he is paddling in style in the pool with starlets at the Hollywood Roosevelt. He begs you to pour melted butter over his head:
Unfortunately, Barry has not pre-slathered himself in enough butter to hold up against the unforgiving desert sun. His epidermis starts to scorch and he emits a fowl frankfurter odor. Bruce and Regis think it's fucking hilarious, btw.
"What the fuck is going on here?! What's so fucking FUNNY, fuckers?!" BR&B know and fear that bellow all too well. They squint and swear that the voice belongs to Gary Roberts, yet for some bizarre reason he has Reefer Man's face:
Atop the body of a giant cupcake. The one with the pink frosting, specifically:
BR&B, together: "Dude, we are so BASTED!"
"Get up, soldiers! Get up!" Gary barks. "Jesus Christ. You boys are beyond hope! You're older than dirt, for one. And you're just plain out of shape and fucking STUPID for another. Do you know how dangerous it is to come to one of these cannibalfests without proper sunscreen and at least 100 litres of charcoal-filtered Fuji water per person per hour? You should be ashamed of yourselves! You nincompoops are the epitome of everything that's wrong with the 'old school NHL' lifestyle. Preparation, gentlemen. Preparation! I never leave my bunker without sunscreen, Fuji water and a tube of poppy seed-flecked ass cream that I keep behind my ear just in case. Works wonders on wrinkles and age spots, too."
Gary passes you a joint, puts his arm around you and asks, "Would you like to lick my frosting, kind woman?"
And at that, you sink into the moist folds of Gary's cupcake, and melt into his frosting like a butterball. BR&B? They are now one happy Turpucken, rolling around in the desert sand and baking in the sun. When night falls, they will be set alight in neon and celebrated/roasted by their adoring fans. -----
2010 THANKSGIVING MENU
Turpucken, with poppy seed-flecked packing peanuts (or ass cream, if you prefer) on the side.
)HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!!
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