Is this thing still on?

Game 5: Wings vs Toews pube chin.

A visual of my viewing experience: crammed in a building with people I hate, an annoying voice over the PA, a terrible song coming over the building.

Am I stuck in hell?

Yes.

Is that hell the United Center?

No.

I'm stuck inside a Walgreens and it is the worst pain you will know. I can't even find time to take a piss without being beckoned from the speakers above... which I suppose is relatable to hockey at The Joe since you can't take a piss without missing half a period. (First world problems).

Having a grand ole time watching on your big screen? Feel free to tweet me and let me know how its going. Because I'm going to be helping grandma find her depends and junior find the condoms (which he is certain to steal... let's just hope those fuckin things break)

Anyhoo, on to the hockey (which this born-again blog was made for and kinda the reason it died, I honestly don't have an original thought about this crap. So without further filler, here is my forethought on game 5.)

Seems to me like the Wings need to weather the storm that will be the first 5-10 minutes. They haven't been able to push against it all series and I sure dont see a reason that they can prevent it this game.

If they do that, then this is our game. Chicago's will is going to be broken. Toews will cry to his momma, but lucky for him, I know where the menstrual products are... aisle three sir pubeless captain, aisle three.

Seen you in another 2 years. 

J-Rock

Hey, remember when Jimmy Howard wasn't stopping pucks? Remember how I was all over his shit?

Remember how fucking wrong I was?

Super Jimmah, in is 138th consecutive start, was absolutely solid against Stevie's Bolts. Especially late in the game. Despite an onslaught of odd man rushes and drives to the slot by some of the games most dynamic scorers, Jimmah made save after save, clearly establishing - once and for all - that his birth was the result of a beautiful, orgasmic 19 hour love session between a whole chior of angels and a herd of unicorns on PCP.

Yes. There were other stars of the game. Pavel Datsyuk is a swell fella. We're aware. But because James has displayed such sheer good-at-hockeyness (suck on that Shakespeare) over the past uninterrupted decade of consecutive starts - he deserves a bit of a pat of the back. He convinced us long ago, but he's showing the rest of the world: motherfucker means business.


Wings play again on Friday. Now, our starting netminder has yet to be announced, but there are a couple of facts to help us figure it out:

• Ty "It's kind of hilarious I get paid to play hockey" Conklin is our backup. 
• Mike "Wait... you're allowed to have two goalies?" Babcock is our coach.

I think it's a safe bet Super Jimmah's on his way to his billionth consecutive start. Honestly, at this point, I'm almost happy that our beloved netminder has been left off the All Start Ballot. If the write-in campaign isn't successful, it just might be his only night off until he's hoisting #12.

Wings are back on top of the central. That feels much better. Foot to the floor, pedal to the metal, keep on fuckin rolling.

Well, we certainly are a bi-polar bunch. In this season we've gone from unapologetically brash with confidence, to certain we wouldn't see another Wings win in our lifetime, to optimistic that we're back on track, to ready to pay someone to snap each of our arms and legs right in half just to have a distraction.

Though... can you blame us? This has been a bi-polar fuck team. 5 wins in a row to start the season. 6 consecutive bed-shittings, thereafter. 4 W's full of offense. 2 L's full of dick smashing fuckitude.

This is supposed to be Red Wings hockey, right? The model of consistency? Over two decades of the same system leading to the same results? Just checking.

So, since we're all pretty convinced that this team is at least playing like a bucket of fuck for the time being, where do we go from here? As a side note: if you aren't sold on the whole "bucket of fuck" thing... well damnit, there's no room for tempered analysis or cautioned reasoning here. So knock it off. I'll wait.

There? Get that stupid smiley shit out of your system? Good.

The team is in need of some kind of shakeup. Three games to Thanksgiving - gut check time for Kenny Holland - and we're fourth (FUCKING FOURTH!!) in the Central. Anybody OK with that? DAMNIT I SAID NO MORE OPTIMISM!

That's better.

So where do we go? A couple of tidbits were tossed around the twitters this evening. Trades and coaching. I mean, that's pretty much it, right? That's all we've got. In my mind, it's time to go with the latter. As much as I'd like to see some kind of super-addition to the roster, I just don't know how possible that is. There just isn't a team on the planet - no matter how many Dale Tallons they might hire - that would be willing to trade anyone who can even pretend to play in the NHL for Jiri Hudler. Fil's a choice... but what the hell kind of GM is just itching to overspend on a guy that everyone's been predicting will "break out" for the last half-decade. The mule is a beast in the playoffs... but if he can't be bothered to give a shit during the regular 82, how can we expect a guy who gets paid to build rosters to care about adding #93?

Nope. If we want a true shake-up, we've got to be willing to truly shake things up. Is there anyone willing to part ways with Datsyuk? If so, can I please have some of your alcohol. I believe you've had quite enough. And maybe I could see getting behind swapping Z for a superstar talent, but there's two problems with that: 1) There's little to no chance we're going to get anything near fair value, considering his relative badassery (most of the time); and 2) That would guarantee a really sad Datsyuk. Who the fuck wants to make Datsyuk sad? That's just mean.

So, for now, trades it is not. That's not to say that I don't expect a trade or addition this season. It's just that right now isn't the time. Around the deadline, the sellers will likely be willing to dish an upcoming UFA for some picks. Now, everyone's hoping they won't be sellers come deadline time.

Including us.

Which is kind of fucked. OK... totally fucked. But the fact remains - if we don't do something, there's a damn good chance we'll be in the sellers column after the All Star break. Ungood.

So if trades are out... I guess that leaves coaching. Granted, I've been saying this for a while - but that shit's got to change. Maybe Babs can wrangle this team back into his pen, get them in line, and have everyone back to Red Wings style hockey. Though... he's been trying that since 2009 and all it's gotten is back to back 2d round outs to the god damn San Jose Fightin' Fuck Nuggets. As I've said before (over, and over, and over) Babs is a great coach - but I don't think he's great for us. Not any more. He has lost this team and he's not getting the most out of them. He hasn't been able to effectively manage a backup goaltender... ever. He continues to insist on dumb shit ideas like falling back and playing a trap with a one goal lead in the friggin second during playoff games against offensive juggernauts. He can't get the team committed to defense, his special teams have sucked a bucket of dong, and his hair is stupid.

OK... that last one isn't true. It's just as glorious as ever.

Still. Go away. Time for some change. Not that that comes without problems. First and foremost, who takes his place? Could Blashill be a diamond in the rough type guy like Bylsma was when he broke into the league? If Curt Fraser was given a team not named the Thrashers, would he manage to win a game or two? Is it OK to drive into Chicago with weapons and take Scotty Bowman hostage, forcing him to coach again at gunpoint?

Fuck. Problems are annoying.

My suggestions? Promote from within. It'd be the cats pajamas if after so many years of being fucked with by coaches, Ozzie got the chance to have the reins. Granted... he'd probably just try and leverage the offer into a job as the bullpen coach for the Tigs.

Chris Chelios might be bothered to take a break from his regimen of getting wasted and driving to the early bird buffet at Old Country Buffet to get behind the bench and call everyone assholes for a while.

Even better? A rotating coaching staff consisting of the Grind Line. At the very least, when Todd McLellan's band of cheapass murderers and dick-noses refuses to stop blasting Howard in the face with a bunch of snow, we'd have a team of coaches climbing over the glass to fuck some shit up.

If The Professor can be convinced to stop agenting (yes, it's a verb now... also Michael Petrella has extraordinary genitals), he's certainly got the mind for the game. This would also be pleasing in a very "fuck off San Jose" way.

But the best idea? Mickey Friggin Redmond. Sure... we'd be coachless for every west coast trip, but the guys have to basically be on autopilot when playing at midnight anyway. Also, no more of those pesky composite sticks. We'd be the only team in the league to have an entire roster play with wooden sticks since composite sticks were invented. Also, we wouldn't have to worry about the penalty kill. Refs would simply stop calling penalties because of the amount of bitching they'd have to endure. And best of all, he'd be able to reach Larry Murphy between the benches to slap him in the mouth every time he won't shut the fuck up about hot dogs.

Make it happen, Kenny. Three games to the quarter mark. Time to figure this shit out.

Well. This is timely.

OK, OK. So I've essentially missed the entire first fifteen percent of the season. So what? So has Jiri Hudler.

Alright, that was uncalled for. I should know better than to justify my failures by comparing them to the acts of Jiri Hudler. If that were acceptable, the whole world would be full of perverted sexual deviants, the economy would come to a screetching hault because nobody would be doing their damn jobs, and poor Danny Cleary would be perpetually concussed.

Truth is, it's been a busy month. I've moved back to the motherland, bought a viscous attack dog in case anyone from Chicago or Denver happens to walk by my house, and started actively contributing to society as a semi-functioning member of the work force. No excuse, though. I know that there are millions upon millions out there eagerly anticipating the results of the:

Finally, it's October.

The Tigers are playing postseason baseball. The Lions are undefeated. Hell, even my Eastern Michigan Eagles have a winning record. Todd Bertuzzi is pissed because he's never had to winterize his cabin on Hell's Lake of Fire before.

Nonetheless, Red Wings hockey is right around the corner. The preseason is done. No longer must we endure the pain and agony of the absolute cocktease that is pretend hockey. Soon the puck will drop and we'll get to the business of destroying the hopes and dreams of 29 other teams. The business of capturing #12. The business of Red Wings Hockey.

Also marked by the start of the regular season: the end of the Winged Wheel Who's Got The Biggest Charity Boner Contest. Up for grabs is a jersey signed by Hank Z, 3 months of your design for the banner of this site, and if you want it, a Winged Wheel original song, topic decided by you. There's still time remaining, and it's down to the wire. Donate to a damn good cause, and show up the Hawks fans who are doing a pretty good job themselves. At the very least, put the cash down to save this hallowed ground from being sullied by the likes of The Bandwagon.

Need a reminder on how to demonstrate your throbbing charity boner? Allow me:

• Go to the Learning Through Giving Cause Page, join the cause through Facebook, and donate to your heart's content. As the administrator, Mike will record your donation, and secure your entry.
• If you aren't all hip with the Facebooks, or you just don't want to use it for some reason, you can make a direct donation through the Learning Through Giving Cause Page, without signing in. If you do that, however, you'll need to send your information and the amount you donated to me at  so that we can record your entry.
• You can also send a check made out to Genesis Therapy Center (put Schools Program in the Memo line) at the following address:

Well, hockey's back. Kind of.

It's the pre-season. Honestly, I've never been a big fan of the preseason. Sure, it's the methadone that keeps us from scraping our eyeballs out of our faces just as we hit the peak of hockey withdrawal. But the games are meaningless, lacking the emotional punch that fills 82 nights a year. The rosters are a fragment of their regular season selves, so you can't take a team's performance on any given night as a sign of things to come. The games are rarely broadcast properly, sometimes leading to a sickening case of hockey blue balls. Pre-season is kind of like sitting through a shitty warm up band waiting for The Victorious Secrets to blow your mind. It may satiate you for a minute or two, but quickly you're thinking "lets just get this fucking show on the road."

Well, as it turns out, perhaps it would have been better to just skip it this year. In a disgusting show of what is most likely vile racism, an individual in the audience of the Wings v. Flyers game in London, Ontario tossed a banana peel on the ice as Wayne Simmonds was approaching Jordan Pearce for the shootout. Now, there's a possibility that this wasn't a racist statement. Of course, that would require that the John Labatt Centre concession stands break from the norm of selling nachos, beer, and a variety of encased meats to offer fruits to their hockey watching patrons. Assuming the venue hasn't decided to buck the trend, it means the now-infamous thrower brought his fruit from home, chose a banana over a more easily concealable fruit, and just happened to toss it on the ice during the time that the only black skater was on the ice, essentially by himself.

So, yes, it's very likely this act was a flat out display of the kind of ignorance usually reserved for Tea Party rallys and YouTube comments. There's no indication yet as to who the tosser was. Arena authorities failed to catch or identify the responsible party. There is no word on whether the bigot was a Flyers fan, a Red Wing faithful, or a lunatic from London II: The Quickening (if it's good enough for Highlander, it's good enough for city names). No matter. Whatever this person's allegiance, one thing is for certain: he or she is not representative. Rather, he's just a total dick.

Now, as appalled as I am, I must temper this criticism a bit. You see, tonight, the infamous tosser made a statement. I personally strongly believe in the right to free expression, and while I strongly disagree with the sentiment, I will fully defend the right to make such a statement, no matter how vile, disgusting, or offensive it may be.

But only so I can say shit like this:

• A banana? You fucking brought a banana? What, you were sitting at home, angrily masturbating to a black and white photograph of George Wallace, thinking "how can I express my blind rage!?" You took a look at the NHL schedule and figured you'd make a statement. Who can blame you? What better place than a pre-season hockey game, played in neutral territory smack dab in the middle of National Tree Week, broadcast to literally tens of rabid fans? And what better way to express your rage than half eaten fruit? Now, that's how to change the hearts and minds of all the politically correct assholes unwilling to engage in a race war. That'll get them up out of their seats and into the streets. A banana. During the most meaningless part of the most meaningless game of the least popular major sport. 
• I'm sure it must have taken a great deal of planning to figure out how to get the banana peel in to the stadium. I have to assume you keister stashed it. Then, of course, you threw only a peel on to the ice. Obviously a peel alone would be rather difficult to really get up there. So, logically, you must have used the full banana. Now, a smart guy like you must realize carrying around an unpeeled banana after the deed leaves you exposed to being caught. I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I hope you thoroughly enjoyed yumming down your ass-banana.
• Speaking of things being uncomfortably positioned up your ass, go fuck yourself with the business end of a framing hammer.
• I hope the satellite currently plummeting from space breaks into just enough pieces to crash into and violently tear apart everyone you've ever loved. 
• Considering your intellectual capacity is hovering somewhere around that of a feral dog, I truly hope someone leaves an open bucket of anti-freeze near your residence. 
• It would prove the existence of a kind and loving God if you developed a grenade sized hemorrhoid that was equally explosive. 
• Now, I don't mean to imply that I sincerely wish you find yourself facing a very early and painful demise, surrounded by exactly zero people, the sum total of your loved ones, realizing your life has been empty and meaningless, truly coming to the conclusion of what a horrible person you are, devoid of any value but replete with disgusting, hateful bile. No. I mean to say it outright. I hope you die alone.