Abel to Yzerman
by IwoCPO on 07/17/07 at 06:17 AM ET
Every time I see those three capital letters strung together I have to (a) shotgun a beer, (b) email my friends from high school to discuss failed conquest attempts from two decades ago and (3) watch six consecutive identical Sportscenters, waiting for a hockey reference that never comes. Why? Because, as we’ve touched on before, “LOL” and all its acronymical (yep, we just go ahead and make words up here at A2Y) sisters don’t fit into what I would refer to as “guy vernacular”.
But yesterday, I read something that made me—yes, literally—“laugh out loud.”
And I’d like to share it with you in hopes that you will also.
We’ll begin with this minor manifesto:
I established a personal rule two years ago when I started A2Y that I’d leave the Sailorly language behind and I did that for a few reasons. First, my kids read this from time to time and I don’t want them to know that dad drops the F bomb in every day conversation at a rate of approximately three instances per minute on a particularly spiritual day.
Secondly, I view it as a challenge to see if I can still get the occasional point across without that golden nugget of the english language. In approximately 25 years of consistent use, I’ve come to find that “the bomb” fits into practically any sentence as a noun, verb, adverb or adjective. It’s a word I truly love and, I believe, have perfected the usage of to the point where I’ve become a self-appointed F-bomb blackbelt. So, yes, it is a literary challenge for me to communicate with all 11 of you without using it.
Does that mean I don’t appreciate seeing it in print, in other blogs, or even in your comments? Absolutely not. In fact, in perusing fairly new Wing blog Yzerman is God last evening I found myself applauding Pete for his liberal usage. I nearly commented to let him know of my appreciation, but I was too F’ing lazy to do so.
Why do I tell you this? Thank you for asking.
Because if I didn’t adhere to my own personal language restrictions I would have started this post out with a phrase strikingly similar to this one:
Woody Paige is a (insert aforementioned bomb here as an adjective, perhaps capitalized for emphasis, or italicized to demonstrate absolute distaste) idiot.
The term “Foppa” makes me want to power vomit. I’ve never heard anyone use it out loud or there is a good chance I would have socked them in their temple. Reading it brings a similar reaction. Paige wrote a column for the Dique Express yesterday that made me cringe from the opening sentence.
Grattis på födelsedagen, Foppa.
God, just shut the (yep, insert another) up. I don’t know what the hell that says nor do I care. Perhaps the translation is close to this: “Come back to Denver so I can climb back aboard your jock, FOPPA.”
I’m going to assume that’s nearly on the money.
Paige goes on and on, sprinkling liberal “foppas” throughout, about bringing Forsberg back into the Dive fold.
The Swede’s stellar National Hockey League career should not end at 33 after a yearlong NHL lockout, a 1 1/2-year stay in Philadelphia, a short stint in Nashville, free agency with no interest, another injury and another surgery and an abrupt retirement or dismissal - without a final faceoff or a sweeping shot around the post, or a pirouetting pass to Sakic for the goal, or the ringing cheers of an adoring, appreciative Colorado crowd.
Forsberg gave up his youth, his country and a major body part to skate among us as one of the premier two-way players in hockey history. We should not let him leave yet.
One more Rock ‘n’ Roll, Part Adieu.
Sweeping. Pirouetting. Adoring. Adieu. Are there any men sportswriters in Denver?
A few times over the last year or so I’ve hinted at the idea that Forsberg in Detroit might be a good idea, but any player who elicits that kind of fawning from Woody Paige the mush-mouthed idiot has no place in Hockeytown.
Nope. I think he’s due back in Denver. I think they deserve each other. Keep Floppa out of Detroit, because you just know Little Mitch wouldn’t be able to resist tossing the first “foppa” out there the day he signed and then it would be on. The frigging diggers would follow his lead, as usual, and we’d be seeing “foppa this” and “foppa (insert another adjective here and italicize that bad boy) that” on a daily basis.
This passage from Paige’s Ode To Peter touched me.
In 2001, Forsberg left the arena after the Avs clinched a playoff series against Los Angeles and began coughing blood in a LoDo restaurant. His spleen was removed at 3 a.m., and he couldn’t play the rest of the postseason and be in the game when the Avs won the Cup. In fact, he couldn’t play until the next postseason, and the Avs wouldn’t win another Cup.
I swear to god. I got to the part about Forsberg spitting blood in LoDo and sprayed coffee all over my desk. You can’t make up funnier stuff than that.
Take him back Woody. Get that brittle little girl back to Denver and let’s renew some hostilities, shall we?
Happy birthday from across the ocean, Peter. May you spend No. 35 in Colorado before No. 21 is retired. We know the meaning of “Foppa.”
Somebody get me a (yep…another) bucket.
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Welcome to Abel to Yzerman, a Red Wing blog since 1977. No other site on the internet has better-researched, fact-laden and better prepared discussions than A2Y. Re-phrase: we do little research, find facts and stats highly overrated and claim little to no preparation. There are 19 readers of A2Y. No more, no less. All of them, except maybe one, are juvenile in nature. Reminding them of that in the comment section will only encourage them to prove that. Your suggestions and critiques are welcome: email@example.com