Ah, the dreaded birthday game. I’ve been looking forward to this matchup since the schedule was first announced. The Kings vs the Ducks on my name day. Serendipity. Or calamity? The Kings hold the puppet strings to my emotions with a vice like grip on a normal day. When one celebrates their falling out of the womb with a hockey game, the strings are felt to be pulled by one with palsy.

Speaking of palsy (because who isn’t?), Corey Perry gives me the shakes, the heebie jeebies. His skin tone is inhuman and when conjured with the spacing of his eyes serves as an apt warning on the dangers of procreation during the throws of nuclear fallout. Still, the skating radiation leak has helped to atomically charge his foul team from severed necrotic limb up the biological ladder to pulsating tumor.

Gross.

I approach this game with no rhyme or reason. No cohesive thought towards strategy. Merely a duality. A penchant for progress. An appetite for destruction.

I am reminded of a story I once read, The Destructors by Graham Greene. The Ducks’ good play is a thing of beauty I can not stomach. It must be crushed and only through our part in its annihilation can peace be upon me.

Kopitar. Doughty. Carter. Richards. Fraser. King. Westgarth. Drewiske. Don’t care who plays. Don’t care who does the damage, so long as it is done.

Tonight is a season’s worth of games. I’m confident. I’m pumped. I’m ready for war. To paraphrase James Taylor, I’m going to the finals in my mind.

Dismember their defense. Eviscerate their goalie. Strangled their offense and snuff out their light. Burn it all to the ground and leave us with something more palatable. A feathery meal, picked to the bone. Two points and unyielding resolve. Beautiful form from their ashes.

Transcend effort. Immolate with desire. Absorb and effuse pride to embody victory.

Fuck the Ducks.

Go Kings Go!