Stupidity ruled the day as the Kings twice mimicked the lack of intelligence exhibited by the hoards of Bruin fans with terrible goals against in what amounted to the conclusion of a 6 game winning streak.

Between Drew Doughty making two bone head lazy passes within 3 seconds of each other and giving up the game’s first goal, and Quick leaving a queef-sized pocket in his 5-hole for Lucic to score through, 2 goals against Tim Thomas just wasn’t going to cut it.

If I may, I shall blame Bobby for this loss. His proclamation of luck and numbers fell silent on ears that simply heard “I have better things to do than attend the Kings game.” Though I speak out of turn, having missed several games myself of late, I also knew to keep my mouth shut when tempted to comment upon games in which I knew I could not participate.

Speaking of participation, a few hundred Bruin fans show up and thousands of King fans go silent. At one point in the second period I chanted “Let’s Go Kings” for a solid minute, at least 16 rounds, leaving my throat frazzled and defunct, without a single voice being lent to mine. For shame. Now you may say, “there were thousands of Bruin fans, not hundreds!”, I must protest. There were not. When every Bruins fan occupies the physical space of two normal humans and the olfactory space of four, the eyes are deceived.

At least I got to see Anze Kopitar put Zdeno Chara down like a bow-legged prostitute. That was amusing.

This game was a good example of the shot totals not telling much of a relevant story. The Kings controlled some portions of the game but outside of a few isolated chances were unable to generate much in the way of high quality scoring chances.

I could talk of plays and players. I could write on momentum, it’s ebb and flow and how Jamie Kompon and what he calls a powerplay most closely resembles a moon waxing across a turd colored sky, but it’s too early and I’m too angry. I must find a place to drink. A place to calm down. A place to get ready for Monday’s game and a space in which to wonder why some non-plussed leather-bound buffoon asked me if I had any cocaine on the escalator ride following the game. No, raccoon-eyed delinquent, I do not have any cocaine. I do not think I exude the aura of the Scarfaced, but maybe I’m just that pissed.