Don’t care that Shane Doan scored two goals. He is subhuman to me. A mutant goon posing as a hockey player. Dog shit disguised as human shit.

Don’t care that Mike Smith got a shutout. He is cut from the same diving, prima donna cloth as Roberto Luongo.

This game wasn’t about what the Phoenix Coyotes did. It was about what the L.A. Kings didn’t do.

The Coyotes tried to give us the game in the first period. Powerplays, one after another and we could not capitalize. We move the puck around better and hold our front of the net presence and we could have crushed their spirit in the opening frame. Instead of driving home on the 5 South, I could have been streaking down 11th Street, screaming in ecstasy…with Surly filming.

That bullshit phantom call (don’t call it “soft” because that term implies there was something there) on Justin Williams led to their first goal that, now that I have seen the replay, Jonathan Quick would want back…he cheated off the post. Their second goal, well hell, nearly the entire crowd and four zebras missed it so I guess we really can’t blame Quickie on that one. What you saw today is the L.A. Kings not finishing their first opportunities and not creating enough traffic in front of Mike Smith to get the second and third ones. Shit happens. I hate afternoon games too. The vibe was off today. Driving to Staples Center at 8:50am, walking to the Yardhouse at 9:20, sissy bicycle paraphernalia all around, a beer before 10am…actually, that part was pretty cool. It reminded me of my early 20′s and law school. But the whole karmic feeling of this game didn’t feel like game 4 of the Western Conference Finals.

So, back to the desert we go where Surly’s ancestors wandered and Moses found the 15 commandments before he dropped a tablet, we will find the hallowed road to the Stanley Cup Finals. All great things must be earned. Let’s earn game 5 and wipe these Coyote fucks from the bottom of our skates.

Go Mother Fucking Kings!