So we’ve got a new voice for you here at Surly & Scribe. She fancies herself a scribe, and she’s certainly surly, but she calls herself Kelsey Eyes. Why Eyes? You tell me.

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Nice eyes… crazy (for some reason she wouldn’t go with Crazy Kelsey), but nice. And yeah, she’s got a purty mouth, and according to her, tits, even though a picture she posted on her twitter before the first game against the Blues suggests she rather has balls:

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Ok, balls, the ability and more frighteningly, the willingness to chop yours off. But be not afraid, she is here to help, to offer you one thing that has been lacking between Scribe and myself, a lady’s touch. So let her touch you, or just touch yourselves, but whatever you do, don’t fuck with her (please fuck with her), because, according to a phrase I insisted she cut from the following article, she will “out hockey the fuck out of you.”

Preach it, sister.

We give you, Kelsey Eyes

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Seriously, I know what you’re thinking.

Women hockey fans; yuck.

We go to games to bang hockey players. We want to score rich husbands so we can “Pilates all day” or whatever the fuck women in Newport do. We like the hot one on the team, usually blond and inexplicably tan for a Canadian. We forget to put on pants under our jerseys. We do the Karlsson shuffle down flights of steps at Staples Centre in search of our seats in nine-inch heels. We wear rhinestone Kings mini tees and low rise jeans that reveal butterfly tattoos and loads of sexy ass crackage. We make Doughty signs involving stick puns and custom jerseys that say “Mrs. Muzzin 69”.

And we draw bears to the rink with the smell of our menstruation. We are terrible.

It hit me one day, as I sat along the glass watching the Kings play. I was yawning and asking my middle aged sugar daddy when halftime was, annoyed at my lack of cell reception and wondering if the seats in Staples would leave a grey tinge to the backseat of my favourite white jeans…. Oh wait, no I’m not that one.

Let’s pan up a level of seats and back 200 rows. Ah, yes. The girl swimming in her enormous game-worn jersey screaming at the ref’s calls and staying in her seat between periods, afraid to miss a single second of game time.

I am a classy bitch that will sit and listen to ignorant comments other lesser fans make regarding the game and I’ll smile and nod. I may consider their thoughts for a mere moment before remembering that, ah yes — I was watching recorded VHS tapes of classic Gretzky, Robitaille and Nicholls games before they stopped wetting their Underoos! I’m that neighbourhood girl getting groceries with her mom in a hockey helmet and a ballerina tutu, because I’m equal parts “What the fuck is that call, Ref?!” and “This eye-shadow is the same shade of the silver as the jerseys… Right?”

Sitting in my dinosaur footy pajamas, my chocolate mustached face glued to those old tapes, I was a sponge. I absorbed everything. The same principles that I scrapped for on the playground as a kid were the same principles my favourite Kings players fought for on the ice. No matter what your teachers or the referees said, you fought for your brothers’ honour and no fucking Time-out or Penalty Box would change that.

(Shane Doan, please disregard the uplifting message of the last paragraph; you fucking goon).

I am still that kid sitting two centimetres away from the TV screen, watching my team. This is probably why the sexual stigma placed over women, assuming they just want to sleep with the players, is so confusing to me. I am trapped at age 6, from the moment before puck drop, eyes wide, butterflies in my stomach, hoping for a win and willing to go to the mattresses for any of the LA Kings (that’s a Godfather reference, you fuckin’ pervs). The only difference now is the mustache is beer foam and not chocolate milk.

And so, let us worship together at the altar of the Los Angeles Kings. Don’t let my boobs come between us. I promise to always wear pants with my jerseys if you promise to give me eye contact when we speak. Just sit back, listen to the calming sound of my chirps and consider this typical Los Angeles model/actress your guru on all things fucking puck.

P.S. I can’t do anything about the menstruation. The bears will eventually leave the rink as long as they don’t get into the food.