Happy happy birthday Jason. I didn't want to have to celebrate this, but, ironically enough, something showed up in the paper this morning that forced me to mention you once again. Apparently, you're getting traded. Hah. Imagine that.
"Happy 27th, Jay. We're going to have to get rid of you. Oh, and congrats on the baby."
LAUGHING OUT LOUD. It isn't a legit deal yet, though. Murray's just making some calls, doing some shit, trying to get Spezz the fuck outta here without hurting his feelings too much in the process. The problem is, I figure no one will want him much after the past two seasons he's had. Oh well. Guess we'll have to put him on wivers alongside the Cheechoo train.
This is a happy day. Sophia, good luck. Your father is a flop. More than that, he's a plug. A plug on the ice and a flop off it. I mean, he's an Italian hockey player. That's like, the biggest oxy-moron I've ever heard in my life! I predicted he would have a girl. Know why? Because he doesn't have enough sperm to produce anything else. Know what's gonna happen? He's gonna introduce his little princess into Timbits hockey at the age of four, and she's going to play her entire life and never make it past house-league. The Spezza family does not have enough jeans in their pants to make even a decent female hockey player. Jason will be on cloud 9 for about a year after young Sophia Donna was born, and then he will come to realize the potential of his sorry life, or lack of, rather. He will get traded, he will get benched on his new american team, he will go his whole life without ever winning a Stanley Cup and his loving family will end up aimlessly forgotten in the book of life. Some day, maybe 10, 15 years from now, in Hockey Night in Canada, Don Cherry will look at Ron, both old and grey and living life to its fullest without any regard for the consequences and be like, "Hey, remember this guy?"
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