Friday, January 21, 2011


In every industry, it’s all about getting an edge, how to stand out from your competitors. And it’s no different for newshounds. Now, as you well know, one thing (some say the ONLY thing) Habsbros is good at is standing out. Foreseeing this, as well as the need to one day be forced to get our hands on some inner-circle straight dope to infuse our stories with the proper pathos they deserve, we planted a sleeper agent within the organization. Your sneaky reporter himself was the one who activated that agent with the key phrase “potato salad looks good, eh?” when sidled up to him at the cafeteria.
Operation: Gaining access by any means (GABAM!) is now underway. It has taken weeks for the proper conditions to assemble themselves in order to set our dastardly plan into motion. If we have neglected our duties towards our readers as a result, then we beg forgiveness, but…with the economy, the lack of parking spaces outside the port-o-potty/office of Habsbros Central, well… good personnel is hard to come by so we often gots to do this our own damn selves. Yeah, it’s a bitch. Ain’t gonna lie. There’s danger of exposure at any second, risk of alienation at any moment, and the smell of nasty jock-strap at every turn; it’s not easy. But we do it anyway. Out of love. Love for you, dear readers. Whenever the odour of nasty, rotten, crawling, probably fungus-infected 10-yr-old nut cups hits our nostrils, we think of you, because that’s what gives us the motivation to carry on.
It wasn’t easy to sabotage Max Pacioretty’s equipment. It wasn’t easy to bribe Buffalo Sabre Mike Weber to hurt one of our own players. Do you know how hard it is to give someone the flu on purpose? It’s not easy. These were the moral hurdles we had to jump every day.
The crimp in our plan was Dustin Boyd. The front office believed that no one would claim him on re-entry if he was called back up. And we were tempted to believe it. But good luck with that, because the grapevine says Boyd was so pissed about being relegated to the minors, he not only wouldn’t give it 100% on the ice, but would actively seek to score in his own net then key Gauthier’s car after the game. The whole situation was very delicate. It wasn’t hard to start the rumour.
With these obstacles out of the way, our mole’s integration to the club was assured. Fair-haired, fair-eyed, fair-heighted, fair-weighted, no distinguishing features apart a distinctly bovine look, which suits him (and us) quite well, all things considered, we consider him to be the epitome of “bland”. A 4th line player who, as opposed to Tom Pyatt or Ryan White (initially proposed as candidates for the operation), has an unpronounceable name, and of course, it’s a scientific fact that people don’t talk to folks who have unpronounceable names. Our man is therefore anonymous as well as androgynous. His attributes have meshed into a perfect storm. Talented enough to keep up with other players but not talented enough to attract attention. Foreign enough to be ignored but Aryan enough to be given the benefit of the doubt as to his presence in the dressing-room; he’s absolutely ideal.
Here are his prime directives: 1) confirm or deny Pleky running out of gas. 2) confirm or deny Iginla acquisition. 3) observe and report on jock-strap cleaning methods.
The fourth directive, of course, is classified. Security reasons.
We expect Swede muffins to be whispered in our ear in no time at all.
More updates when such warrants.


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