Boston, MA – The Bruins hung a cloth banner from the rafters last night, Mark Recchi put on a coat that Andrew Ference bought from eBay, Milt Schmidt (all 93 years of him) came out and probably got blown in the tunnel, and then the team went on to lay a shit on your carpet in the form of a 2-1 loss. Coming off their Championship season and the literally never ending parade of booze, pussy, jism launch, autographing boobers, “oops I got blown again”, dipping their balls in the Cup (and you want to drink out of it?), what did we expect? They spent the last 4 months going five-hole on every available chick in the state, and probably some that were, well, not available. Thankfully, they left town after winning the Cup before they were able to penetrate my wife at the W hotel. So forgive them if they come out of the gates a little rusty, their shafts are probably still chafed, courtesy of the hands, mouths, holes, and flumes of our wives, daughters and girlfriends. No offense taken, guys. The city, and all of it’s glorious poontail is yours, with the exception of the uppity snatches that go to BU because who could tolerate them for a minute.
“The Bruins Thankfully Leave Town Without Penetrating My Wife” by Martin Munson
Phew! That was close. Wow. You never saw me spend so much time with my wife until after the Bruins won the Stanley Cup. I was saying things I’ve never said before. “Why don’t we just stay in and talk?”, “Let’s get caught up on Grey’s!”, “There must be a buy one get one sale out there. Ready, Set, Shop!” What I had forgotten is that my wife, she of the tightly bound awesome boobers, was going to see Katy Perry, she of the not-so-bound awesome boobers on Saturday night. She and a friend were staying at the W Hotel. Seemed pretty harmless, until she texted me from the fucking lobby bar at the W and said “I just found out that the Bruins are staying here! WOOOOH!!” Naturally, my first thought, besides sheer panic, was “Don’t let them get any cum on you.” I didn’t text that, but I did say “Whatever you do, don’t drink from the Stanley Cup” and she goes “why not, because I’m not on the team?” and I said “Yeah, that’s the reason” and she goes “really?” and I said “No, don’t be ridiculous. The Stanley Cup has had more cum in it than the bath houses of Provincetown.” For those of you reading this blog that aren’t familiar with Provincetown, it’s a really fun/gay community that’s ironically located at the cock-shaped tip of Massachusetts. Fortunately for me and my wife’s nethers, the Bruins went to Foxwoods that night and spent $160,000 on booze and probably $75 on the worst yet somehow best tattoo of all time. I want to thank the Bruins for a wonderful season and for not making love to my wife in a stairwell at the W.