I have not run out of Pabst Blue Ribbon and England play in 12 hours. Looks like I may have to pull an all-nighter. At about 6:15 AM I will be in my pyjamas on the balcony screaming like Hendrix's guitar after he lit it on fire at Monterey as I move on to the case of Tetley's breakfast bitter after England score the first of the many goals that will help me forget the lame excuse of a Stanley Cup Final we have been served up thus far.
That motherfucker the Americans hit with a couple 500 pounders had a better chance than those motherfucking Albertans have had against Carolina.
Being a sawmill worker I always cheer for hurricanes. Nothing jump starts a lumber market better than a good fucking disaster down where people should know better than to live.
After the England game the Hammer will need walking. Then it will be to the race track I will go to nail the winner of the Belmont Stakes to the floor. Then it will be time to celebrate sister Sal's birthday while keeping an eye on the hockey game in case any mayhem is in store.
Whether Sonja knows it or not she will be the driver tomorrow. I hope the police have not jailed everybody at the neighbourhood crack store. I may need a hit if I am to fully understand whatever Don Cherry has to say between periods.
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