Hockey Gods to Vancouver: F@#$ You

It wasn't enough that this season was a complete train wreck. But if you ignore the whole lockout thing, the goalie mess, the abundance of injuries which greatly compeled the lack of scoring annnnnnnnnd the sweep which greatly compeled the firing of a coach, then at long last your final insult is here:

Your two hated teams are meeting in the Cup finals.

(I'll wait while you run out of the room to vomit)

Since the world is ending before your very swollen eyes, I can only hope that - as a sexy Vancouver fan - you've developed the proper thick skin necessary to endure having your heart aggressively torn from your body cavity and shown to you seconds before you slip off your mortal coil. If I may quote my preferred source of inspiration: This is like O. Henry and Alanis Morissette had a baby and named it this exact situation.

If you need some assistance remember that one of your hated is going to have their heart crushed on the grandest stage of them all. You know what that feels like right? Besides maybe there will be an ACL tear or two before then. Plus all the finger pointing at the officiating and hatred of the call crew. Hooray!

So now that we've all reluctantly washed ashore on the loneliest island in the world, the last question before we assume the fetal position remains: who you got to win this thing?