This holiday's edition of DWAO comes to us from MouthGuard and try not to get swept up in her world of bacon cheddar donuts and the Pat's sex appeal.
SILVER FOX: DATE WITH AN OLDSTER
"WHEN EYE-RISH UHEYS ARE SMILIN'..." - ST. PATRICK'S DAY EDITION
Do you like to drink? Do you like to get drunk? Do you sometimes worry that you might be an alcoholic? Do you publicly pick fights with total strangers, inebriated or sober? Are you wildly superstitious? Do you believe in ghosts? Do you have high blood pressure? Do people tend to tell you to stop shouting? Do you chain smoke? Are you from Canada? Or Boston?
Are you Irish? Well, it doesn't matter because on St. Patrick's Day, everybody's Irish, eh? Just some people are slightly more Irish than others. Such as:
John Brian Patrick ("Pat") Quinn
Patrick ("Pat") Burns**
PREGAME CONFESSION/FULL DISCLOSURE
Okay people. I am neither going to mince words here, nor am I going to play games. This entire exercise is a shameless, poorly disguised excuse to celebrate big, fat, burly, hairy, loud, drunk, sunburned, cop 'stached, myocardially-infarcted Irish men with swollen waterheads, windswept monobrows, decaying teeth, chronic halitosis and short tempers. I admit it. Not gonna lie. Exhibit A:
$100,000 Question: Would you want to engage either of these motherfuckers in a joust or a chess match? Of course not. Are you high? Here's Pat Q beating the crap out of my boyfriend Bobby Orr back in the olden olden olden days:
And here's what Pat B may or may not have done to Sidney Crosby at the Olympics last year:
Look at how terrified of Pat Q Team Canada looks at World Juniors a couple of years back. Cam Fowler just crapped his pants:
And here's Pat B staring down some random Leaf assclown during morning skate. Ouch:
Make no mistake: These Pats Take No Prisoners. There's gonna be a lot of drinking, fighting, yelling, crying, laughing, farting and making up on this date. Not making out. Making UP.
Oh yeah. And in case you hadn't noticed, yours truly is also just a wee bit tipsy.
Officially: "Senior Hockey Advisor" with the Edmonton Oilers. Whatever that means. Jack Adams Award-winning coach. Hockey Canada go-to guy for World Juniors and the Olympics. Because he's got book smarts along with hockey smarts and he earned himself a J.D., we should technically call him Pat Quinn, Esq.
Unofficially: A Crotchety Old Man Who Used To Be A Brainy Thug. At Oilers HQ, he sucks on cough drops and yells on the phone with his stocking feet perched atop his desk. Crashes his laptop daily playing Gavin the Pro Golf Goblin ("Use the space bar to hit the golf ball, and to bash other golfers until they bleed.") instead of doing real "work."
Officially: Gone much too soon, but not forgotten. Seriously. RIP, Coach. The ongoing Pat Burns Arena project will service his hometown community of Stanstead, Quebec and will ensure that his legacy lives on.
Unofficially: A Scary MoFo With A Heart 'o Gold.
Officially: Played D for a bunch of teams, including the Leafs (doesn't he look like Norm MacDonald?)
and the Atlanta Flames
Considered to be one of the greatest coaches in the history of the sport. Hired and fired by the Flyers, Canucks, Leafs and Oilers. Coached Team Canada to Olympic gold in 2002.
Unofficially: A tough, crafty, no-nonsense motivator and negotiator. Brainy and brawny. In a track suit. Pat Q had a series of celebrated cat fights with Bobby Orr over the course of their careers, but he claims the hatchet was buried several times and that Bobby O was and is the best of the best. Here he is discussing his infamous "elbow or shoulder?" hit on Bobby:
Officially: Considered to be one of the greatest coaches in the history of the sport. Stanley Cup champion with the New Jersey Devils. Won the Jack Adams Award three times while coaching Montreal, Toronto and Boston. Burns was a copper in Gatineau prior to his hockey career.
Unofficially: Scared the shit out of his players, like a proper ex-cop. Yelled first and thought later. Picked a fight for every fight he broke up. Wearing a track suit.
WHY HE'S AMAZING
Pat Q established himself early on as a player and a coach who absolutely had to do things his way and would not be intimidated by corporate brass. He went the extra mile to pursue formal education during his career to better formulate and justify his strategies as a coach and GM. He found a way to break through to and win the respect of unpopular/no-name/lesser skilled players when they often barely respected themselves, and made guys want to turn things around badly enough to win. Pat Q is still called upon to weigh in on the hockey issues of the day that everybody is talking about because he can be counted on to give forthright, no-bull feedback. In his stocking feet.
Pat B was cut out of Pat Q's cloth, without the book smarts. We're talking street smarts + hockey smarts + a sweet mullet & cop 'stache. And a heartfelt "fuck you, what are you gonna do about it?" philosophy with the media and officials that offended some but ultimately inspired his players to give it their all during crunch time. In a track suit.
WHY HE'S (STILL) SEXY AS HELL
He can't be sexy because he NEVER was sexy. But his flared nostrils had a certain something when he got pissed...
Ditto - NEVER was sexy. Yet when passion got the better of him, oh me oh my...
WHAT YOU WOULD DO ON A DATE
It's St. Paddy's Day, and Pat Q tells you to meet him at the Horseshoe in Toronto for a special tribute to the one-and-only Pat B. The event will be an emotional celebration of Pat B's life in and out of hockey, and will serve as a fundraiser for the effort to construct an arena in his hometown.
You excitedly proceed to will-call, where a ticket in your name is waiting for you. Once inside, Pat Q greets you with lager, a smile, and a slap on the ass. And you're off and running:
Stout men in gorgeous kilts are marching around the room with drums, and everybody is laughing, crying and cheering at the same time:
Pat Q is overwhelmed and quite drunk. The two of you retreat to a quieter spot when he stops dead in his tracks and turns white as a sheet. Then you notice it too, clear as day: It's none other than Pat B, welcoming the two of you from the beyond to his event. Ghostdom looks great on him, but he's got some words of warning. "Pat, you gotta promise me that you'll live healthy before time runs out," he warns Pat Q. "Look at what four decades of cheeseburgers, beer and Player's lights did to me."
But Pat Q takes exception to Pat B's advice. "Why thank you very much, Mr. Burns, but I think I am quite capable of taking care of myself, eh?" He puts his arm around Pat B's (invisible) shoulder. "I love ya and I miss ya, but you gotta promise me that you'll stop being all bossy and telling me what to do!" Pat Q then jerks violently to the left and his head swings back, like he's just been punched in the face. You can't believe your eyeballs, but it seriously looks like the Pats are trying to choke each other or wring each others' necks, at the very least. Pat Q is heaving, huffing and puffing, his fingers clutching Pat B's (invisible) neck.
People are starting to stare. It's like Celebrity Ghost Stories in technicolor. "When your nephew scored on his own goalie in pee-wee, you ate his hamster to teach him a lesson!" Pat Q yells at Pat B.
"Mind your mouth, Quinn!" Pat B counters. "At least I never stole Timbits in plain view of security cameras! I shoulda had my bros book your fatass when I had the chance!" And they're off and running. This is going to be a very long night.
Inexplicably, the Pats are all of a sudden crying, (invisible) vomiting and hugging each other. They decide to wander a few blocks down Queen to a venue that has always intrigued them but until just now they've been too weenie to explore:
It's the Bovine Sex Club.
Pat B puts his (invisible) arm around your waist and says something about a band playing there "with a laser light show!" Pat Q is muttering something about "cage dancers" and in you all go.
A Hot Topic/faux goth band is onstage, performing a painful Sisters of Mercy-inspired cover of "Whiskey In The Jar". The Pats are incensed, and are checking/body slamming everybody in the bar. Pat B is bitchslapping people with his (invisible) palms and Pat Q is smashing a Les Paul to smithereens.
"Lizzy did the best cover of 'Whiskey'!" Pat Q yells. "Hands down, the best Irish rock band ever!"
Pat B prefers Kim Mitchell, and instructs the goth band to start playing "Lager & Ale" or he'll stomp on them with his (invisible) feet.
"For cryin' out loud you numbskulls, would ya just quit yer squabblin' let me the fuck outta here already?"
Tonight's featured cage dancer has had enough. It's Brian Burke.
He's dressed like this:
And he's "dancing" in one of these:
The Pats stop in their tracks. "Burkie! What the hell?!" The two of them unlock Burke's cage and he puts his arms around Pat Q's and Pat B's (invisible) shoulders. "Jesus H, I can't feel my legs! I can't walk!" Burke reveals. "It must be these vinyl hotpants. They've gone and cut off the circulation to my lower extremities!"
The Pats yell, "Those bastards!" and start beating people up with promotional Burke bobbleheads the Bovine is giving away because nobody will buy them. Chaos ensues.
An oxygen-deprived Burke collapses in your arms during the melee. "They hoodwinked me," he says. "They said there would be cage FIGHTING, not cage DANCING. The next thing I know, I'm dressed in hotpants and gyrating for tips." He passes out. You and the Pats carry him outside for some fresh air and revive the hardass Leafs' GM with some cheap Chinese take-out truck wontons:
Burke comes to, wondering if he's "died and gone to heaven 'cause I'm eatin' wontons with Pat Burns on Queen St... They're not like they make 'em at Ho's Restaurant but it'll do for now. Oh, and by the way you both got your Irish rockers all WRONG. As per usual. Lizzy were just a bunch of wasted hippies and Mitchell plays gigs like the Chatham Ribfest. If you want real Irish music you needn't look any further than Mr. Shane McGowan and the motherfucking Pogues, you meatheads. Now help me the fuck up."
The four of you proceed on a proper Burke-hosted pub-crawl into the night. Burke has peeled off his vinyl hotpants and he looks pretty damn good in his clover armor helmet. No helmets for the Pats, of course. May the luck of Irish be with ya.
HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!!!
** This piece was pieced together in good fun and in the rowdy spirit that is St. Patrick's Day. Absolutely no disrespect is intended toward Messrs Quinn and Burke, and (invisible) Mr. Burns in particular. Hockey deeply misses him and everybody wants to see his arena in finished, visible (as opposed to invisible) form as soon as possible.