We won, Nation. We won. 5-1 against the Sharks. Stortini AND Comrie got into fights. I was there. There was shouting and the consumption of beverages. And it was free, thanks to stalwart OilersNation commenter rubbertrout.
The story began about a month ago when rubbertrout posted a message on the site to me and Wanye: "Check your email." Now, I’m not about to let some dude named "rubbertrout" tell me what to do. So I sat there, breathing through my mouth, pretending not to care about what my email might contain, even though it was tearing me up.
I eventually caved and read the following:
I write to seek your cooperation as my foreign partner and your assistance to enable us to own properties and invest in the stable economy of your country. I apologize if this mail does not suit your personal or business ethics.
My names are Mr. Rubbertrout. We are making this venture proposal to you in strict confidence. As senior civil servants in the South Africa Government, the South African civil service laws (Code of Conduct bureau) forbid us to own a foreign account. The Oilers tickets we have in our possession is an overdue win waiting to happen which we want to transfer abroad with the assistance and co-operation of a company/or an individual to receive the said funds, via a reliable Oilers fan website.
Well, rubbertrout, you had me at "hello."
Waiting with Wanye
Rubbertrout’s a hot-shot from Calgary who loves the Oil. So he scored some tickets to ye olde corporate box, and yesterday set sail on the QEII for colder climes.
He got as far as Ponoka when his wife called him to tell him he’d left his bag — which contained the tickets — at home. I imagine rubbertrout let fly with a a huge "FFFFFFFFFFFFFFfffffffff—", turned his rig around and headed back south. He met his wonderful, thoughtful and loving wife in Didsbury where he grabbed his gear, turned around and headed back up to Edmonton.
Needless to say, we bugged the shit out of him when he showed up at the Pint with his buddy Mo.
Wanye and I were already several drinks into the night, so Mo and Rubs had to play catch-up. We downed a few more pints and jumped on the train.
Wanye has entered the building
When we arrived in our Executive Box the brews just kept flowing… and so did the food:
The conversation also flowed. Mo claimed to be some kind of doctor — and he kept insisting that he could get me super cheap cosmetic surgeries if I "don’t ask too many questions". His doctoring is in the field of breathing, and he spent a great deal of the evening constantly checking our airways. He also pointed out that OilersNation.com is blocked at the University Hospital. This made Wanye very excited.
"We are such a huge deal, man, don’t you get it? We could have single-handedly diminished heathcare in this province, so the health authority put up the walls. This is how god must feel when his websites get blocked."
He then started sobbing and spent most of the rest of the evening in the bathroom until rubbertrout talked him back out.
We spent the evening getting just greased and pretending not to notice that Paul Comrie, Mike’s brother, was chillin’ in our box as well. We also pretended not to notice that at least one dude really liked yelling "shoot." And when one of the box residents was stopped by the cops on the concourse for underaged drinking, and allowed back into the box… well, we pretended not to notice a lot of things last night.
What we DIDN’T pretend not to notice was an Oilers’ victory. And what we really, really noticed was Stortini winning a fight — bless his angry caveman-like heart — and even Comrie getting into a thoroughly polite dust-up. Outstanding work from the home team.
I’m not going to go all Willis on you and tell you that even though they won, the Oilers sucked. Because last night, when Rexall staff finally demanded that we leave and we loaded up our pants and jackets with contraband booze and headed back downtown, all that mattered was that sweet taste of victory. And booze.
Wanye managed to find some serviceable trash to bring home with him too:
Wanye has left the building
On our way out back into the LRT station, we were treated to a closer look of the ill-advised TEAM 1260 ads… And I say ill-advised because these are some giant effin’ images of Gregor, Meg, Bob Stauffer… and no one should be treated to an image this large of anyone:
I mean, not only is Gregor’s head as large as I am tall, but he’s got some questionable dental work going on there. Fortunately, we brushed past these marketing monstrosities and made for the train, beers in pants. When we boarded the LRT, we made friends with a guy named Craig who wanted to know the score of the game.
I just handed him a beer and told him we won. He couldn’t believe me. He cracked open his drink and we toasted.
Then, at Churchill Station, the transit cops board the train. So we disembarked, leaving the enforcement of laws to the professionals, and opting not to get stopped for our own miscreancy. I just made up that word.
We stopped a full eight blocks from the Pint, our HQ for the night, but we made it back through the coldest rain we’d experienced to discuss hockey, business, and the business of hockey well into the night.
Did I mention, we won?