Shakespearean Hockey Taunts

Hockey games not only lend themselves to savage critique of opposing players and on-ice officials, but also allow for creative ways to heap that abuse. Here are some Shakespearean flavored taunts that have been tossed about in Section 303 at Nashville Predator hockey games over the years.  You may wish to employ some of these at your place of employ, your local eatery, or perhaps your house of worship…

·       Thou tottering rude-growing malt-worm

·       Thou surly plume-plucked bum-bailey

·       Thou dissembling half-faced measel

·       Thou jarring idle-headed mammet

·       Thou warped flap-mouthed hedge pig

·       Thou bootless elf-skinned maggot pie

·       Thou fobbing rough-hewn giglet

·       Thou arltess dog-headed flax wench

·       Thou qualling boil-brained nut-hook

·       Thou puking pox-marked knotty-pated scut

·       Thou rank clapper-clawed clotpole

·       Thou milk livered- onion-eyed boar-pig

·       Thou cockered pottle-deep gudgeon

·       Thou reeking sheep-biting joithead

·       Thou fawning spur-galled miscreant

·       Thou wayward hasty-witted moldwarp

·       Thou craven beetle-headed haggard

·       Thou venomed rump-fed minnow

·       Thou droning hell-hated mumble news

·       Thou currish dog-hearted death token

·       Thou bawdy folly-fallen fustilarian

·       Thou fobbing guts-griping hugger-mugger

·       Thou cockered bug-bear dewberry

·       Thou warped swag-bellied lewdster

·       Thou mangled kooty-pated codpiece

·       Thou ruttish ill-nurtured whey-face

·       Thou froward full-gorged barnacle

·       Thou mewling toad-spotted vassal

·       Thou lumpish motley-minded flirt-gill

·       Thou yeasty base court horn beast

·       Thou infectious tardy-gaited foot licker

·       Thou vain beetle-headed joit head

·       Thou beslubbering clay-brained baggage

·       Thou surly fat-kidneyed coxcomb

·       Thou unmuzzled beef-witted pignut

·       Thou paunchy dread-bolted harpy

·       Thou spleeny ticke-brained pigeon egg

·       Thou goatish dismal-dreaming pumpion

·       Thou rougish shard-borne wank splash

·       Thou venomed crook-pated ratsbane

·       Thou clouted pottle-deep fen-suck

·       Thou errant urchin-snouted flap-dragon

·       Thou infectious bat-fowling clack dish

·       Thou goar-bellied dog-hearted varlet

·       Thou impertinent ill-breeding death token

·       Thou spongy dizzy-eyed canker-blossom

·       Thou gleeking fully-fallen puttock

·       Thou frothy common-kissing clotpole

·       Thou logger-headed guts-griping gudgeon

·       Thou mewling earth-vexing apple-john

·       Thou beslubberring half-faced skainsmate

·       Thou dankish fly-bitten lout

·       Thou puny weather-weary strumpet

Any further suggestions?

My Quarrytorium Moratorium...A Hockey Hiatus for the Next Four Months

Many of my friends will find this hard to believe, but I just cancelled my season ticket for the Nashville Predators.  This might seem especially odd in that the 133 day lockout over a new Collective Bargaining Agreement (CBA) between the National Hockey League and the players’ union has just been resolved, and the shortened regular season is about to finally commence. 

It takes a lot to shake the hockey out of my system. Even before the NHL’s arrival, I had seen hundreds of major and minor league games across the country, and wrote a monthly column on pro hockey marketing in a national publication for years.  As a member of Mayor Phil Bredesen’s civic committee to research and recommend a downtown arena, I was one of the few that lobbied hard for the facility to be fitted for ice hockey.  Other cam around to realizing that the NHL was a much better possibility for an expansion or relocated franchise than the NBA.

As some of you may know, I’ve been a staunch supporter of the Preds as a season ticket holder since Day 1 in 1998.  In the first ten seasons, I only missed six games. I was on a first name basis friendship with then-owner Craig Leipold and attended countless fan relation and marketing meetings. I interacted regularly with many in the front office.  Along with a few other knuckleheads, I helped create the fan experience known as Cellblock 303 that helped generate an energy at Preds’ games like none other in the league.  My vocal histrionics and enthusiasm at the rink watching the Predators encircle their quarry…their prey, have earned me the monikers of “The Warden,” “The Duke of Rebuke,” and, most aptly, “Chief Goofball.” Heck, I was even at Bridgestone a day and a half after heart surgery yelling my head off for the Predators’ Game 5 clincher over the hated Red Wings in Round One of the Stanley Cup Playoffs last April. There has been little to compare with the fun and pride of watching this young team develop into strong contenders. So, it is clear that my loyalty to the Preds has been unwavering.

When the last lockout occurred, which wiped out the entire 2004-2005 season (a first for any major pro league in US sports history), I kept my money invested in my tickets.  Like most fans, we realized that impasse was necessary for the well being of the league’s future.  Exorbitant salaries, lack of a salary cap, no profit sharing, etc. needed to be addressed or the whole system would implode.  In the next seven seasons, due to the positive changes that were implemented, the NHL’s revenue’s tripled to $3 billion, even in the face of the big recession. You would think that unprecedented growth would mean that when the current contract came to a close this past September that there would just need to be a few minor tweaks to the next CBA and the league could continue its upward trajectory.

But no…greed reared its ugly head on both the owners and players union sides, and there were no reasonable compromises brought to bear on how these multi-millionaires were going to split $3,000,000,000. Hence, another lengthy shutdown.  All the record-breaking growth of the Predators from last season, including a new record of 25 sellouts, swelling corporate partnerships, and the highest TV ratings in their history were put in jeopardy.  Not to mention all the restaurateurs, parking enterprises, and arena employees whose livelihoods were threatened with all the cancelled games.

So, it is not without considerable consternation and sadness that I’ve made this decision.  I certainly don’t want to see the Predators franchise fail, but SOMEBODY needs to get the message that these selfish work stoppages are unacceptable, especially to we fans who fill those millionaires coffers.  And maybe it is just ME that needs to be reminded of this.  When I weigh everything out, I still can’t get past the ungratefulness of the union and the owners.  Nor can I stomach their presumption that we will blindly return no matter what.

I know of other season ticket holders who are willing to move forward, and I refuse to be critical of anyone else’s reasoning.  If they are at peace with their decision, that is fine by me.  My frustration is not with my fellow fans.

But I feel I need to make this statement.  Perhaps I’ll have a change of heart once the regular season is complete. Or maybe it will be late in the summer before I’m ready.  Or perhaps never.

My hope is that the league sees a significant drop in attendance and revenues this season.  Maybe a franchise or two closes shop due to significant downturns.  Then, perhaps, some vows will be made by the powers-that-be to NEVER put the fans through this again (I can dream, can’t I?).

No doubt I will pine-away some evenings for the adrenaline rush of a spirited contest against the Dead Things, Blackholes, or Blosers.  Going to a Predators’ game is a form of Primal Scream Therapy where I can pour it out in a way that is good for my constitution.  But more than anything, I will miss the camaraderie of all my fellow inmates in the Cellblock, and the rest of the NBP (North Balcony Posse).  I hope to see you all again…and please don’t hold this against me.

When I receive my refund from the Preds for my season ticket, I’m signing it over to the Nashville Rescue Mission.  Now there’s a downtown institution that’s been staying open day in and day out for decades and actually doing what they’re supposed to be doing.

Be Still My Beating Heart, Part 2

Here is the second and final part of the saga of my lengthy stay in the hospital and subsequent heart surgery about six weeks ago.  At this stage, I had been in the Intensive Care Unit for four days with my heart racing steadily at 170 beats per minute, and the doctors being quite confused as to why…

Trying to maintain some normalcy through the whole procedure, I decided to try and keep up with my work via the internet and my cell phone.  I even participated in a Skype conference with my radio team. I also did a fair amount of personal correspondence online, and had regular phone visits with my sister, Joyce.  She kept saying she wanted to come down from northwest Indiana, but I felt like they were going to let me go home any day and didn’t want her to break away from her busy schedule if there was no serious importance on my part.

Being one of those folks who likes to count things, I kept track of what was being done to me while under this hospice during my extended stay: seven shots in my stomach, four in my arms, two in my hiney; blood taken sixteen times; blood pressure taken 112 times; and five electronic wires attached to my chest non-stop for 185 hours with countless readings.

By the end of the fourth day, the doctors began to see some stabilization with the heart speed through a combination of multiple treatments.  And at the end of the fifth they moved me to a regular room that had less complex monitoring equipment, but was still wired-in to the nurse’s station down the hall.  However, the flutter was still a bit wobbly.

When the sixth day rolled around, they were beginning to think that surgery might be a solution.  Another day of scrutinizing was ordered, resulting in me having to stay over Easter weekend.  Internally, I was frustrated by this, but tried not to let on to anyone.  The visits from folks continued, as did things like a pizza party while listening to a Preds’ game, and several folks bringing waaay too much candy via Easter baskets on that “Great Gettin’ Up Sunday.”

For the previous four days, I had been giving myself a sponge bath every day, and even washing my hair.  It was quite the complex ordeal seeing that I had to be continuously wired-up to my heart monitor and I.V. tubes while doing this standing next to a sink.  But I hated feeling so greasy, and I always was refreshed after finishing. I was hoping once I got to the regular room I could take a shower, but that was forbidden due to the non-stop monitoring, so I still had to mop up as best I could each morning before breakfast.

I figured I would be able to finally go home on the following Monday, but when the head doctor came in, she wasn’t smiling.  She felt that they needed at least one more day to observe in order to make a final determination on surgery.  She could see that I was visibly disappointed, and I tried to reason with her that I could maintain the same levels of moderation in my home.

She then looked at me sternly and said, “Mr. Hollingsworth…we nearly lost you five days ago.  You have made a remarkable turn around, but we would feel so much better if you would allow us a bit more time to fully asses all the options, and to make sure you a clearly out of the woods.”  This was the first time anyone had been that direct with me.  I did not realize that I had been on death’s doorstep, as it were.   I hesitantly nodded my assent, and decided to grin and bear it.

The next morning, my primary cardiologist and his assistant came in and we met for half an hour with him explaining that I would, indeed, be having transesophageal echocardiagrahy and catheter ablation for an atrial flutter. Basically that meant they would put a probe down my throat into my chest to observe sound waves of my heart, then insert several fiber optic lasers thru the major arteries of both my legs up thru my stomach and into my heart to fix the chamber valve that was off kilter.

Since I seemed in pretty stable and healthy condition, they felt I could go home for a week and return the following Wednesday for the three hour procedure, and then have one day of observation and therapy before returning home the following morning, provided everything went well. They then told me that after all the paperwork was finished, I could finally go home after eight days of being cooped up. I hadn’t even been able to open a window and experience any of the glorious spring weather that was going on all that time. To say I was giddy would’ve been an understatement.  Cora came from my church to help me get home.  I was dressed and everything was packed and ready when she arrived.

That initial shower in my home must’ve lasted a half hour.  It reminded me of how good it felt when I finally took a hot shower after almost three weeks hiking through the bogs and north woods of Wisconsin at a stress camp before my freshman year at Wheaton.  There had been moments during that survival march that I wasn’t sure I would make it, and here I was thirty-nine years later glad that I had written another intriguing chapter in my book of life. 

With the cardiology staff’s permission and with plenty of medications still being taken into my body, I was encouraged to go about my life normally that next week while tracking my pulse rate regularly.  So I went to Game One of the Stanley Cup first round playoff series between my beloved Predators and the hated Detroit Red Wings the next night.  I yelled my head off and felt great.  It was like a primal scream after being bound-up for so long.  The following night I attended the Nashville premiere party of the film Blue Like Jazz. Then the following evening went to Game Two of the playoffs, then The Village Chapel that Sunday, etc. etc.   I felt terrific.  I figured the more I could maintain some regularity, the less I would worry about major surgery the following week.

Once again, my sister wanted to come down, but I assured her that everything was going to be fine. She remained at the ready if she was needed.

Before I knew it, the surgery day was upon me. One again, Cora taxied me to the hospital at 5:30 AM and waited patiently throughout the prep-time, surgery, and initial few hours of post-op.

Another funny thing happened as they were getting me ready: they determined my pulse was now too low for receiving anesthesia.  The nurses and surgeon were concerned, wondering why it was in the 50-60 range, but this was very normal for me, and has been my entire life.  It makes one frustrated that they never looked any of this up with my medical records prior to a major operation.  I guess they figured that it had been so off-the-charts the previous week that it didn’t make sense that it was now “so low.”  But it was my normal state.

They tried a few things to get it to increase, and I joked that I would focus on images of Elle McPherson in a swimsuit in order to get my blood pumping a bit more. 

Finally they rolled me into the frigid operating room and proceeded to jab and inject me with various things that would allow me to stay awake while they put tubes down my gullet and yet have no memory of the invasive procedure that was about to occur. Indeed, I have no recollection of anything for the next several hours after that point.

I do have faint recall of chatting for a few moments with Cora and the surgical staff around 10 AM when I was back in my room recovering, but it’s pretty hazy.  They informed me that they felt things had gone quite well, and that if all continued according to plan, I should be able to return home the following morning.  She told me later that I was making wisecracks wondering if, while poking around inside my chest, the doctor noticed how black my heart was because of my hatred for the Red Wings.  Oddly, I have no memory of this whatsoever. 

Around noon I awoke again and was starving, so I ordered some lunch, and after devouring it and numerous bottles of fruit juice, I dosed off again, or at least I thought I did.  Turns out that my buddy Robin called to see how I was doing, and we had a half hour conversation.  The next day, I noticed on my phone that he had tried to call me, so I called him back and as we were visiting, he informed me that I had told him much of the same stuff the day before.  Once again, I was oblivious to that memory.  Weird stuff, that anesthesia.

After one final nap, I was fully coherent by late afternoon.  I decided to take some walks up and down the hallways, and communicate with friends and family.  There were more visitors and an overwhelming amount of positive feedback online and via phone calls.

Restful sleep filled most of my final night in the hospital, and I met with my surgeon, his assistant, and the head nurse the following morning.  They were very pleased with all my monitoring and energy level, and felt I could head on home.  My longtime friend Carmen sat in on that meeting with me, taking notes in case I didn’t keep up with all they were recommending in my home recovery. She then helped me get loaded-up in her convertible and I was resting in my house by noon. 

The Village Chapel meals ministry team began doing their good work right away with terrific dinners being delivered to my front door for the next several weeks. I jumped right in to my normal routine as quickly as possible, realizing that the four post-op medications I was on would continue to make me feel a bit woozy at times.  An afternoon siesta seemed to help a lot each day.

The very next night, I was thrilled to be able to attend the Preds’ Game Five victory over Detroit, thus eliminating the Red Wings and advancing to the next round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. It was hard to “pace myself” as I bellowed with abondanza.  Thirteen years of pent-up emotion came out as our boys were finally able to best the Wings and send them back to Michigan for early rounds of golf in April.  People were amazed that I was in such kinetic spirits, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Just five days later I flew to Grand Rapids for a Compassion Radio Marathon with our good friends at WCSG. The week after that I was off to Colorado Springs for some marketing meetings at Compassion, then a few more playoff hockey games right after that.  Even got some workouts at the YMCA in under my belt, as well as cutting my lawn several times.  A few weeks ago marked the one month mark since the surgery, and I met with my surgeon to go over my progress.  He was pleased and is starting to wean me off the various meds.  We’ll meet again in a few months to see if I’m completely back to normal. 

All in all, it’s been quite the experience.  I have to admit that when I “get my sweat on” during one of my workouts or while pushing the lawnmower in Nashville heat, that I worry a bit about getting the ol’ ticker pumping too fast, so I am closely monitoring myself. But there have been no repercussions during those moments, nor any side effects afterwards.  I figure I might as well enjoy every minute that is given to me while I’m roaming this earth. As Mr. Lewis once sang, “the heart of rock ’n’ roll is still beatin’.”

Shea Weber True Facts

Predators’ all-star defenseman, Shea Weber, has become the stuff of legends in the hockey world. Whether for his 105 mph slap shot, winning the Gold Medal with Team Canada in the 2010 Olympics, intense physical play, shooting a puck so hard that it literally ripped through a hockey net (an extremely rare feat), broken bones suffered by players struck by his shot, or growing the fiercest of playoff beards known to man, Shea has taken on near super-human status amongst players and fans alike.

The Brenthrax website in Canada has built this file of “Shea Weber True Facts” that is quite hilarious. Here are some of my favorites from the compilation:

He is the reason Chuck Norris won't even ice skate.

He hides the bodies under the ice.

He froze Hell over. It's now called Bridgestone Arena.

When Superman was asked if he could have one super power he said "Shea Weber's Shot.”

He has crossed the point of no return – on several occasions.

In his games there are no winners or losers... only survivors.

He charges other teams admission to the games. They pay it.

He's the Preds’ Captain only because Supreme Allied Commander was not allowed by the league.

He's caused other teams to make a goalie switch... in games where he wasn't playing.

He's knocked teams out of the playoffs. Literally knocked them out.

Opposing team’s goalies now wear Kevlar.

He shaves his beard with bear mace and a ninja sword.

Catfish aren't actually thrown to the ice... they're spawning in his beard.

Referees call him sir.

He scored three goals with two slapshots and the first shot hit the cross bar.

He plays forward, skating backwards.

His stick is made of titanium. He snapped it in half.

Chuck Norris lists him as next of kin.

Nashville fans have to be loud in order to be heard over him thinking.

History is not made. It is determined by Shea Weber at the time and place of his choosing.

His beard plays football under the name "Troy Polamalu.”

He wasn't drafted by Nashville. He drafted them.

His beard was selected at the All-Star Game before Phil Kessell.

As a baby, his playpen was referred to as "Thunderdome.”

Opponents have been cross-checked by his shadow.

Fought Rocky Balboa once. Rocky is now known as Sandy.

He avoids checking players through the glass only to prevent hurting the fans.

He has caused the goal to dislodge itself.

He was forced to play a year in the minors so NHL players had time to prepare for him.

For Earth day he crushed the Stanley Cup on his forehead and recycled it.

His tattoos keep sweating off.

The opposing team's scouting report is always "Shea Weber let us live.”

He sets the salary cap to whatever he wants it to be.

His beard once drew a too many men on the ice penalty.

Toronto calls his beard to decide if the goal counts.

The St. Louis Blues list their entire team as a healthy scratch when they play him.

He thought the Norris Trophy was named after Chuck Norris. So now it is.

The Phoenix Coyotes are relocating to his beard.

Has the Detroit Red Wings considering a relocation to Hamilton, Ontario.

His beard knocked the Dallas Stars out of the playoff race.

His beard finished higher in the standings than the Toronto Maple Leafs.

His beard has more season ticket holders than the Columbus Blue Jackets.

Shea Weber's beard keeps Jordin Tootoo warm when he goes home to the Artic.

His deflected shots have downed Russian spacecraft.

He uses the Stanley Cup... for a shot glass.

There's not really line changes in hockey, only all the players want off when he steps on to the ice.

In the summer he likes to water ski... behind the boat on Deadliest Catch.

As a side item for his steak... he gets another steak.

He never dekes, players just move out of the way.

He throws Detroit Red Wings on to the ice as good luck after the National Anthem.

Guns don’t kill people… Shea Weber slapshots kill people.

Pucks from his slapshot are the only thing to escape Black Holes.

Someone trolled Shea's post once. They're now missing hands.

Terminators refuse to travel back in time and confront Shea Weber.

Pucks from his slapshot can travel back thru time. When asked what he would change about his past, Shea responded "Nothing.”

He splits pucks in two just to get at their creamy center.

His beard is home to several Amazon tribes.

There is no chin behind Shea Weber’s beard… only a game tying goal with 35.3 seconds left in regulation.

His beard doesn't sweat. It glistens.

His beard speaks fluent Wookie.

Since 1985, the year Shea Weber was born, slapshot related deaths have increased 6,000%.

The San Jose Sharks have a week dedicated to him.

Wayne Gretzky retired his number.

He uses Ryan Kesler's face for a speed bag.

Prior to playing Shea Weber, the Sedins were once triplets.

When Shea Weber swims in the ocean, killer whales beach themselves.

His pre-game meal is the other team. And pasta.

He's blocked shots with just a steely stare.

He shoots pucks through the net just to be certain.

He won the hardest slap shot contest... with a backhand.

He's silenced the opposition's rink... with an icing.

He once scored on a tip-in... from center ice.

He's won both best offensive defenseman and best defensive forward awards.

His beard grew a playoff beard.

His Round 1 handshake last season sent 4 Ducks to the injured reserve list.

Shea Weber gets a free Frosty anytime he pleases.

Sabertooth tigers wear Shea Weber logos on their chests.

He gave Sidney Crosby a concussion... with his pinky.

Shea was force to quit the rodeo... the bulls kept getting hurt.

Shea Weber doesn't text... he carves.

He is sorry about the tornadoes but he had to practice.

There's never been a movie about Shea Weber. James Cameron says the effects just aren't there yet.

Shea's favorite color is pain.

Shea's parents put him in time-out once. He let them go with a warning.

Shea Weber poked someone on Facebook, it left them with cracked ribs.

We can neither confirm or deny that it was a Shea Weber slapshot that took out Bin Laden.

Tennessee is changing its name to Tennesshea.

Quebec City is relocating to Shea Weber's beard. Yes, the whole city.

The crossbar Shea hit is in the shop for repairs.

Shea Weber doesn't get mad, he enacts vengeance.

Whoop Ass opens a can of Shea Weber.

Let me know which are your faves, or if you have any to add.

The entire list available here:

http://brenthrax.blogspot.com/2011/04/shea-weber-facts.html