|"You don't bring me flowers anymore.."|
|"You don't sing me love songs.."|
Do I have a point? Yes. Yes I do. My point is this. The guy that vacuums out our SUV at the car detailing place is not buying for a second that the glitter in the backseat is from me driving around high class escorts back and forth from a high paying gig as Tinkerbelle’s morally ambiguous cousins.
It doesn’t really matter where the glitter came from; the guy took one look at me and knew I was more Pottery Barn than Champagne Room. Add this to the fact that the SUV is a Hyundai, which is an old Korena word that means “masturbates alone and cries” and you’ve got the makings of the worst mid life crisis in history.
Part of growing up is realizing when it’s time to move on. Your days of showing up to the club are over. If you were to show up now, the only thing that would be “bumping” (…is bumping even a thing?) would be the onsite defibrillator when I got chest pains trying to snort Lipitor in the bathroom.
Anyways, like I said, part of growing up is realizing when it’s time to say goodbye to the things that used to make us happy. And that’s why I’m breaking up with you Roberto.
I’m going to keep this mature and classy. I mean, “I have another letter where I call you a dick, but I’m going to keep this classy. I just don’t want another incident like the one where I tried to break up with my college girlfriend over email.
Subject: How the ***k do you not know who Forrest Gump is?
I don’t know how to even begin this. Right now, I’m hurt, I’m angry, but most of all I’m disappointed. I mean, how the hell do you not know who Forrest Gump is?
Christ, Jen! We had that Trivial Pursuit game by the balls, and you absolutely pissed the bed. Did you even bother to go over the practice questions I had couriered to your work? How many nights did we train for this? Do you think I wanted to run drills with you? I’ve got a Jenga tournament to begin carbo-loading for! God damn it!
Did you learn nothing from the CLUE incident at the Wilson’s on New Year’s Eve? Did you not see the condescending look on Jim’s face when you couldn’t figure out who the murderer was?
A pillow case of sodas isn’t even part of the game, Jen! I don’t’ even want to get into your “motive” Again, it is: location, weapon, person. No one gives a crap about the so called “crime of passion” between Professor Plum and Colonel Mustard you came up with. I couldn’t even show up to work on Monday after that debacle.
Did you ever wonder why we didn’t get an invite to the Jamesons’ annual “Scrabb-a-looza?” Oh, sure, blame my crippling alcoholism and stealing panties if you want, Jen. But we both know it’s your inability to make a triple word score with a Q and a J.
When we were discussing children’s names and itemizing my Nickeback CD’s I told you that I am an “extreme board gamer” and you were cool with that.
Don’t you remember those passionate nights where you’d come home and I’d have on my monocle and top hat, and take you for a “…ride on the reading railroad.”?
What happened to us? God, somewhere you’ve lost the shouldering eroticism of the green hippo, Jen. I’m going to level with you, Jen. I can only get aroused now when you lay diagonally and I think of you as the Sister from Connect 4 all grown up.
I should have known this wouldn’t work out. I’d like to see your new boyfriend do what I can do. Maybe if he didn’t’ spend all of his time playing sports and volunteering and taking the LSAT’s, he could have gotten a 6 three times in a row with a pop-o-matic bubble. You know how hard that is? THAT’S A VETERAN MOVE, JEN! A VETERAN MOVE! Does he even know there was a 6 Million Dollar Man board game? Yeah, I thought so.
Look, there’s no easy way to say this. You’re off the team. There’s a new paralegal here at the office who knows all the words to “I’m Just a Bill”. That’s the competitive edge I’m looking for. Please turn in your monogrammed RISK tiles.
I’m not proud of how that went’ but let’s face it, we all do childish things sometimes.
If the Canucks were to ever sever ties with Luongo, you can be assured it’s going to have to be done in public, probably at a restaurant that only has plastic cutlery.
Look, we’ve all been there, right? We’ve all felt love’s sting. (..at least until the wide spectrum antibiotics kick in)
You know going in that getting involved with someone who’s a little unhinged will be an exercise in tradeoffs. Sure, she’ll indulge your Friendly Giant fetish, but when things go south, you better be ready for a bunch of late night hang ups and pregnancy tests taped to your office door.
I remember it like it was yesterday. I’d wake up in the morning, turn on the TV and see your sad, brooding eyes from behind that Panther’s mask. And I’d think, if only. If only you were mine. I’d treat you right. I wouldn’t let you face so many shots, I’d give you a comfortable 2 goal lead to work with every night, and I’d make you the corner stone to my plan for a Stanley Cup dynasty.
I was so happy when I heard the news that you accepted the trade to come here. I couldn’t wait to see you. To stand out in the rain, (probably shirtless) Notebook style for a glimpse of you taking the ice. Sure, I’d heard the rumours, temperamental, melancholic, like the gay vampire from Twilight just with a better glove hand.
The first years were magical. It was a dream. It was as if I was perpetually living in the last 20 minutes of a romantic comedy; even one with Katherine Heigl.
And then it all went wrong, so wrong. First, it was the small things. The things I was willing to overlook: the going down too quickly, the bad rebound control, the lack of focus in key situations. When other’s faith began to waiver in you, I saw only the good. I was always there to pump your tires.
When some people were willing to take shots at you for your consistently poor play in October year after year, I put a positive spin on it, and liked to think October was your preseason.
I don’t know when it happened; maybe it was the way you got flustered when someone stood in your crease, or the passive aggressive shots you took at your defensemen and other goalies. I just know that things were unraveling quickly.
Please try to remember the good times, Roberto. Like when you gave up 6 in the playoffs, and I put some left over stick tape on it in the box scores to make a happy face. Or when you thought the TSN camera crew was giving you the "mean-eyes" and we chased them through the rain.
Roberto, remember, if you love something set it free. If it comes back (at a lower price, willing to waive the no trade clause) then it was meant to be. If it doesn’t, then it was never yours to begin with. (…and will probably get picked up by the Islanders. Again)
It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I mean, a share of the Jennings trophy, that’s just as good., right? Right? What is that, solid chrome? I mean, that’s something, right?
"Roberto, remember, it takes a couple of seconds to say hello, but forever to say goodbye. You’ll always be remembered fondly. Just think of how many people still have that picture of Dan Cloutier stopping a beach ball as their screensaver.”
Roberto, it's not you, it's me. I'm just not sure we have anything in common. I'm pure stand up, and you're, well, I'm not sure what that is you're doing there exactly, is that a glove, or… where is your stick? I mean, how do you lose that thing once a game? I mean, it's not you. Sorry.
This is awkward, but uhhm, what’s Cory Schneider’s situation? Too soon? Hey, it’s not like his fiancée died in a tragic kiln accident.
Follow me on Twitter @steveintheKT I’m writing a power rock ballad for you.