CPUnk I write right. Right? Aye.

Hockey Chicks…

(Shout out to Boop­sie) Hockey chicks rule.

The aver­age per­son doesn’t know what a Hockey Chick is because most peo­ple haven’t been to a hockey game.  I admit, there are even some peo­ple who have been to hockey games, but still don’t get the con­cept of Hockey Chick because they were too busy sniff­ing their poman­ders and bemoan­ing the pugilis­tic nature of this bar­bar­ian pas­time.  As far as this blog entry is con­cerned, those peo­ple don’t exist.

Hockey Chicks are the real rea­son hockey exists… these are the women who go to hockey games and cheer on the car­nage.  They tend to do things like wear fur coats and smoke cig­ars; and frankly, Hockey Chicks (HCs), as a sub-class of the human race — are likely the rea­son guys do any­thing besides sit under trees in their own filth eat­ing apples.  To truly under­stand the value and won­der that is the HC, you must see things from the other side — as a man.

Pic­ture this.  You’re a guy.  You’ve just come to, and there’s some other guy beat­ing on you for rea­sons you don’t recall.  It’s likely that you’re in a park­ing lot in front of some one-story drink­ing estab­lish­ment on the side of the road, or you might be on the street cor­ner, lis­ten­ing for the cops — there’s a crowd.  You’ve just shaken off that last hit and while you can’t fig­ure out what’s going on — there’s this malev­o­lent per­son, and he’s pac­ing back and forth in front of you, fig­ur­ing out where to hit you next.

As a brief aside, if you are a female and are already repulsed by this entry — you are not, nor ever will be, a glo­ri­ous HC — that’s not a prob­lem at all — it’s just a fact.  Guys have other ways to relate to your kind — but this is about HCs, just sit down and shhh… I’ll read you poetry later.

So, back to the bleed­ing lip and angry goon… now, at that moment — you’re con­fused … you remem­ber being a force for Good in the world, you remem­ber that you were raised well — but frankly, this guy is get­ting ready to hit you again and all you know is that you need to get out of the way of your brain­stem and let your baser instincts address this sit­u­a­tion … but something’s hold­ing you back.

The thing that is hold­ing you back is your upbring­ing — your child­hood was filled with reminders that good boys don’t hit peo­ple — and you’re strug­gling to over­come that higher rea­son­ing while this guy looks like he’s about to plant his boot on your jaw.

Then you hear it — like Pop­eye find­ing his spinach — a sin­gle, blood­thirsty voice, some­where in the crowd (there’s always a crowd) that says some­thing like:

“Get UUu­u­uup… get Uuuuuppppppp!!!!!”

This is not a fear­ful plea like some B-movie hor­ror flick vic­tim — this is a gut­tural com­mand.  It is filled with instruc­tion, some anger, and the right minor spic­ing of dis­may and dis­ap­point­ment … it’s a Hockey Chick, and while she’s on your side — you’re let­ting her down.  This is when your inner ani­mal takes over.

Brain stem: “Step aside, I’m gonna bite this guy’s eyeball.”

Super­Ego: “Did I say any­thing?  Don’t let me get in your way.”

Now, Ape-boy over there likely has his own HCs root­ing for him, which is why he got you to begin with … but now that you’ve heard the siren call … you’re able to finally allow your deep­est instincts to arise and have license to respond.

Of course, Ape-boy comes in for the kick, you grab his foot, flip him side­ways and eat his brain.  Game over.  Not because you’re a hero — not because some frilly lit­tle Dorothy with a bas­ket­ful of Toto is cry­ing and in need of help — but because a street Valkyrie of the high­est order spoke directly to your cave­man wiring and half-shamed half-enticed you into let­ting go all pre­tense of intel­lect or pro­to­col.  This hot lit­tle war mon­ger has charged you up enough to win the day.

The glo­ri­ous Hockey Chick did what no other human being can do — she pushed the guy-adrenaline but­ton.  You may not even know her (though you’re likely only think­ing of want­ing to meet her as the blood trick­les down your cheek) — but she’s enabled you to leap tall build­ings in a sin­gle bound just by being loud and rev­el­ing in the bloodsport.

Ok — so what does that have to do with hockey?  Well — you need to under­stand that, before the pros — the major­ity of earth­lings that play hockey are just high­school and col­lege punks who like to skate around being both pretty (skate back­wards) and mean (while you drive your elbow into this guy’s ribs) (again)… and in that world, there aren’t huge crowds of peo­ple cheer­ing — there is a small group of peo­ple cheer­ing (or boo­ing) — and you likely know most of them.

I don’t know about you — but frankly, a crowd of my friends isn’t enough rea­son to go any­where and get hurt every week — no mat­ter how stu­pid you are.  At some point, your Id would say some­thing like, “Being hit make me hurt, no like hurt, make stop now.”

Now, it’s quite pos­si­ble that you could con­vince Eliz­a­beth Barette Frilly­pants to come see you splat­ter body flu­ids onto a giant sheet of frozen water — but odds are very slim that she’s going to want to return — or even talk to you once she’s seen you in action … not quite the moti­va­tion you’re look­ing for as you chase that lit­tle flat­tened ball all around with a bent stick.

But add a few girls yelling at the top of their lungs, in that fre­quency that only girls can do — and some sort of bes­tial urge comes into action — and its addic­tive.  You not only don’t mind get­ting hurt — you want to get hurt while hurt­ing the other guy — because it shows that you pos­sess some sort of strength that other guys don’t — you can bleed and still still score a goal while skat­ing back­wards.  This is hockey — and this is the inte­gral rela­tion­ship between hockey play­ers and HCs.

Now, I’ll admit that hockey fans in gen­eral are a dif­fer­ent breed — and yes, the HCs tend to go home with the guys that brought them — but that doesn’t take away from the fact that the real focus of all that vio­lent estro­gen is the guys fly­ing by on pieces of metal less than a quar­ter inch thick.

No other cul­tural group has the same kind of fan relationship.

Foot­ball chicks are cool — granted — but there’s just not enough blood lust going on — and frankly, if someone’s really hurt in foot­ball, it usu­ally involves stretch­ers, which brings out the oppo­site reac­tion in women — which is fright­en­ing and chill­ing to the male testos­tero­for­ti­tude system.

Wrestling, box­ing, all that stuff is close — but noth­ing like hockey… granted, Boop­sie (you sick blood­thirsty won­der, you) just intro­duced me to Ulti­mate Fight­ing Chicks — a new breed of rage fan that might be allowed to stand in the same room with the HCs.  Granted, UFCs are likely just off-season Hockey Chicks get­ting some good blood splat­ter in between games, but there’s some­thing almost mag­i­cal about the idea of a bunch of chicks cheer­ing two guys trapped in a plex­i­glass cage with few if any rules to save them from each other.

There’s not really any­thing guys can offer for girls in the oppo­site direc­tion.  Bal­let guys, and opera guys and the like — well … what­ever.  Can any woman really be impressed with a guy who knows the French name of that par­tic­u­lar swan in Act II?  But once again, put that sad lit­tle bag of man out in the alley fac­ing off an angry drunk — add an HC screech­ing at him — and that thin lit­tle nobody will fire up into a frenzy large enough to make him have to soak his prissy lit­tle bruised knuck­les for a week.

By now, you overly empow­ered PC women and you hyper-emasculated half-men are all surely tut-tutting me for rev­el­ing in such car­nal expres­sion of con­flict.  Well, if you’re intel­li­gent enough to learn from his­tory, you’ll rec­og­nize that it’s not the wimpy lit­tle girl-men that have pushed our soci­ety for­ward and (gen­er­ally) made it bet­ter over time.  It’s the hairy, semi-confounded ape-men, goaded by their Hockey Chicks that built the Colos­seum, con­quered Nazi Ger­many, and landed on the Moon.

Remem­ber that movie Pretty Woman — remem­ber how Richard Gere took Julia Roberts to the opera and it rep­re­sented some sort of break­through for her to be so emo­tional about it?  Well — that’s cool … but is it not true that the cli­max of the movie was not that girly froo-froo inter­ac­tion between a namby-pamby rich boy and his down-on-her-luck pretty girl … it was when he clocked his coworker for treat­ing her poorly … that’s the moment.

I don’t know what it is — maybe its some fem­i­nism thing (by now, if you’re a fem­i­nist and hate me — you’ll have to get per­mis­sion from an HC to tell me so, then I’ll lis­ten) … but I think we lost some­thing a few decades back.

Men shouldn’t strike each other — true … but if some ter­ror­ist shows up on the bus — I’m going through the win­dow with him before any­body can say boo.  All I’m hop­ing is that, as my insides are sprayed like a mist all over the road — some girl on that bus would be scream­ing, “shove that bomb down his THROAAAAT!!!”

The world has become too polar­ized between men try­ing to win women through friend­ship — and mon­sters that blow things up to get on TV.  Some­where in the mid­dle are the nor­mal, every­day guys.  We’re not itch­ing for a fight — we’re not defin­ing our­selves by a capac­ity to do dam­age — but we’re trapped inside a quiet des­per­a­tion, feel­ing like our might and testos­terone should be applied to some­thing more than push­ing paper and coor­di­nat­ing meet­ings.  We want to scuf­fle with the bad guys in defense of our vil­lage — we want to hold up a sword and scream “Free­dom” with blue paint all over our faces … and we want our women to approve.

In the last 40 years, there’s been a shift in polit­i­cal power between the gen­ders — that’s obvi­ous.  The imbal­ance was inap­pro­pri­ate, I know — but where we are now is that every young man is faced with an over-riding school-marmish cluck­ing that keeps us men from smack­ing antlers for our ladies in the Springtime.

As a sil­ver­back ape in good stand­ing myself — I find it sad that there are few young mon­keys com­ing to take a real swing at me — if for no other rea­son than to prove their fear­less­ness (if not their stu­pid­ity) for their ladies.

But you remem­ber this, all you hyper-deconstructive post-feminism half-men and over-girls … there may come a time when the rev­o­lu­tion hap­pens … and the cra­zies storm the cas­tle — the mul­lahs, or the gang­sters, or the Cana­di­ans even … some­one may decide we’ve all become too effem­i­nate to stand up for our homesteads …

On that day, while you bards are writ­ing your bumper sticker prose about how we all need to open our hearts for a bet­ter tomor­row, I’ll be out on the cor­ner with the other fright­ened men hold­ing a two-by-four with a nail and a flam­ing bot­tle of gaso­line … and I’ll be ready to meet them and stop them … but we’ll only be able to because behind us will be a bunch of head-banging chicks scream­ing that we should cap them in the knees.

As a mem­ber of the secret soci­ety of Fight Club pugilists stand­ing by qui­etly ready to take it in the gut for the peo­ple around us, but remain­ing silent so as not to upset the del­i­cate sen­si­bil­i­ties of our watered down soci­ety — I bow cour­te­ously and doff my cha­peau with a flour­ish to the ladies in the audi­ence who know how to yell “Woot Woot Woot!!!” when knuckle meets chin… thank you Hockey Chicks everywhere.