Yeah...That's Our Bad.

As I'm driving home last night from work, I see a figure wandering along the shoulder of interstate 75. I look in the mirror, and I instantly pull off to the side of the road. As I approached this ragged road-weary traveler, I recognize the man to be a certain Mr. Peacock, famous editor of an World Renowned Hockey UberNewsTruthBlog.

"Morty! You look like shit! What's happened to you, man?"

He started rambling incessently, something about "bright lights, razor blades, and a Frenchman named Marcel" and then spontaneously starts singing "Everybody Hurts" by R.E.M. as loud (and unbelievably off key) as he possibly can. The entire situation's extremely strange (even for Mortimer) and as we're standing on the side of 75, I continue to ask this rather disturbed man what's happened. Clearly, this is not the same man I once knew. He's merely a shell of his former self. A shell of the shell of his former self, even.

He starts scratching his head nonstop and pacing back and forth, and turns to me and says "It was all a lie!"

"A lie? What are you talking about Morty?"

"The cryptic messages, the Tweets, the Watergate type meetings and phone calls...all of it was a lie!"

I pause for a moment myself, unsure of what this all means.

Mortimer, in a fit of rage, grabs my skull and screams "We were wrong! There is no glorious savior to the Thrashers woes! We lied to the people! WE LIED TO THE PEOPLE!" and then he falls to the ground. An exhausted and broken man at the lowest of lows.

"It's okay, Morty. We were just given some bad information. It happens. But hey, there's this Glavine guy now..."

Mr. Peacock raises to his feet, shoots me a darting look and whispers "GLAVINE? GLAVINE?" and starts laughing a maniacal laugh. He picks up a rock from the side of the interstate and says "You really think a man from Massachusettes named GLAVINE can save us!? Here's what I think of that!" Mortimer throws the rock through the window of a passing minivan, causing the minivan to swerve from side to side and eventually go headfirst into the median. Roughly 20 other cars (all of them full of children, of course) follow suit, because that's the way people drive in Atlanta.

"Ok, maybe that was a bit unnecessary," the villianous Mr. Peacock says. "But if you want to hitch your hopes to a Yankee..."

"HE WAS A MET, AND IT WAS JUST A PHASE!" I scream.

"Whatever...if you want to hitch your hopes to this man, go right ahead. At this point, I don't even know what to believe anymore."

Mortimer then composed himself, walked to my car, turned, gave me a disapproving look, and promptly stole my car. As he sped off into the humid Atlanta evening, I'm left surveying the damage and destruction on a major roadway thats littered with fiery metaphors for people who believed what we told them laying askew.

So...in other words TBC audience...the guy we thought was buying the Thrashers isn't buying the Thrashers, and apparently he never even existed.

Our bad.

Enjoy your Good Friday. Here's a little fiery song from the AWESOME new Foo Fighters record to try to make it up to you.

Sincerely,
Go Puck Yourself