THE UNDERDOG ROYALE

And then there were four. Three commendable hockey clubs and one blessed by the angels in heaven, the Beautiful Team, turning all prognosticators on their ear as easily as a drunken Ferengi (if you know your Star Trek), are all that remain in the fight for the greatest of chalices, Lord Stanley’s Cup.
The main focus of attack for your Shifty Montreal Canadiens has resided in their ability to parlay the underdog card. They were the underdogs, they had no pressure, all in good fun, just here to play. How sweet. Problem is the disgusting Philadelphia Flyers are using the same stratagem. Can two underdogs coexist in the same series? Your confused reporter set about to find out and posed the question to each team’s defensive stalwarts, Chris Pronger and Hal Gill.
“The Flyers are in-your-face, obnoxious and ugly, and I mean that as a compliment;” said the giant Canadien defenseman (pictured left), “for us to be considered as such would be a gross overstatement, so that means: underdogs. “The Canadiens are furtive, polite, and pretty as you please, and I mean that as an insult;” was the Flyers’ goon’s reply (pictured right), “and since everybody likes them and hates us, it stands to reason that we are the underdogs.”
It was then that the mistake of conducting these interviews at the same time in the same room was made apparent.
“Hell YOU talking about?” Hal Gill demanded. “We’re the underdogs.”
“Hey, whatever, man. If you can’t spot an underdog when you see one, that ain’t my problem. Aren’t you late for your pylon race anyway?” Pronger smirked.
“Pylon your skull in is what I’m late for.”
“Ooo, a tough guy. You know, I’d like to see that.”
-Gentlemen, please…was all your cowering reporter could muster.
“This underdog’s gonna ram this Sherwood so far up your ass, you’re gonna have to tape it through your nose. How do you like that?” Gill snarled as he got up from the divan.
“Will that be before or after THIS underdog gives you a face-wash with his skate?” Pronger replied, casually unfolding himself out of the recliner.
-Guys, please, c’mon, let’s remain…
Too late. The gargantuans clashed in the middle of the room like two locomotives, fists flailing, knees rising, headbutts raining, and elbows connecting with sickening accuracy. It was only when the third tear-gas cartridge was launched into the room by the alerted authorities that a measure of order was re-established.
But amidst the swearing, the crying and the blood-letting, Habsbros still got the scoop: NEITHER of these two are underdogs. The only underdog was your broken and trampled reporter, who should have thrown himself out the window at the earliest opportunity, as he is quite confident that the injuries sustained in a three-storey drop would have had him heal earlier than those incurred in the interview-room brouhaha.

More updates when the casts come off.

No Flyers, please.