How Milan Lucic Will Help the Vancouver Giants

My response to this ridiculous story:

http://thehockeywriters.com/how-evander-kane-will-help-the-manitoba-moose/

The Roxy.

It is the middle of summer of 2013 and I’m walking out of the Roxy in downtown Vancouver with my friend. The night is warm and fresh, like a Subway sandwich straight out of the oven. As we walk and recount the night’s drunken events and check to see if we still have our wallets, my friend stops dead in his tracks, his eyes lasered in on somebody puking on the sidewalk, mumbling as soft as a kittens belly “Do you know who I am?” It is Milan Lucic.

Naturally my friend is excited and wants to approach Lucic to ask him for his autograph but I stop him…I am already starting to sweat from the excessive amounts of E I took earlier and the three Jagerbombs I dropped on the way out in my attempt to impress the girls in the cowboy hats. Lucic is swaying back and forth, puking up a geyser of liquid that would have put Yellowstone Park to shame. He is evidently very “busy” “puking” “up” what looks to be a “combo” of “McDonalds” and “chinese” “food”. I begin to remember 2011, when Lucic was trying his best to injure and main the Vancouver Canucks. I would’ve like to have given Lucic the benefit of the doubt, but I also begin to play out the situation and my reaction if Lucic snubs my friend. What if Lucic pulls a gun? What if he has a knife on him? What if he knows magic? What if he’s recently upgraded his Fire spell to Fire 3? What if he has a magical Unicorn friend named Charlie who just got off a long day of work and is feeling very stabby? Unicorns have horns. Those are sharp.

By the time we reach the bus and begin the trek home, my friend has forgotten all about Lucic, as he has passed out and is non responsive. I nod my head at my friend, answering questions he didn’t ask, as I am still coming down the combination of aspirin and expired milk I shot back when I tried to impress the cute bartender.  Mentally, though, I am still on that sidewalk, holding back my friend from going up to Lucic to ask him who he is.

I drop my friend off near his house, and as he gets off the bus I toss him another apology like I’m Lebron James in the conference Finals. “He was puking” he mumbles as he stumbles off. The bus doors close with me trying to say something but I have nothing. I sit on the bus openly crying over the fact I had to stop my buddy from talking to Lucic because I didn’t know how that athlete would react. Part of wanted to rip back to the Roxy and tell Lucic what I thought of him face to face, but my bus ticket was about to expire and I didn’t have any change on me. In a night full of percocets and hot dogs, there is one thing that has been hammered home by Lucic’ downtown antics: He does not care.

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