Paul Maurice: Unnnnnnnnnnhhhh. God that’s annoying. Feels like Pat Verbeek is tugging on my spermatic cord. Just go away, stop.
Did I leave my aftershave at the hotel? I can’t face the media without my Old Spice. My on-ice performance doesn’t matter as long as I smell like a coach. Reporters respond using their olfactory senses, not their frontal lobe.
Man, my nuts are fucking killing me. Should I call the trainer over? No, he’s too busy massaging Raycroft’s ego. It’s alright, I think I feel the pain subsiding. Oh, shit, no it’s not. What if I spread my legs a little wider? No, that doesn’t help. Maybe if I readjust a little bit. Feels like I’m in an off-testicle position.
*Reaches down pants*
They’re both to the left of my Joe Boxer crotch. Well, what if I just loosen the ol’ belt up a little bit and drop the drawers a centimeter or so. OK, there we go.
OH FUCK THAT HURTS!!! Mothershitfucksucktasticfatfuckingcuntlickingpussywhippedsonofabitch!!!!
Gill: You got it coach!
*Hal Gill and Bryan McCabe step on the ice*
Maurice: Wait! WAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIITTTTTT!!!!
Referee: Toronto penalty, 2 minutes for too many men on the ice.
Maurice: Aww, shucks.