Canadian Women's Hockey Team Keeps it Classy with Booze on the Ice

I've been watching a lot of Olympic hockey. I guess when you date a former hockey goalie, it comes with the territory. In the last few days, I've seen hooks, high sticks and...booze on ice?

That's unfortunately not the name of a redneck Ice Capades. The above and below images capture Canada's mirthful women's hockey team after their win last night over America. Apparently, the ladies couldn't wait to get their celebratory party started and busted out the cigars and cans of beer right there on the ice.

Now, the International Olympic Committee is calling foul and promising to investigate the incident, which apparently also includes a single count of underage drinking. Team member Marie-Philip Poulin is 18 years old -- a few months shy of British Columbia's legal drinking age, 19.

“I don’t think it’s a good promotion of sport values," said Executive Director Gilbert Felli of the IOC. "If they celebrate in the changing room, that’s one thing, but not in public.”

Yowsas. Talk about turning a happy event sour. While I can't help but feel that reactions have been just a tad overblown and I daresay, prudish, the argument that the display was less than Olympic and hardly befitting of athletes charged with representing Canada to the world is a legitimate one.

Right or wrong, these pictures are hilarious. And classy. So, so very classy.





(via Review St. Louis)

How to Dominate Via Google Chat

The below Google Chat exchange has got to be one of the oddest online conversations I've ever had. It's testament to the fact that I and my friend, Eric, are truly bizarre people. While normally I would choose to conceal how odd I am, I think the jig is up.

Eric, a former Obama staffer and onetime DC resident, now lives in Los Angeles. He and I are obsessed with the Facebook game, Scramble, and I'd say about 70% of our Google Chats are smack talk. But the other day, we took our chat to another level. One that perhaps could be classified as having just a smidgen of psychosis. I hope you enjoy the following even a fraction as much as I did:

Eric: I’m not sure how did but that was one of my worst rounds ever.

Me: Well, you're dedicated to the art of failing.

Eric: Like, it was awful. I just couldn't see where words would be formed.

Me: Don't worry, though. I think you have much worse failing in you. This is just the beginning.

Eric: Thanks for believing in me. I will kick your ass, literally, one day. Foot to buttocks.

Me: Na na na na boo boo. I'm on the opposite end of the country. Suck it. In case you're interested in knowing (which of course, you are), I'm just listening to "We Are the Champions" on repeat.

Eric: Yeah, but your ass is huge.

Me: Because that's what champions DO. I blend Powerbars into my power smoothies, and then I crunch them up and put a little in my hair to make it extra powerful. Because I am a CHAMPION. And that's what you need to do to stay at peak POWER.

(pause)

I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. Am I still typing?

Eric: Keep going.

Me: Sorry, sometimes my champion alter ego takes over. Her name is Briana and WHOA is she a bitch.

Eric: Briana is liked by all even though she is a bitch.

Me: Well, she is kinda awesome.

Eric: Well, she is a champion at being a bitch. Because she is a champion at everything.

Me: BRIANA MARWRRWWWAWRRR. Sorry, she's just a tiff under-powerbar-smoothie-ed today.

Eric: It’s alright.

Me: See isn't it funny that I chose the name Briana? You like what I did there? ‘Cause Briana sounds like Brian and that's a dude's name so she's like hyper-masculine and stuff. I'm always thinking.

Eric: No, Briana is always thinking. She even named herself.

Me: THAT’S RIGHT.

Eric: But she lets you think that you had a hand in it. Because she knows how to win.

Me: BRIANA HAS NO MOTHER BECAUSE SHE BIRTHED HERSELF. BRIANA ATE POWERBARS AND SAID 'AND THUS I SHALL BE.’ Whoa, girl. down.

Eric: Hahahahahahaha

Me: Ok, I need to stop cracking myself up.

(pause)

BRIANA HAS THE HUMOR A THOUSAND PRANKS OF ZEUS. THERE SHOULD BE AN "OF" IN THERE.

Eric: Woow. Wowowowow.

Me: BUT BRIANA MAKES NO MISTAKES. THE LACK OF 'OF' MAKES IT FUNNIER. THUS SPOKE BRIANA.

Eric: This has been amazing.

Me: I do what I can.

Eric: I hate to do this, but I need to go. It’s lunchtime.

Me: BRIANA SAYS GOODBYE. GO DRINK A POWER SMOOTHIE BEFORE CHALLENGING THE MAELSTORM OF KNOWLEDGE THAT IS BRIANA! Toodles, Eric!

Eric: Bye BRIANA, and Rachel.

Burnt Pumpernickel

I'm accident-prone. All my friends would admit it, and hell, even casual readers of this blog know that if there's a discarded banana peel somewhere in the world, I will find a way to slip on it and hurt myself. In the past year, I've come close to amputating my own finger, fallen and nearly broken my bum, and experienced a litany of other, er, mishaps.

The most recent in what is becoming an increasingly alarming string of unfortunate events took place February 21st, 2010. The scene: my kitchen. The time: half past eleven. The players: a hot stove and a precariously dangling, quite flammable scarf.

I think you know what happened next. While cleaning my kitchen, I reached to return a bottle of olive oil to the cabinet immediately above my stove, upon which there was a pot of water up to boil. As I stretched my arm, I noticed a curious scent that had begun to fill the kitchen.

"Hm, it smells like roasted marshmallows in here," I idiotically thought to myself. After 20 seconds of thinking how much I loved smores, I realized that there were not, of course, any marshmallows roasting in my kitchen. In fact, the marshmallow was me, and I was on fire. Or more precisely, my scarf was.

I screamed and threw it to the floor, shaking as Mr. Hiar came running in to find me staring at the now ablaze pile of fabric. Thank heavens he had the good sense to stomp it out -- in my hysteria, I might have just let it completely turn to ash. Because I'm nothing if not a quick thinker.

"In the future," he said, eyes wide, "the standard procedure is to stop, drop and roll. Say it with me now. STOP. DROP. AND ROLL."

Once the flames were out, I was left with a now much less fashionable scarf and half an inch of singed hair, which I then had to snip off with a pair of scissors. At this rate, next week I'm going to accidentally stick my hand in the garbage disposal and flick the 'on' switch.

What's to blame for my dangerous lack of coordination and complete absence of scarf awareness? I'm a fairly well-composed person in professional settings, I can string sentences together pretty gosh darn well, and I've never been one to blurt out whatever's on my mind without thinking. Why then do I trip over chairs, spill sauce on white blouses and, oh I don't know, unintentionally set things on fire?

I don't have an answer, but it's quite clear some neurons in my brain are firing better than others. What's an accident-prone girl to do? The worst part of it all: I really liked that scarf.

Ye Olde Snowmageddon

When do you think the above image was snapped? During the aftermath of February's Snowmageddon? After the Snowpocalypse, perhaps? Or maybe from the storm that struck in late 2009.

Think again. It's a photograph from a blizzard that pounded Washington way back in the winter of 1899. This and other pictures make up an intriguing gallery of Washingtonian yesteryear currently featured on NBC Washington's online home.

How little things have changed. We couldn't deal with snow then, and guess what, we can't deal with snow now. But what about the advance of snow removal technology, you say, and a little invention called the snow plow? Irrelevant! Balderdash! We Washingtonians are but the pitiful objects of Zeus's frozen wrath, and there is nothing we can do to prevent it.

Well, actually, in Greek mythology Chione is the nymph in charge of snow, but let's just go with the 'we're helpless against Zeus' argument. Because that's the only way the now black mounds of snow still lining DC streets make any sense.