I was trying to think of who I enjoyed seeing in anguish the most last night but I just couldn't narrow it down to one person.
Corey Perry? No, not really, because he's just a douche bag and not really worth carrying about.
Chris Pronger? Yeah, it felt pretty good seeing his look of "I'm pretending I don't care even though I really, really do," although you kind of get the feeling that he only cares about himself so it's not that satisfying.
Jonas Hiller? That felt surprisingly good because I think if I had gone up to him and said, "Oh what, you're going to cry now? Go on, crybaby, shed those tears. I know you want to. Think about it, you cost your team this series. It's all your fault, so cry you big baby," he would have cried.
Scott Niedermayer? No, just because this means he has to shave.
But really, it was the collective torment that I reveled in the most: the collective anguish filled my body like a smooth shot of whiskey or a big, fat cock. (Wait, what????) I lose sight of the fact that Anaheim players are sacks of shit because Earl's so level-headed and my roommate is a Ducks' fan, but Jesus H. Christ does that team suck. I'd rather be between a mother bear and her cub than watch the Ducks win another Stanley Cup. I'd rather bone a hobo while my grandmother watched disapprovingly and critiqued my form. ("You have to push with your hips, Jerome!" "It's Rudy, Grandma!" "Don't sass me, boy!") I'd rather... well, I'd rather cheer for a team that never, ever makes the playoffs again.
So yeah, the Ducks lost... let's party!