Ken thinks it's Downey Time

And so does the crowd at the Joe. That part was spectacular.

Watching Marty Turco get tripped up by his own guy behind the net? Having Lilja score on him? Also spectacular.

The rest of the game, not so much.

I watched it with Lindsay down the hall in my building, where there's a big screen television next to the laundry room. This means that not only did we have to sit through that ridiculousness, but we had to do it while we were dodging the dirty looks of every frat boy wannabe folding his boxer shorts, group of friends coming upstairs with pizza, and family lugging their kid's crap to the elevator and out for an early weekend. And there were a lot of them.

I was hoping that my excitement over Hank signing a contract that won't expire until I'm 34 would fade at nothing, not even the skanky hos on Dallas being skanky hos.

But my heart sank as soon as I saw who was officiating this game. I don't know what the Red Wings did to Dan O'Halloran. Maybe Mike Ilitch killed him in a past life. Maybe Lidstrom ran over his dog. Maybe Maltby egged his house.

Maybe Homer egged his dog in a past life. I don't know. Aside from actual orders from Bettman to be a biased goober (which I can't rule out), that's the best I can come up with.

And then Turco decides to be a whore and win the game.

I'm not going to mince words here. I genuinely do not like the guy. And I like goalies. I like them a lot. Marty Turco is where I draw the line. I had a really crappy day today, even before the game started. Marty Turco's shit-eating grin during his unnecessarily lengthy post-game interview (thanks, FSDetroit) DID NOT MAKE ME FEEL ANY BETTER.

By the end of the first period, I was already stuffing my face full of brownies and on the phone with my mother, bitching about the officiating and the imminent ruination of Turco's perfect Joe Louis record of Fail. It was like hockey was a douche of a boyfriend who was cheating again. But am I going to take him back? Of course I am. So are you. Oh, you'll say it's the last time you let it toy with your emotions, tell all your friends you're sick of its abusive games, but in the end, crawling back to it's the only thing you really know how to do.

Oh baby, I'm sorry. Please, please take me back!

And it will, Saturday afternoon, where it will either buy you a diamond necklace for your birthday, or sloppily make-out with Alex Ovechkin while it knows you're watching. Better break out the Ben and Jerry's..