Quack quack

Ducks in the second round.

I'll be honest, I have special secret reasons why I was hoping Anaheim would take the first round. And it doesn't have anything to do with having an excuse to get more use out of that masterful ms paint portrait of Chris Pronger.

Lindsay's excited to see how Ken Daniels' playoff beard has been progressing. He's like My Littlest Hobo out there.

This entry doesn't sound very enthused. That's because I'm not enthused. Should I be? Are you? Maybe it's because I haven't gotten to watch the Red Wings play hockey in five thousand years but Lindsay's had Versus running in the background 24-7 and Brian Engblom's hair is stealing all the joy and happiness and puppy dogs and unicorns puking rainbows from my universe. Maybe it's because the Ducks make me want to punch babies. Maybe it's because it's after one in the morning and I'm full of junk food and I've been sorting coins all fricking day in a house with no air conditioning and crappy internet.

I guess I'm just worried that this next series will suck hard. Not because I don't think the Wings can make the Ducks curl up in their locker room stalls and sob quietly to themselves, but because I'm worried that it could eventually come down to injuries. And the Red Wings have some. Maybe.

Maybe.

Because it's the playoffs, it's a secret. Kris Draper's still out with food poisoning, or temporary blindness, or chaffed nipples, or something, we don't know. And I guess Hank has the flu now, but in the playoffs that could mean anything from a bad hangnail to "my arm is on backwards and my femur is poking at my spleen."

And the Ducks have a history of being skanky.

I'm sure I'll feel better about it in the morning.