How VGK Can Match Up With Each Of Five Different Teams In The First Round

Stupid Ken treating the last win vs. the Kings like it was their Stanley Cup. The Kings trashed the Knights even worse in January.

It’s going to be the Kraken if we win the west or Kings if we don’t win the west.

As Al Davis once said ( Just Win Baby ). Take care of Seattle tomorrow one game at a time.

Interesting WC race in the East. Penguins get to 94 and earn a berth with wins over CHI and CBJ (nearly certain one would think). Panthers get to 94 and earn a berth with win over Canes. Islanders screwed themselsves by losing 5-2 to Caps on Monday and can now only reach 93 with a win over MTL and can only earn a berth with a loss by FLA or PIT (their best shot is probably FLA losing to CAR although who knows PIT could lose to either CHI or CBJ: stranger things have happened!).

The Bible is, without question, the most seminal text of western civilization. It was banned from schools in 1963 by the left.

A truce, perhaps, not to promote ideology

The Left broke that truce. It now pushes its own ideology broadly and without remorse.

Let us not forget it

hockey IS politics

This is Satan. Some of you are going to be sorry that I am still here. The very reasonable terms for my extinction from this site unfortunately were not met.

Satanism advocates practicing a modified form of the Golden Rule. Our interpretation of this rule is: “Do unto others as they do unto you”; because if you “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” and they, in turn, treat you badly, it goes against human nature to continue to treat them with consideration. You should do unto others as you would have them do unto you, but if your courtesy is not returned, they should be treated with the wrath they deserve.

The person who takes every opportunity to “pick on” others is often mistakenly called “sadistic”. In reality, this person is a misdirected masochist who is working towards his own destruction. The reason a person viciously strikes out against you is because they are afraid of you or what you represent, or are resentful of your happiness. They are weak, insecure, and on extremely shaky ground when you throw your curse, and they make ideal human sacrifices.

When a Satanist commits a wrong, he realizes that is it natural to make a mistake―and if he is truly sorry about what he has done, he will learn from it and take care not to do the same thing again. If he is not honestly sorry about what he has done, and knows he will do the same thing over and over, he has no business confessing and asking forgiveness in the first place.

There was acid being poured on my face. Everything and everywhere over my body seemed to burn. I could feel my skin getting charred. I could feel the acidic air enter my nostrils – dusty, dirty, stinking air. I could barely breathe.

A sharp bout of electricity seemed to gallop from my neck to my head. I could barely move my head to that side of the neck. It was sore. It hurt badly. I was sure there was a fracture. A major one.

Another bottle of acid was being poured on me. It burnt with the same ferocity. The air was stinking. I couldn’t move my body.

I tried to open my eyes. The place was a wreckage. A dilapidated wreckage.

However, it looked familiar. There were stacks of cartons towards the north west corner of the room. I had seen some of those cartons earlier. I had definitely been here before.

And then, in an instant, I realized that water was being poured on me. Not acid. Thank God!

I couldn’t move my hands. They were sore. They were tied behind me. I wanted to drink the water. I couldn’t.

I was starving. I was thirsty. I needed water. I needed food. I needed clean air. I needed some light.

I looked around. There were people everywhere. There were tyres and ropes everywhere. The last time I was there, the place looked so different.

I wondered what time of the day it was. Or what time of the night. Or how many days had been here for. I had no recollection.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Political Guy?”

His tone didn’t seem different. There was the same tinge of warmth and encouragement. He even wore the same formal outfit the last time I saw him in. He sat on a wooden table ahead of me. Flanking him were his key associates most of whom I had trusted at some point in time.

My phone started ringing. I didn’t realize that it was in his hand. He looked at the number and smiled. He held it up for me.

He, walked up a few paces and brought the phone to me. I saw the number. It was a pre-paid unknown number. I recognized it immediately.

He took the call and put the phone on speaker. I wanted to scream. But couldn’t. My mouth was stuffed with something. I couldn’t even groan.

“The sun is setting.”

There was no reaction from my side. I was being asked to run to safety. He was instructing me to run to any place other than where I was. I knew the sun had set long while ago.

He started calling my name out. Not once. But again and again.

There was no reaction.

He started to scream, “Are you okay? Just get away. They have found out about you.”

I tried to groan one final time before that. I couldn’t. I didn’t have any energy. I was losing the will to. I hoped he would locate me somehow.

The call was disconnected. He took out the SIM card and broke it. A woman emerged from the cabin behind him. She was carrying a set of files for him. Eleven files to be precise.

She looked at me from a distance. I knew her. She thought I would be surprised to see her. I wasn’t.

She smiled at me the same way. The same charming, enthusiastic, caring and warm smile. No change. She even asked me how I was feeling. She offered me a glass of water.

I couldn’t drink it. I wanted to but I couldn’t with the cloth stuffed in my mouth.

I looked closely at one of his men standing at the extreme right corner. He had a hammer in his left hand. Maybe the same hammer was used to hit me.

“Your stupid bitch was going to the cops. Had she kept quiet, I too would have kept quiet. Had you kept quiet, I too would have kept quiet.”

A Scottish trainer had once told me that everything in management consulting was in lots of three. Three key points. Three key slides. Three key stakeholders. Three key findings. Three main colors. Three main fonts. Three key skills. Three main industries.

There were three women who had played a pivotal role in my life over the last few years.

Two Indian, one Thai.

One loyal, one a traitor and I am not sure of the third one till date.

One who helped me rise, one who resurrected me and one who proved fatal for me.

Two who loved me, most likely.

Two who used me.

The three angels of Satan had shown me three different faces. It looked like I would be punished at least three times that night.

The person who takes every opportunity to “pick on” others is often mistakenly called “sadistic”. In reality, this person is a misdirected masochist who is working towards his own destruction. The reason a person viciously strikes out against you is because they are afraid of you or what you represent, or are resentful of your happiness. They are weak, insecure, and on extremely shaky ground when you throw your curse, and they make ideal human sacrifices.

The person who takes every opportunity to “pick on” others is often mistakenly called “sadistic”. In reality, this person is a misdirected masochist who is working towards his own destruction. The reason a person viciously strikes out against you is because they are afraid of you or what you represent, or are resentful of your happiness. They are weak, insecure, and on extremely shaky ground when you throw your curse, and they make ideal human sacrifices.

On Saturday night, I would see men lusting after half-naked girls dancing at the carnival, and on Sunday morning when I was playing organ for tent-show evangelists at the other end of the carnival lot, I would see these same men sitting in the pews with their wives and children, asking God to forgive them and purge them of carnal desires. And the next Saturday they’d be back at the carnival or some other place of indulgence. I knew then that the Christian church thrives on hypocrisy, and that man’s carnal nature will out no matter how much it is purged or scoured by any white-light religion.

Some religions actually go so far as to label anyone who belongs to a religious sect other than their own a heretic, even though the overall doctrines and impressions of godliness are nearly the same. For example: The Catholics believe the Protestants are doomed to Hell simply because they do not belong to the Catholic Church. In the same way, many splinter groups of the Christian faith, such as the evangelical or revivalist churches, believe the Catholics worship graven images. (Christ is depicted in the image that is most physiologically akin to the individual worshipping him, and yet the Christians criticize “heathens” for the worship of graven images.) And the Jews have always been given the Devil’s name.

The other exception to the rule regards dealings with masochists. A masochist derives pleasure from being hurt; so denying the masochist his pleasure through-pain hurts him just as much as actual physical pain hurts the non masochist. The story of the truly cruel sadist illustrates this point: The masochist says to the sadist, “beat me.” To which the merciless sadist replies, “NO!” If a person wants to be hurt and enjoys suffering, then there is no reason not to indulge him in his
wont.

Satanism has been frequently misrepresented as “devil worship”, when in fact it constitutes a clear rejection of all forms of worship as a desirable component of the personality.

If she had lived, I know she would be ashamed of me. I’m trying to change that.
My mother adored her morning coffee. I imagine her in my espresso shop, quiet, unimposing, lifting her drink and winking at me the way she did when I was a little kid in Oregon. A few months back I started the place with her in mind. She would love the mahogany counters, the polished brass rails and gleaming Italian machinery, the rich aroma.
Black’s—that’s what I call my shop, in honor of the family name. Mom was always busy, they tell me. A dutiful housewife with a set jaw and silky, raven hair twisted back in a bun. She bore secrets no one should have to carry alone, and when at last she did seek support, she found only hostility and greed and a cup of conspiracy that spilled over into the lives of her family.
Dianne Lewis Black. Despite her weariness, her eyes sparkled. That much I remember and hold on to.
She’d still be with us if not for Uncle Wyatt’s mistake, and I still hate the carelessness that stole her life away. I was six when she died. I watched her fall, a stone’s throw away. For two decades, that one moment held me in its grip. I wallowed in its rage through my young adult years, courting violence and a nasty drug habit. I tattooed my cynicism onto my forearms.

If she had lived, I know she would be ashamed of me. I’m trying to change that.
My mother adored her morning coffee. I imagine her in my espresso shop, quiet, unimposing, lifting her drink and winking at me the way she did when I was a little kid in Oregon. A few months back I started the place with her in mind. She would love the mahogany counters, the polished brass rails and gleaming Italian machinery, the rich aroma.
Black’s—that’s what I call my shop, in honor of the family name. Mom was always busy, they tell me. A dutiful housewife with a set jaw and silky, raven hair twisted back in a bun. She bore secrets no one should have to carry alone, and when at last she did seek support, she found only hostility and greed and a cup of conspiracy that spilled over into the lives of her family.
Dianne Lewis Black. Despite her weariness, her eyes sparkled. That much I remember and hold on to.
She’d still be with us if not for Uncle Wyatt’s mistake, and I still hate the carelessness that stole her life away. I was six when she died. I watched her fall, a stone’s throw away. For two decades, that one moment held me in its grip. I wallowed in its rage through my young adult years, courting violence and a nasty drug habit. I tattooed my cynicism onto my forearms.

It was almost three in the morning when she’d called, so I was outside her apartment house in fifteen minutes. I didn’t like the doorman eyeballing me more than once, but I didn’t see a way around it either. If he thought it was unusual for someone to be calling at that hour, he didn’t show it . . . just rang up and got the okay for me to enter the elevator.

She must have been right at the peephole–the door opened even as I raised my knuckles to rap. The rose lighting was back on. Otherwise, the place was shrouded. “Go sit down,” she told me, standing aside.

I gave up trying to solve the mystery of her three chairs and just took the middle one, letting her play any way she wanted.

She looked ghostly, floating across the room toward me. Barefoot, in a gauzy white robe that wrapped her body–a frame, not a cover. She took the nearest open chair, reached over, and pulled mine around so we were facing each other.

“I believe you,” she said.

“Which means . . . ?”

“I believe you wouldn’t . . . do what you said. I believe you . . . Oh, never mind. Look, here it is, okay? She . . . asked around. Like you said. I don’t know about this ‘theory’ of yours, but you’re right about one thing–they have the men who did that drive-by.”

“Have them?”

“Found them, I should have said. They’re dead. And one of the people killed in the crowd–you were right about that too. The police think it was murder. I mean, deliberate murder. The rest was only for . . . what do you call it? Camouflage? I don’t know. But the cops say it was business. Professional business. They think they know who gave the order. That’s what you want, right?”

“That’s what I want.”

“Well, I have it,” she said.

“But you want to play with it first? Or you want me to place a fucking bid? What?”

“Why are you so . . . hostile?” she asked softly. “I’ve been nice to you. It was fun . . . flirting, right? I know you liked it.”

It was almost three in the morning when she’d called, so I was outside her apartment house in fifteen minutes. I didn’t like the doorman eyeballing me more than once, but I didn’t see a way around it either. If he thought it was unusual for someone to be calling at that hour, he didn’t show it . . . just rang up and got the okay for me to enter the elevator.

She must have been right at the peephole–the door opened even as I raised my knuckles to rap. The rose lighting was back on. Otherwise, the place was shrouded. “Go sit down,” she told me, standing aside.

I gave up trying to solve the mystery of her three chairs and just took the middle one, letting her play any way she wanted.

She looked ghostly, floating across the room toward me. Barefoot, in a gauzy white robe that wrapped her body–a frame, not a cover. She took the nearest open chair, reached over, and pulled mine around so we were facing each other.

“I believe you,” she said.

“Which means . . . ?”

“I believe you wouldn’t . . . do what you said. I believe you . . . Oh, never mind. Look, here it is, okay? She . . . asked around. Like you said. I don’t know about this ‘theory’ of yours, but you’re right about one thing–they have the men who did that drive-by.”

“Have them?”

“Found them, I should have said. They’re dead. And one of the people killed in the crowd–you were right about that too. The police think it was murder. I mean, deliberate murder. The rest was only for . . . what do you call it? Camouflage? I don’t know. But the cops say it was business. Professional business. They think they know who gave the order. That’s what you want, right?”

“That’s what I want.”

“Well, I have it,” she said.

“But you want to play with it first? Or you want me to place a fucking bid? What?”

“Why are you so . . . hostile?” she asked softly. “I’ve been nice to you. It was fun . . . flirting, right? I know you liked it.”