Under the Bucket: Trading Is a Lost Art and as Difficult as Picking up Women

(Editor's note: Welcome to Under the Bucket, where Deaner from the classic flick Fubar tackles all things NHL for VICE Sports. You can follow him on Twitter and read previous installments here.)

She's pretty tough goin' on the old ten-speed bike these days. We had a bad spill there a couple weeks back and I broke a few bottles of Pilsner. I was standing there with tears in my eyes, lookin' at the busted glass and slushed out beer, all smashed up and I just screamed, "WHY?!?!?." But, you know what? The wind just howled and froze the tears on my fuckin' cheek. That's because it's that time of the year where you just gotta buckle down and can't let Old Man Winter win. You owe me three beers, motherfucker!!

It's also that time of year where NHL general managers take a look at their rosters and say to themselves, "Are these overpaid fuckheads gonna get me into the playoffs or what?" (At least that's how I assume GMs talk about players.) While she's still too early to know for sure, GMs are freaking out that the deadline is Feb. 29, cuz these days trades take fuckin' weeks and sometimes months to get going. Talkin' to scouts, cousins, best friends, ex-girlfriends, math teachers, and checking out a player's stats goin' all the way back to before the guy had a penis… I mean, enough's enough, just fuckin' take a chance already.

Back in the day trades used to happen all the time, and it wasn't so damn serious. I mean, shit, in 1995 when Joe Nieuwendyk went from Calgary to Dallas for Jarome Iginla, that trade went down in the back of a chuckwagon after Coates and Gainey downed a bottle of Crown Royal, and then they rode the fuckin' thing down Scotsman's Hill right into the Saddledome to announce it. Rumour has it Coates was so hammered he offered to play Russian roulette to get Corey Millen thrown in the deal and Gainey was like, "Coates, you mad man, take Millen! I'm gonna win a Cup with Newy, anyway, so who cares… fuck, I'm gonna puke, where's the pisser in this chuckwagon?"

Ah, but them be the good old days, eh?

Being a GM now is like cruisin' women at the bar, and just like cruisin' women is a lot harder nowadays, so is being a GM. Look, back in the '80s I could get a girl to go home with me by unzippin' my fanny pack just enough so she could see I had a couple $5 bills in there. Enough for a six pack and a pizza, you know? No talk about my history, how serious this was gonna be, just a straight up, "Sure, Deaner, let's go back to your place and listen to Blue Oyster Cult." Everybody's so cautious nowadays. You got a GM on the line and he's going, "Oh yah, I'm totally into this deal." Meanwhile, he's got like six other GMs on the line, tellin' him the same thing. Now I ain't got a problem with multiple partners, but at a certain point, you gotta get in the chuckwagon, slug back a bottle of Crown and make the fuckin' deal!

Speakin' of deals, what's the fuckin deal with these NHL fines? I seen Jordin Tootoo got dinged this week for diving again. Oh yah, fuckin' harsh tokes, $2000 bucks. The guy makes almost a million bucks a year. That's like saying, "Dean, you fucking stole the boss's truck and totalled it again, so we're docking $5 off your paycheck." Like, yah OK, I'll never do it again.

Fuck man, you gotta get serious with your punishments if you want shit to stop for real. If you do something stupid at one of my parties, like ash in a live beer, it's 20 minutes in the basement with the lights off. And if you fucking pass out, well, serves you right. The NHL has to stop being such babies and do something that'll stop the diving for good. If I'm in charge, you fuckin' dive one time and the next game you gotta wear your jockstrap on the outside of your hockey pants. Maybe draw a big red "D" on it. See how many guys dive after that one.

I seen Sam Bennett get four goals there a few days back and that was awesome, but… it's like nobody knows the rules no more. You score three goals, all the guys toss their hats on the ice, right? But if you score four, all the ladies toss their bras on the ice, it's basic math. Look ladies, I know bras are expensive (this one chick I dated always used to get smashed and rip her bra to pieces when we got back to her place after the bar and she'd send me off to the Zellers the next morning), but you get 'em back after the game. You just go down to the concourse level and they'll all be sittin' there. Fuck, odds are the guy who scored will hand 'em back to you himself. It's just the way she goes.

So yah, she's the dark days of winter, but you know what? Fuck it. I'm gonna go bare-chested outside, hop on the old ten-speed, take in my empties and buy some beers with the cash—cuz that's a trade I KNOW I'm gonna win.