Forget the Oilers, I am a Champion
By George Gims, #1 Oiler Fan
This morning, despite the usual pain from my distended liver, I looked in the mirror and I said, “George Gims, you are a Champion. Capital-C champion.”
How many beers have I drunk? How many potato chips have I eaten? How many glass bottles have I smashed? How many girls fifteen years my junior have I screamed at with the heroic words, “Pull out your tits?” How many alleys have I pissed in? How many dumpsters have I puked in? How many pounds have I added to my already considerable girth? How many hours of work have I missed? How many cardiac arrests have I risked? How many hemorrhoids have I had? How many times has my wife threatened to divorce me? That’s a trick question because she divorced me when the Oilers crashed out against Dallas in 2000. But my ex-wife is not the issue here.
My point is: I sacrificed absolutely everything for a noble cause. I gave it my all. As they say in hockey, I didn’t leave anything out on the ice. I am the true definition a modern day sporting hero.
I am even more of a sporting hero than any of the Edmonton Oilers. When they woke up this morning, despite their sense of loss, they were still strong, virile, and athletic men with beautiful wives and mistresses and gargantuan pay-cheques. Whereas I woke up in a puddle of piss. Clutched in my hand was a porno mag. I tried to jerk off but I couldn’t. My bed sagged underneath me. Then I realized I was already an hour later for work at Leon’s. I have to make another $1,900 in commission this month or else I’m toast. I tried to get up but collapsed to the floor from vertigo. When I breathed it hurt. When I finally made it to the front door of my apartment I found an eviction notice from the landlord.
Can any of the Oilers say they sacrificed as much as me? No, not even Ryan Smyth – who had three teeth knocked out. Thanks to eight straight weeks of passing out in a beer-induced stupor and forgetting to brush my teeth, I have aggravated two previous cavities and require two separate root canals. And I only had seven real teeth left to start with! Beat that, Smitty! What is more, the last time I saw the doctor, he said to me, “George Gims, if you don’t stop poisoning yourself with liquor, you won’t live past fifty.”
I am now thirty-five. In theory, I may have sacrificed approximately 33 percent of my life for the Oilers. Beat that, Mike Peca! What do you have to show for your efforts? A black eye? Black eye, my ass. I’m nearly dead!
In recognition of all I’ve done for them, I think the Oilers should make me, George Gims, their official mascot. Just like a mascot, I am soft and spongy. Just like a mascot, I make children laugh and/or cry. Just like a mascot, my movements are ungainly. I fall down easily. I sweat non-stop above fifteen degrees. People want to throw stuff at me. The nicer ones feel sorry for me. But their pity is wasted on a hero like me. They see a pathetic loser. But I look in the mirror and I see the biggest fan in the history of Edmonton sporting history.
So what if I don’t have a Stanley Cup to show for my efforts? I have cirrhosis of the liver – a prize that no one can take from me.
This morning, despite the usual pain from my distended liver, I looked in the mirror and I said, “George Gims, you are a Champion. Capital-C champion.”
How many beers have I drunk? How many potato chips have I eaten? How many glass bottles have I smashed? How many girls fifteen years my junior have I screamed at with the heroic words, “Pull out your tits?” How many alleys have I pissed in? How many dumpsters have I puked in? How many pounds have I added to my already considerable girth? How many hours of work have I missed? How many cardiac arrests have I risked? How many hemorrhoids have I had? How many times has my wife threatened to divorce me? That’s a trick question because she divorced me when the Oilers crashed out against Dallas in 2000. But my ex-wife is not the issue here.
My point is: I sacrificed absolutely everything for a noble cause. I gave it my all. As they say in hockey, I didn’t leave anything out on the ice. I am the true definition a modern day sporting hero.
I am even more of a sporting hero than any of the Edmonton Oilers. When they woke up this morning, despite their sense of loss, they were still strong, virile, and athletic men with beautiful wives and mistresses and gargantuan pay-cheques. Whereas I woke up in a puddle of piss. Clutched in my hand was a porno mag. I tried to jerk off but I couldn’t. My bed sagged underneath me. Then I realized I was already an hour later for work at Leon’s. I have to make another $1,900 in commission this month or else I’m toast. I tried to get up but collapsed to the floor from vertigo. When I breathed it hurt. When I finally made it to the front door of my apartment I found an eviction notice from the landlord.
Can any of the Oilers say they sacrificed as much as me? No, not even Ryan Smyth – who had three teeth knocked out. Thanks to eight straight weeks of passing out in a beer-induced stupor and forgetting to brush my teeth, I have aggravated two previous cavities and require two separate root canals. And I only had seven real teeth left to start with! Beat that, Smitty! What is more, the last time I saw the doctor, he said to me, “George Gims, if you don’t stop poisoning yourself with liquor, you won’t live past fifty.”
I am now thirty-five. In theory, I may have sacrificed approximately 33 percent of my life for the Oilers. Beat that, Mike Peca! What do you have to show for your efforts? A black eye? Black eye, my ass. I’m nearly dead!
In recognition of all I’ve done for them, I think the Oilers should make me, George Gims, their official mascot. Just like a mascot, I am soft and spongy. Just like a mascot, I make children laugh and/or cry. Just like a mascot, my movements are ungainly. I fall down easily. I sweat non-stop above fifteen degrees. People want to throw stuff at me. The nicer ones feel sorry for me. But their pity is wasted on a hero like me. They see a pathetic loser. But I look in the mirror and I see the biggest fan in the history of Edmonton sporting history.
So what if I don’t have a Stanley Cup to show for my efforts? I have cirrhosis of the liver – a prize that no one can take from me.
posted by Laurence Miall at 8:36 PM
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