Ding Dong...

Bill Wirtz, owner of the Chicago Blackhawks, the man who did more to ruin hockey in Chicago than Gordie Howe ever could, died yesterday. I can officially be a Blackhawks fan again. Unless his fat apple didn't fall too far off of the tree and his son is just as much of a money-grubbing fuckhole.

I know it's bad to speak of the dead like that. For some reason, in our society, when someone dies we automatically forgive them for all the bad shit they did and try to say something good about them. The only thing I can say that is good about Bill Wirtz is that he is now dead. This is a guy who never did anything that he couldn't profit from. He has a laundry list of bad shit, too long for me to go into, but check out this book. If reading this doesn't convince you of Wirtz's place in Hell, remember that this is the guy who purposefully traded Chris Chelios, the greatest captain of the 'Hawks ever, to the Detroit Red Wings to keep Cheli from bitching about the front office to the press. For those not in the know, it's the equivalent of someone going from the Red Sox to the Yankees, the Packers to the Bears, or the Heat to the Knicks.

I know that some people will miss me when I die. I know some people won't. Some will mourn, and some will celebrate; some may do both. Either way, I will be dead; if people are talking about me, it means I am not forgotten, and that's all I could ask for.


-Zeepdoggie