It is two days post-gesture and, after considering the contents of numerous essays on the matter of Milan Lucic's right hand, it occurs to me that there exists among shinny scribes a discomfort in their descriptives of Darth Bruin's vulgar folly.
They are squeamish about using the M-word.
For those who perhaps had something better to do than watch Lucic lose his mind in the final, desperate moments of Les Glorieux's 6-4 bettering of the Boston Bruins on Thursday night, be advised that a very menacing Milan was banished to the bin for an infringement against Alexei Emelin. Before taking his perch in the penalty box, Looch put on his night prowler glower and used his right hand to perform for a section of the Bell Centre audience what has been described as:
a) An obscene gesture;
b) Pretending to pleasure himself;
c) A sexual gesture;
d) Stroking himself;
e) An intimate sex act;
f) Choking something on his person (that's my personal favorite).
g) Jerk off motion.
In other words, Darth Bruin feigned masturbation.
There, boys. I wrote it. The M-word. Masturbation. Masturbation. Masturbation. Was that really so difficult?
Since the largest percentage of the people who deliver daily dispatches about National Hockey League matches are fellows, I assume the uneasiness in using the M-word to be a guy thing. You know, like purseophobia (fear of holding your girl's purse in public), or tamponophobia (fear of purchasing tampons for your girl), or directional dysfunction (inability to ask for directions when lost). But really. What's the big deal? You all do it, so why be ashamed to use the M-word?
Greg Wyshynski at Yahoo! Sports isn't ashamed. He stepped right up to the plate and said Darth Bruin was "pantomiming masturbation." So, be like Greg, boys. The next time Milan Lucic does something stupid with his right hand, gird your loins and call the jerk-off a jerk-off.
This, of course, is guaranteed to happen because the baddest of the Bruins cannot separate himself from folly, especially when the NHL schedule-makers require him to visit the mecca of hockey, or when the Habs are in Beantown. The Montreal Canadiens are a mind-altering drug for Lucic. Show him the CH and he goes tripping, like a 1960s hippie on acid. He sees hidden messages in Beatles lyrics and, next thing you know, it's helter skelter in the penalty box. Or in the handshake queue at the conclusion of a playoff series, when he goes all Charlie Manson and threatens death to all pigs in bleu, blanc et rouge.
I must, however, confess to harboring a small level of fondness for Looch. Yes, I know, that's blasphemous. But hear me out.
I like Looch because he doesn't like Habs Nation. That makes him honest. I value honesty. And I like him because it's his honesty that leads to his brain cramps, like taking a bonehead penalty enabling les Canadiens to turn a one-goal lead into a two-goal advantage and victory.
I like Looch because he isn't Brad Marchand, who is a rodent of the Ken Linseman ilk. Marchand doesn't reserve his swan dives and Pearl Harbor tactics for just the Habs. He has a hate-on for everyone, and there's nothing noble in targeting every back you see. It's lame. So we really don't need the needle-nose, rodent-like pissant in the Canadiens-Bruins rivalry.
We need Looch, though. We count on Looch. We depend on Looch. Just like the rabble in Beantown need, count on and depend on P.K. Subban to wear the villain stripes.
So go ahead and hate on Darth Bruin, but you've got to love the big lug just the same.