There are so many ridiculous, un-edited thoughts running through my mind right now. I’d like to find  Bill McCreary and flood his hotel room with billions of fire ants while I watch in ecstasy as they chew his face off little by little. I hope Q-Stache is laying face down in his pillow with tears pouring out of his eyes wondering why he called a line change 2 seconds after a neutral zone face-off loss which led to the losing goal — and all this after the ‘Hawks had lost over 60 percent of the face-offs all night.

More importantly, I’m hoping the ‘Hawks are all languishing in the fact they’ve played like dog shit for three games in the Stanley Cup finals and that it finally caught up to them. Taking a third-period lead off of what should be a deflating-to-the-home-team breakaway goal on the road from your star player,  Patrick Kane, who hasn’t been on the score sheet all series should last more than 20 goddamn, motherfucking seconds.

Alas, I’ll hold back until tomorrow. I’m getting drunk. Fuck it. Right now, all I can do is be a pessimist and tell you this series is as good as fucking tied, and we’re going to be watching a critical Game 5 on Sunday at the United Center praying the Blackhawks don’t have to go back to Philadelphia down 3-2 — because right now, it seems completely feasible.

I’m not ready to look at any positives. I want to destroy everything in my path and will probably smoke an entire pack of cigarettes within the next 45 minutes.

Fuck everything. We’ll catch up tomorrow with some more relaxed, coherent thoughts.