I’m sending out this dispatch from deep behind enemy lines. I live my life in Boston, Massachusetts. I know, I know. Every day, I knock heads with the worst of the worst: knuckleheaded Bruins fans. They come at me constantly, fade haircut after fade haircut. They all talk trash about the Habs in that same mind-numbing accent, the one that pretty much crosses the line into an all-out speech impediment.

I walk among them.

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