The year is 2081. I’m physically stuck to a recliner. Piss all over me. Im arguing with a paper plate next to me on the coffee table. I mean I’m just old as fuck, barely even breathing. I turn the Tv on. “The Blackhawks will host the 2082 winter classic”
I die immediately
If I’m the capitals I’m booking the hotel 65 miles off the strip at a best western, maybe one with a continental breakfast. Don’t let the Russians get near the strip. You’ll find them shirtless at Bellagio drunk as fuck at 5 am drinking Moscow mules after tiesto with Tomas Vanek