Eulogy: Remembering the 2015-16 Nashville Predators

(Ed. Note: As the Stanley Cup Playoffs continue, we're bound to lose some friends along the journey. We've asked for these losers, gone but not forgotten, to be eulogized by the people who knew the teams best: The bloggers and fans who hated them the most. Here is Mike FAIL, tweeter of sarcasm and blogger at FlamesNation, fondly recalling the 2015-16 Nashville Predators.)

(Again, this was not written by us. Also: This is a roast and you will be offended by it, so don't take it so seriously.)

BY MIKE FAIL (@MikeFAIL)

When you think of the Nashville Predators, what's the first thing that comes to mind?

Is it the narrative that they have the best defense core in the league? How about all that money they're paying to Shea Weber? Or is it the ultimate reality that even with every incremental improvement they achieve they will forever live on as one of the league's most forgettable organizations? The latter is a far more accurate reality facing this team who regularly use a jersey which borders between flesh-tone of a Simpsons character and someone's mucus during a sinus infection. And with that, in a similar sense to the Simpsons, the Nashville Predators are the Kirk Van Houtens of the NHL.

But don't fret, all of these aforementioned things will be discussed at great length here, friends.

And just like Kirk Van Houten's marriage in "A Milhouse Divided" where Kirk's marriage seemingly falls apart with all the major eyes in the community watching on, hopelessly, the Predators' defeat to the Sharks is nearly identical. With a front office likely assembled from Gudger College graduates, it's no wonder this team bowed out without any dignity at all.

This eulogy isn't for mourning, but an opportunity to celebrate. With eyes moving onward to bigger, brighter, and more exciting hockey in the next two rounds the Predators have a long summer ahead of them. I wouldn't be shocked to find out that a bulk of these grown men similarly to Van Houten sleep in race-car beds, in single bedroom apartments where possums drown in the communal pool.

The Predators, coming from the hardest division in hockey were tasked with a god-given duty to eliminate those anti-vaxxer schmucks from Anaheim. Doing so would be a fundamental victory for medical professionals as the festering, disease-ridden Ducks roster boasted some of the most threatening diseases known on the planet. Yet (and not so remarkably) they struggled - primarily in net as expected - which produced some obvious foreshadowing that the collapse would fall on the back-end of this team.

If you look back on this team, specifically the single major deal they made this season, it became more apparent as their post-season went on that many obviously apparent flaws would contribute to a spectacular shortcoming.

The first and most obvious decision of trading Seth Jones, who likely could have eaten minutes from the near Dan Girardi-esque performance Shea Weber put on. In return, they received cliche hockey bro and often criticized excuse of a center Ryan Johansen. Sure, RyJo, you may have had a clever one-liner for Mike Reilly when he snubbed the Blue Jackets, but it was the playoffs who got the last laugh.

I'm assuming at some point this summer or next season we'll see Johansen's historical pissbaby antics appear again as he likely tries to demand too much money and threaten to sit out games. Though, the last time he did this, he was spotted in a McDonalds drive-through in Vancouver. So, presumably we know he'll likely have a career in his post-playing days as a store manager in East Vancouver who inevitably busted in a sting operation for soliciting sex behind an Arby's.

The maligned failures of this Predators team continued down the middle as noted unfortunate excuse for a human Mike Ribiero did his best to consistently disappoint everyone. The human amalgamation of sun baked leather, axe body spray, and off-ice issues did no favors to his team by being a healthy scratch. Ribeiro's consistent failures draw an eerie parallel to Southern Biscuit's decline into a tie for sixth with Table Time and Allied Biscuit.

Continuing along with the colorful cast of misfit excuses for humans brings us all to Mike Fisher, the NHL's most lovable neo-con. In a remarkable turn of events, Fisher stepped down from his post in Donald Trump's political campaign to help the Predators this year. The fact that David Poile (who resembles the Smoking Man from X-Files) gave the aging center a two-year deal at $8.8M is just asinine. I'm presuming at this point Fisher will likely spend his summer as he always does: protesting outside of abortion clinics, not hiding how he feels about certain societal issues, fighting the liberal agenda,  working at his neighborhood Hobby Lobby, and working on the Trump campaign in hopes of an aspiring and fulfilling career in Republican Party.

But hey, if there is any general manager who blindly cashes checks it's David Poile.

Yes, the withered old coot in the office who at one point dealt a first-round pick for Paul Gaustad only to re-sign the center to a $13M contract -- good until this season -- rightfully deserves to be pelted with the leftover diapers that James Neal didn't eat before each game in the playoffs. This remarkably daft human who conveniently also re-signed former-Flame Eric Nystrom to a $10M contract until the end of next season. This is a forward who has only reached the 20 point plateau twice in his life. Twice, folks. With that his result have continued to diminish further and further. Plus you can't forget the disaster that was signing Viktor Stalberg to a $12M contract over four years.

One can only speculate on the next baffling decision this man makes that surely adds to the increasing salary constraints that this team faces.

As we move down the roster the perpetual and habitual wastes of oxygen it takes us to one of the biggest pinnacles of humanity's greatest failures: James Neal.

Everyone talks about how "if James Neal would just quit diving, elbowing things, charging people, name searching on Twitter, blocking everyone on Twitter who mentions him, and not chugging his own pee before every game he'd be really good".

But that's not going to happen, because James Neal can't stop being James Neal.

I'm 100% certain that if given the opportunity, James Neal would put out a lit cigarette on the forehead of a child just to reap the sick pleasure of being a massive mound of human waste. Though, I will admit that Neal surprised me a bit when I discovered this:

In a remarkable turn of events Pekka Rinne looked moderately capable for two games in the first-round against the legion of ruptured colostomy bags only to return to atypical Rinne-form by the end of the series. Funny how everyone assumed that this would carry over to the series against San Jose and, for the most part, those folks were 100% correct. Hell, in an ode to King Pissbaby himself, Rinne smashed his stick in a Quick-esque tantrum like he had just clued in on the following realities:

• Nashville hot chicken tastes like a day-old KFC covered in awful hot sauce

• "After Patrick Marleau scored that fifth goal he yelled 'Hey nice save, Pekker Rimjob!' and it upset me"

• "There is literally no hope for this franchise and I'll have better luck in Finland when I'm bought out"

But hey, it's not like anyone could have remotely predicted Rinne's continued decline and the risk of signing goaltenders to big money long-term was a bad idea. At all. Ever. The funny thing about Pekka Rinne is how close it sounds to Pecorino Romano, a cheese that gets better with age. Though if one thing is clear as day it's that Rinne is getting worse with age. Maybe David Poile can pull a funny and deal Rinne before his hip explodes with infection that is the same shade of yellow as those putrid jerseys the team wears.

But perhaps the most satisfying aspect of this Predators team collapsing in game seven is no more apparent than slow but the continued evolution of Shea Weber's gradual transition into Dan Girardi 2: Electric Boogaloo. On the surface, the narrative presumably runs smoother than Michael Jackson's dance moves in Smooth Criminal: Shea Weber is among the NHL's elite defensemen. Though anyone who has witnessed the embarrassing pride of Sicamous, British Columbia lately will like assume anyone spouting that nonsense regularly chugs bleach for fun. And the think pieces proving there are significant flaws that are starting to be a problem spell it out clearly: he's starting to become a liability in his own end.

The belief by many fans that Weber holds up in the same conversation of such names as Erik Karlsson, PK Subban, Duncan Keith, Drew Doughty, and Mark Giordano just to name a few are likely the same lot of folks who actively believe the Earth is either: a) flat b) hollow c) filled with reptoids or morlocks. And as the playoffs went on, it became no more visible than before that Shea Weber is a shell of a man he once was regarded as.

The Game 7 stat line is a taste of the continuing reality that exists moving forward, Preds fans. On ice for five - count 'em five goals - against in a must-win game? All of which while he and his partner Roman Josi got turnstiled?

But hey, I mean he's only under contract until the end of 2025-26. With a cap hit of $7.8M. With Weber another $24M in salary until 2018-19. And then it's another $30M after that until the end of time. By all accounts, anyone who criticized Paul Holmgren for the offer sheet at the time followed by every moronic decision after should be praising Holmgren now. He's successfully handicapped this forgettable organization in a potentially crippling salary monstrosity for the foreseeable future. Unless they try to move Weber, which should happen, but probably won't.

But I'm sure the die-hard Weber supporters in all their infinite wisdom and near syphilis-induced psychosis will cry on Twitter about how I'm wrong. I mean after all, Team Canada initially picked Shea Weber over the likes of PK Subban for the World Cup. And of course we know hockey minds who've played the game are never wrong.

And that's really it, Predators fans, your hockey season is over. Use this time to reflect on your dismal lives, your poor live decisions, and the reality that the Predators will never amount to anything in the next few years. If there is any solace, know that your favourite team lasted a bit longer than former-head coach Barry Trotz in Washington. The man who has literally no neck. Use all your free time while the good teams continue to play to go see Kid Rock or something in concert. Looking at panning shots of most Predator fans in the crowd at games I can only assume it's right up your alley.

Have a really crummy summer, losers.

PREVIOUS EULOGIES

Eulogy: Remembering the 2015-16 Detroit Red Wings

Eulogy: Remembering the 2015-16 Los Angeles Kings

Eulogy: Remembering the 2015-16 New York Rangers

Eulogy: Remembering the 2015-16 Philadelphia Flyers

Eulogy: Remembering the 2015-16 Florida Panthers

Eulogy: Remembering the 2015-16 Minnesota Wild

Eulogy: Remembering the 2015-16 Chicago Blackhawks

Eulogy: Remembering the 2015-16 Anaheim Ducks

Eulogy: Remembering the 2015-16 New York Islanders

Eulogy: Remembering the 2015-16 Dallas Stars

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