Somebody should put the press box camera in Phoenix up on a phone book or something. From its current point of view, the joints in the glass overlap the text painted on the ice, changing the message a little. All night last night, as the camera panned back and forth across the blue line, I kept reading "Thank You Farts" out of the corner of my eye.
Thank You Farts!
Maybe it's just me. He who smelt it can traditionally be blamed for dealing it, after all.