Category Archives: Pulp Fiction

Vincent Vega and Jules Winfield Discuss Olympic Hockey

Jules: Watch the Miracle on Ice

Vincent: What?

Jules: The motherfucking hockey game, Vincent, did you watch it?

Vincent: I know what you’re talking about, I’m just having difficulty understanding something. So as the United States of America, the greatest nation since the first, beat Canada in a game played on a sheet of frozen water, you became aware of the Lord’s presence?

Jules: If you want to play the blind man, go walk with the shepherd, but my eyes are wide open

Vincent: Alright man, then when exactly did the big kahuna join you. Before or after the zamboni?

Jules: Fuck Vincent. I’m not saying jesus appeared on my couch, cleaned out my bowl of bean dip and fucked off to lend credence to a deranged skiing fan’s interpretation of the images flowing from his tv screen. I’m saying, the victory could be described as the greatest victory in the history of US hockey

Vincent: Whoa, whoa, whoa Jules! Have we forgotten the game that bled the fucking Reds? 1980?

Jules: Shit, sure, but no gave a fuck about hockey in 1980. Lets break it down; first of all, would you agree that Sunday’s result was surprising?

Vincent: Yeah, but our teams full of millionaires. They’re no fucking understudies

Jules: Ahh, so you’d agree you currently know more about hockey than you did in 1980?

Vincent: Yeah, sure. Icing, offside, the whole sundae

Jules: With ya. Back then though, fuck, I didn’t know shit about hockey. I still couldn’t name one fucking red. Yet we’ve been conditioned to interpret the events of February 22, 1980 as miraculous. Why? Miracles are autonomous events, what alcoholics refer to as moments of clarity. Personal shit. Did you even watch the original Miracle on Ice?

Vincent: Nope

Jules:  Me neither, what about Sunday’s game?

Vincent: Yeah

Jules: And were you surprised by the outcome?

Vincent: I suppose you could say it was unexpected

Jules: Exactly! So why has one man’s admittedly uninformed interpretation of a hockey game come to represent that of an entire goddamn hemisphere? Isn’t the genuine surprise of millions of informed citizens heavier than the appropriated exaggeration of one fucking sports coat?

Vincent: This is solitary tree shit Jules. Just because no one watched the Soviets lose doesn’t diminish shit. We beat the commies at the one thing commies did well during a war

Jules: But you’re saying being informed doesn’t matter and I say it do. Lets say Barney lets slip he enjoys Red Apples and a million fucking toddlers start babbling bout how Red Apples be so smooth, Red Apples be the goddamn Marvin Gaye of cigarettes. Would you start smoking Red Apples? Fuck no! Because what do a million goddamn toddlers know bout tobacco? About as much as Americans knew about hockey in 19 fucking 80!

Vincent: Shit Jules, you don’t have to be Kelly Hrudey to realize Amateurs shouldn’t own Professionals –

Jules: But we ain’t talking bout Uncle Sam’s oranges and apples, we talking bout fucking radioactive oranges and Johnny’s apples. Ain’t the same fucking thing. The “Miracle on Ice” inherently presumes that 1) Commies produced the greatest hockey players in the world and 2) America had no fucking business defeating the Soviets. It passively suggests American vulnerability. It suggests weakness. I ain’t having it

Vincent: Interesting point…

Jules: Hell of a geopolitical victory though. Might justify the noise…

Vincent: Fuck…