Glenderful's Shit List: Mat Barzal
- Glen Loveland
- Dec 29, 2025
- 3 min read
Heated Rivalry has turned this entire planet into a pack of rabid, slobbering animals overnight. I’m not kidding. When was the last time the gays and the straights united this hard over a sport? (And don’t you dare say The Cutting Edge—that’s eternal scripture, not a debate.) Straight women are now fluent in the offside rule, my group chats are just goalie memes set to Chromatica, and TikTok is collectively on its knees for these Canadian beasts who glide around looking like sex on blades. It’s deranged. It’s delicious. It’s giving full-blown cultural reset—and I am OBSESSED.
But the ultimate gag? The one I’m personally crowning today? Is straight as a slap shot. Naturally. Because my type is apparently: rugged, quietly competent, definitely owns flannel and a pickup truck, and has a zero percent chance of ever sliding into my DMs. Everyone, please rise and give it up for the man, the myth, the gluteal masterpiece: Mathew Barzal!!!!
Forget the goal—that’s just the money shot. It’s the glide, baby. That long, dark streak of him cutting through blinding white ice like a blade through raw silk. The rink is pure, sterile cold, and he’s the only heat source. Legs pumping like pistons, calves carved from marble, thighs thick enough to crack a walnut. And that ass? Sweet, suffering Jesus. It’s brutal, sublime architecture wrapped in performance fabric—the absolute power plant behind every explosive burst. It owns the entire geometry of the ice. It dictates the angles, the speed, the chaos. You’re not a spectator; you’re the puck. A hard, black, frozen heart, cradled and then launched with a violence that feels like worship. His stick claims you. His skates whisper filthy commandments to the ice. Sweat steams off him like proof of life. It’s pure possession. Zero hesitation. A ballet of raw dominance—and I’m the one lying here, fully possessed.
Born May 26, 1997, in Coquitlam, British Columbia—pure mountain-and-ice royalty. Drafted 16th overall by the New York Islanders in 2015 and has stayed loyal ever since (and let me tell you, commitment looks obscene on him). Waltzed into the league and immediately snatched the Calder Trophy as rookie of the year. Now he’s their top-line wizard, an All-Star, the kind of center whose vision and speed make defensemen look like they’re skating in quicksand. Islanders fans know: when Barzy has the puck, someone is about to be publicly humiliated. It’s not sport; it’s performance art.
A low-key king. Golf. The gym grind (that body is a full-time job, okay?). Family. Teammate hangs. He’s the grounded, superstar-next-door—all the skill, none of the exhausting ego. His diet is elite-athlete pristine: high protein, clean fuel, no gimmicks. Because consistency? That’s the hottest flex of all. And his “bad boy” energy? Strictly confined between the boards: a little chirping, fearless one-on-ones, breaking ankles until opponents take dumb penalties. No tabloid drama. Just quiet, unshakable swagger that screams, I know exactly how good I am.
And because he’s peak Canadian, I’ve decided Mat Barzal’s shit is a Nanaimo Bar—BC’s holy trinity of edible filth. Think about it: that gritty, cocoa-coconut-nut base is his rugged, no-BS truth. The obscenely thick, yellow custard middle? That’s the pure, buttery sin of his talent—sweet, dense, and cloying. All topped with that glossy, dark chocolate armor: cool, impenetrable, and elite. You don’t casually eat a Nanaimo Bar; you surrender to it. You dent the shell with your thumb, your fork sinks slowly into unyielding velvet, and the taste hits in waves—bitter dominance, stolen-frosting sweetness, earthy little secrets that cling to your tongue. It’s heavy, shameful, full-body bliss. The sugar settles low. You lick the greasy evidence from your lips. The crumbs on the plate are proof of your private crime. Layered, complex, and stupidly satisfying… just like him.
Welcome to the official Shit List, Mat Barzal—you straight-hearted wet dream, you glacial fantasy, you absolute nightmare I’d let use me into next week.
