Dear Mr. Claus,

Yes, it’s me again, The Book Of Loob, writing to you, your eminance, as your big day is just around the corner, and I know you’re in the middle of your last big push before you get your operation underway.

I know I’m writing you pretty late in terms of asking you what I want for Christmas, and what I want for fans of the Calgary Flames to want on this holiest of days within the Winter Equinox, but after you gave us all the chimney shaft last year, it took me a little while to regain the confidence I have in your ability to look out for us.

So I get it.  Times change.  You’re not the man we used to be able to depend on in our youth, and that’s cool.  Some acknowledgement of this would go a long way, but we survive.  It also means I’ve adapted my own desires when it comes to December 25th.  I realized that maybe last year I was asking for too many things.  Too many big things.  I really would have just settled on a new anthem singer, I really would have been happy with that alone.  Maybe I, as a representative of the Flames fan base, got a little greedy.  I felt maybe we were entitled to some of those shiny new toys the way we behaved ourselves, even in the face of some very mediocre hockey which, frankly, we didn’t deserve.  But I’ve come to the realization that being entitled these days doesn’t get you much, and despite that being a bitter pill to swallow and all too tough of a lesson to learn, I’m coming back to the well again, one more time, to see if I can’t coerce you to give us something.

It’s really simple this year, Mr. C.  All we want, all of us, is hockey to come back.  I don’t care who has to get fired, or who loses their job to Nathan MacKinnon, or what awful, terrible things have to happen to Jeremy Jacobs, it’s for the greater good, and there is no finer gift you could provide to the world this winter, Santey.

In the spirit of the thing, here’s what I really want to see go down.  It’s a real Dickensesque holiday scenario Santa, but I know you and whatever black magic voodoo you conjure up that can make terrestrial mammals fly several miles off the surface are more than up to the task.

I want Murray Edwards, certainly sleeping alone in his four post canvas bed on Christmas Eve, sleeping on a pillowcase endowed with money, to be visited by a host of legendary hockey spirits.

I want Boots Del Baggio to visit Murray at the stroke of midnight, or like whenever he goes to sleep and his mistress leaves (if anyone thinks I’m saying anything untoward about Murray Edwards, remember, there’s no hockey right now because of him).  I haven’t heard from Ol’ Boots in a while, is he still alive?  If so, get creative Santa.  I’m sure Harold Ballard is out there somewhere, and you might be able to get him out of Hell for a discounted price.  I want you to to get him to tell Murray that he’s erred, and erred HARD, and if he doesn’t change his ways, shit’s going to go down, and it won’t be pretty.  Tell him he’s going to have an ownership stake in only the Atlanta Thrashers for eternity, that should help.

But just to bring the point home, because what’s more of a Christmas tradition than excess, have Murray be visited by three more spirits, one’s that will spiritually and specterally beat his ass.  That’s some ghost shit, right there.

Sorry for swearing, Santa.

Quite obviously Harley Hotchkiss should be the ghost of Christmas Past.  Murray knows him, he was quite philanthropic, and everyone considers him to be an instrumental piece in getting negotiations steered in the right direction during the last lockout.  Everyone loved ol’ HH, and with good reason.  If there’s anyone that can tug on Murray’s heartstrings while keeping him mindful about how full his wallet can still be, it’s Harley.  I want him to lay it on thick, Santa, because after everything he and all the other NHL owners have done to us, I really want to see Murray Edwards cry.

Have Mike Commodore arrive afterwards, representing the Ghost of Christmas Present.  There’s no real metephorical reason for this, or anything deep seeded, I just think Mike Commodore REALLY looks like virtually every picture of what the Ghost I’ve ever seen looks like:

Plus there’s the added benefit of Mikey C being a pretty big boy who can put the strap to Murray Edwards.  Really rough him up, which again, I would really like to see.

The ghost of Christmas future should maybe be Alex Ovechkin.  Primarily because he has a dark visor and can look ominous under the right conditions (maybe), but also because, like, I don’t know, maybe he’s a metaphor for a delayed lockout meaning players like Ovy and Kovalchulk and Malkin and the like not ever coming back to play NHL hockey the longer it goes on.  And then, again, because Ovy can throw a body check and could absolutely light up Murray, so there’s lot of reasons as to why this should happen.

I really don’t feel like this is too much to ask, Mr. Claus, as there’s literally thousands of people who share my wish, and when I give up my dreams for those of the greater good, karmic forces outside of my control but not yours should run their course and make this happen.  For all of us.  We need this, Santa, we need hockey, and we need to see bad things happen to Murray Edwards and his leather fetish.

As is the usual custom, I will leave chocolate chip cookies and three fingers of Johnny Walker by the fireplace this year.  If you could just leave a note in my stocking or something letting me know when this is all going to go down and where on the internet I can watch it happen, that would be swell.

Regards as always.  Say hi to the missus for me,

The Book of Loob

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