What follows is a terribly dorky parody that I spent too long writing because I'm a huge hockey nerd with nothing better to do. But it was fun. For your consideration:
T’was the night before Draft Day, and all through the ‘Sphere
Every Oil fan was stirring, on their fourth or fifth beer.
The mock drafts were posted by the ex-GMs with no hair,
In hopes that many bloggers would soon click there.
The basketball fans were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of LeBron dunked in their heads.
But McCurdy, and Lowetide, and of course Black Dog Pat,
Had just started their zillionth Oilers roster chat.
While stifling a yawn, I refreshed my twitter,
I perused Willis’ coach profiles and sipped at my bitter,
Opening a new window, I clicked like a flash,
Googled Justin Schultz and pondered Rick Nash.
The moon on the breast of a Lowetide pic of Bardot,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to “objects below.”
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Fussy Britches trade rumour-- Where’s that sixth beer?
“With a GM like Toonces,” I said, slurring like Jon Quick,
“He’ll probably go and screw up the first pick.
Or he’ll fucking trade Smyth to the goddamn Flames!”
And I spitted, and shouted, and called him rude names.
“Fuck Dithers! Fuck Toonces! Fuck Tambi and Tambo!
Fuck Versions 1 through 3.0 and, of course, fuck TambLowe!
We’re at the top of the draft! You signed Petrell for Horcov!
Now draft Nail! Draft Nail! Draft Nail Yakupov!”
But then, in a twinkling, I thought of a man,
Called the Magnificent Bastard, who seems to have a plan.
As I threw back my head, draining the last round,
“In Stu We Trust,” I prayed without sound.
His eyes- how they twinkle! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks are like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth will be drawn up like a bow,
When he calls up a 4th rounder that he knows will play in The Show.
He’s chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laugh when I see him, in spite of myself!
The glints in his eye and his calm level-head
Are the only things that soothe Oilers fans' dread.
He gives not a clue, but stands by his work,
Filling up draft slots (and rarely with jerks!)
He’ll lay his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, o’er the Consol Energy Center he’ll pose!
He’ll spring to the podium for his team and pick a winner,
Trying to give us a meaningful game after Winter.
And I heard St. MacGregor exclaim, as I went out like a light,
“Happy Draft Day to all, and to all a good-night!”
