Under the Bucket: Deaner Reflects on Booze-Filled Christmases and Writes a Letter to Santa

(Editor's note: Welcome to Under the Bucket, where Deaner from the classic flick Fubar tackles all things NHL for VICE Sports. You can follow him on Twitter and read previous installments here.)

Well she's Christmastime, and I always get a little misty thinkin' about when I was knee high to a dog fucker. I remember back in the day when my Uncle Merle would jump up on the roof and stomp around every Christmas Eve, jingle some bells and dump a bunch of Glosette peanuts outside the door where we left the carrots for the Dasher and Dancer. He'd say, "Hey look kids, reindeer shit!" and then chow down a handful.

One year he busted a tooth on the turds cuz it was ­-25 degrees and he just fuckin' spat her out into the snow and cackled like an old witch. But the one time I'll always remember is when he slid off the roof and ripped his ass open on a pile of jagged scrap metal. With the ambulance lights just givin'r, our house finally had some nice Christmassy cheer goin' (my old man was too fuckin' lazy to put up lights), and I remember lookin' up at the footprints on the roof thinkin', "Fuck sakes, Merle, couldn't you just wait for Christmas Day like everybody else?" But, yah, eventually one day I figured it out—Santa ain't real and the Tooth Fairy ain't floatin' around town with a bag full of quarters. If you want something badly you gotta go out and fuckin' work for it.

That was back in the 1980s, when d-man Paul Coffee scored 48 goals, and Wayne Gretzky—not to be confused with my cousin, Dwayne—went on a 51-game ­point streak. It's hazy as fuck, but I remember in them days guys zippin' up and down the wing like the players on my rod hockey table after I'd sucked back one too many lick­a­stiks. But mostly, I remember the goalies looked liked starved out scarecrows, slidin' around and wavin' their fuckin' arms like they was flaggin' down the barman at last call.

Ain't no question, The Great One's 51-game point streak would never have happened in our era of Goliath goalies, and that makes what Patrick Kane did just so deadly. Christ, playing 26 games without getting injured is fucking impressive. Getting points in every one is almost a miracle.

Now I know if I was Saint Nick I'd be knee deep in tearstained letters from Leafs fans, beggin' me to slide Steven Stamkos their way. And guys, I'd love to, you fuckin' need something to get pumped about other than having Canada's biggest cock tower, I get it. But, trust me, it would be a fuckin' disaster for the team. Stamkos is gonna get $12 million per year and that's almost 20 percent of the salary cap, so after you totally overpay for a shit goalie and two shit first-line defencemen, you ain't gonna have enough money to ice two forward lines, let alone four. It's fun to dream, but Stamkos is gonna sign somewhere warm where he can drive to work on a Segway in flip-flops. Take that to the fuckin' bank.

So, yah, once again LOGIC is gonna get in the way of a fuckin' deadly mega trade/signing, but what are you gonna do? Write a letter to Santa? Don't mind if I do.

Dear Santa, if you're listening, all I want this Christmas is for NHL general managers to act a little more like my Uncle Merle. Merle didn't always think things through, but shit was exciting. He always said, "Beer makes me funny and whiskey makes me stupid; gimme a pint and a bottle of Crown." We'd find him later, locked in the trunk of his own car, and when we finally crowbarred the fucker open, with his gap-­toothed grin he'd say, "Jesus Christ, I hope I never do that again!"