'Twas the FTB before Christmas, when all through the blog not a creature was writing, not even for eggnog.
The hyperlinks were set in the post with such care, despite knowing all the readers were gone and elsewhere.
The trolls were nestled all smug in their opinions, while jokes about 1967 were shouted by their minions.
And the kittens in their ranch, and for Cathy and her cats, had just settled their brains for a long winter's nap only to be woken up at 5 am for feeding time.
When out on the twitter there arose such a trending, I sprang to my phone to see what was the matter.
Away to the nightstand I flew like a flash, clicked open the app, and threw up the clash.
The shit on the pigs of the newly mucked up sty gave the lustre of free agency to the insiders' woe.
So, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a tweet about Nylander's next contract and of his cap hit much fear.
With a little old sleuthing, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be that dick.
More rapid than "first"ers, the otters they came, and they whistled and shouted and called them by name:
"Now Pierre! Now Darren!
Now, McKenzie and Friedman!
On, Marek! On, Seravelli!
On, CJ and Weekesy!
To the top of the cap hit!
To the top of the wall!
Now troll away! Troll away!
Troll away all!"
As dry heaves that before their quote tweets would fly, they would wring their hands about cap hits and taxes until we all wanted to die.
So up to the top of the trending topics Nylander flew, with the timeline full of noise, and shitposting too.
And then, in a twinkling, I saw on my feed, the calculation and insight of CapFriendly's lede.
As I mathed in my head and was burning brain cells, out of nowhere that delightful jokester rang bells.
He was dressed as a jester, from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of names he had flung from his brain, and he looked like Nik Kulemin when happy or strained.
His eyes--how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn straight as a ruler, and the hat on his head was jingling and cooler.
He was skinny and tall, a right jolly old blogger, and I laughed when I saw him, as he poured out a lager.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and mocked all the otters, trolls and the jerks.
And laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his timeline gave a whistle, and to the moon his likes and quote tweets rose like a missile.
But I heard him exclaim, before leaving the joint,
The Leafs won in regulation last night as a last minute present to all of us.
Connor Bedard did something ridiculous as a present for the highlight reels.
Fraser Minten got an assist in Team Canada's final warmup game ahead of the World Juniors, thanks to a gift from Team USA's goalie.
Carson Briere, Danny Briere's son, had his punishment come down for that incident where he threw another student's wheelchair down a set of stairs. Merry Christmas, asshole.
And then there's THIS asshole.
Have a happy holiday everyone!