My Golden Bitch is being a bitch.

Back in December 2000, I was watching Sportscenter--back when they actually gave ten minutes a show to hockey. You know, the high and far-off times when dinosaurs roamed the earth.

Anyway. They showed a highlight from a Nashville-Detroit game; specifically, a fan in the stands who had a sign that said "Dear Santa, for Christmas all I want is to beat the Red Wings".

Nashville won that game, by the way.

That night, I was yakkin' with some of my gaming buddies on IRC--and I set the topic of the channel we were on to "Dear Santa, for Christmas all I want is for Marek Malik to make Chris Pronger his bitch."

I was, of course, joking.

One of the guys on the channel said "Uhhh, AQ? I don't think Malik will be making anyone his bitch."

My retort: "Well then, Pronger can be MY bitch."

And we laughed. Ever since then, Chris Pronger has been known as My Bitch. When he won in Salt Lake City in 2002, he became My Golden Bitch.

Which brings me to...now.

Mrs. Bitch has decided that she doesn't like Edmonton (despite the fact that it has the world's largest shopping mall), and so she's told hubby "Ask for a trade, or I walk." And My Golden Bitch has decided to be Lauren's Golden Bitch and say "Yes dear."

This is what you get when you marry a puckbunny, kids. And this is why the Whalers shipped him out for what wound up turning into Rod Brind'amour years ago--BAD. DECISION-MAKING. SKILLS.

I don't understand what his damn issue is, anyway. If I were a player, I would feel HONORED to play in the Northlands Coliseum 41 (or more) nights a season. HONORED, I tell you--if I couldn't play for the 'Canes, I'd definitely want to play in the City of Champions. And if I were My Golden Bitch (hereinafter shortened to MGB), I'd tell the wife "I'll send you back to Missouri where you can see all your friends and old boyfriends and daddy and mummy and whatnot, and I'll fly you up here once a month for conjugal visits."

If she doesn't like that, then I'd just divorce the little trollop, sue for custody of the kids, and ask Mom to come out from Dryden to help with the child-care, and find somebody better.

But then, I'm not MGB. If I were, I'd be smarter than to marry some whiny little bimbette who's just out for a meal ticket--and I'd certainly have more balls than to abscond to Mexico like some armored-car robber and have my agent do all the talking for me. That was even more spineless than letting the wife drag him around by his junk, and it makes me want to buy a McFarlane figure of the guy just so I can take it out to the range and use it for target practice.

If I were Kevin Lowe, I'd trade MGB to Minnesota for a bag of pucks and a used jockstrap (i.e. Filip Kuba and Andrei Zyuzin) and then use the freed-up cap room to sign somebody who actually WANTS to play in Edmonton. Sure, Minnesota has shopping--but it's also balls cold in the wintertime, smells like lutefisk, and is full of Norwegians that say "Ya sure, you betcha!" (and I should know about that, cos I've lived there.)

Let's hear Lauren whine about THAT one. She'll wish she'd never left Edmonchuk after a nice Minnesota winter (and a trip or two down Hennepin Avenue after dark).