Page 2 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

Zebras live in sweltering temperatures on east African savannas (I watched a National Geographic show about them once) so what the fuck does that have to do with Christmas?

But then again, there’s also a life-sized bunny, its ears wrapped in flashing white lights, that’s holding what looks like a giant gift-wrapped carrot. So I don’t know why I’m singling out the poor zebra.

I drag my eyes from the lawn…um…ornaments?…to the glowing house, which I now realize has a Santa dangling from the gutter, like he’s slipped and is on the brink of a tragic accident.

This is no longer just weird and infuriating—it’s absolutely fucking enraging.

My beautiful new peaceful retreat looks like every elf,fairy and snowman in the universe threw up their Christmas cheer all over it before Rudolph and all his pals took a giant sparkly shit on top.

Jesus Christ. The moment I get inside I’m calling the Realtor and firing a rocket up his ass—a glittery one wrapped in icicle lights.

But the first thing I need to do is find the switch that turns all this shit off.

The cold night air hits my face when I open the car door. This is the first time I’ve been outside all day.

I took the elevator from my apartment to the parking garage and drove to the Launch Pad—my hockey team’s training facility just north of the city—where I parked in the connected indoor lot. Sitting on the wrong side of the boards and watching my teammates practice without me was the most frustrating feeling on the planet. Or I thought it was, until the physical therapist told me it’s unlikely my shoulder will be ready to play again before the new year. Then I drove up here.

But it’s not only the frosty air that hits me when I open the car door—there’s also music. Well, a sound more like a fistful of rusty nails being dragged down a chalkboard than music. I scan past the zebra and the bunny and spot the mechanical monkey grinding an organ that is spewing a tinny, plinky version of “Deck the Halls.”

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse.

I hit the button for the rear door, duck my head against the wind and snow, and hurry around to the back of the SUV.

Ew. Cold slush in my sneaker. Excellent.

I bend into the cargo space and reach for my bag.

A muffled cry behind me makes me jumplike a startled kangaroo (they live on shrubland in Australia) and smack my head on the inside of the vehicle.

“Fuck.”

Great, a potential concussion to add to the proceedings.

I’m rubbing my crown and trying to figure out what the garbled mush of words was when something jumps me from behind.

This mugger or stabber or kidnapper or whatever the fuck they are has picked the wrong day to mess with me. First the bad news on my shoulder injury, then this Christmas crap all over my new house, followed by a bang on the head.

There’s no way I’m going to die a violent death in my new driveway before I finally get some peace and fucking quiet.

The self-defense class my team was put through during a stalker situation three years ago comes flooding back.

I’m not sure there was a specific instruction for what to do when someone is dangling off your shoulders, but I do remember one thing.

“Not today, motherfucker,” I yell, and in a surge of adrenaline fueled by surprise and fury, I bend forward, reach between my legs and grab the person’s calf—which is weirdly furry—then yank it forward to pull them off-balance.

It works perfectly, and with a surprisedaarghand anoomphthey land on their back in the deep snow on the lawn behind me.

In one motion, I spin around and drop on top, straddling them and pinning down their arms. Their furry arms.

Jesus Christ. I’m staring down at a life-sized bunny.

Maybe the GPS woman did give me wrong directionsand sent me through a portal into some sort of Lewis Carroll, LSD-inspired performance art.

I glance at where the huge bunny “ornament” had been standing just moments ago. There’s now just an empty space and two huge footprints.

“Who the fuck are you?” I ask the giant grinning rabbit face.

Frantic leg-kicking erupts behind me as more muffled words I can’t make out come from the furry head, which is rocking side to side, ears flapping back and forth. This is the most pathetic attack I’ve ever had to defend myself from. And, believe me, as a hockey player I’ve had a few. It’s like fighting with a…well…a bunny.

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