Uncle Ted: My first (sort of) big-game hunt! How thrilling! After my first, successful foray into shooting down sports media people who shortchange me or my club, it’s time for something a little bigger, wouldn’t you say?

Boyd Gordon: Whatever you say, boss. But could you quit swinging that thing around? You’re making me a little nervous.

Uncle Ted: By Jove, where is that rascal? Gordon, you’re supposed to be my Canadian sherpa!

Boyd: Look, I told you, I don’t even know this Russ McDonald guy. How am I supposed to know where he is?

Uncle Ted: McKeon! Ross McKeon! He’s a famous hockey writer! And don’t lie to me! I know for a fact that you Canucks are all either hockey players or hockey writers. The ones that aren’t Mounties and strippers, anyway.

Boyd: Hey, that’s a little unfair. We got farmers, too. Anyway, who cares about some stupid hockey writer?

Uncle Ted: Silence, lad, or I’ll unload this brace of pistols into your backside! This blackguard McKeon had the audacity to suggest that my very own Washington Capitals be contracted! Disbanded! Sold for scrap! Do you know what that would mean for you, lad?

Boyd: Ummmm, I could play in Toronto?

Uncle Ted: No, you layabout! It means fringe seven-goal-scorers like you would have to learn Russian! I’ve been to Novgodorsk. It’s not pretty.

Boyd: I dunno. Sergei and Ovie say the ladies are pretty fine.

Uncle Ted: My boy, not to be cruel, but I think they have the pick of the litter. You, on the other hand, would be picking through the litter box. Now, where’s that McKeon? Find him, boy, so that I may blast him with my verbal elephant gun! There’s something about the middle of August that just gets my blood boiling!

Boyd: Did you bring any beer? It’s a long way to Saskatchewan.