Prego: I'm selling my soul to Satan.
Mrs. P: For what?
Prego: To get the Sabres past this series.
Mrs. P: (Annoyed & Distraught) Ugh.. That's really good. Nice. Nice...
I know she has visions of us walking hand in hand in that giant Jehovah's Witness Petting Zoo in the sky, so it was really difficult for me to break it to her.
Dear Satan, Baal, Beelzebub, Akuma, Prince of Darkness or Whatever:
How are you? Torrid, I hope. Let's not kid ourselves. I know you already lay claim to my everlasting (There was that time in Kentucky with the possum and the voodoo priestess from Havana. Oh... and playing those Judas Priest records backwards...) but I thought I'd ask you for a small request. I don't usually ask for much -- not that you listen much, anyway: American Idol is still on the air, Rosie O'Donnell can still walk and talk... Also, you never sent that murder of crows to pluck out Dr. Phil's moustache hairs one by one -- but you're my last chance.
I realize you're busy, and people ask you for all kinds of stupid crap (fame, fortune... sacrilicious doughnuts; I also realize that his kind request falls into that category - after all, there's no self gain for me and it doesn't quite further your cause, but do you think you can find it in that black void in your chest to let the Sabres squeak through this round of the Stanley Cup playoffs?
The other #$*@ers are ignoring me (and I wish the Dalai Lama would quit calling me) and I don't know where else to turn. I'm willing to spend eternity as Attila's boy-toy or sitting through a Bette Midler triple-feature...
You did it for Ray Bourque, Mario Lemieux and Scotty Bowman, so if it's not too much trouble...
PS If you do in fact exist, kindly ignore this letter. Let the chips fall where they may. I'd hate to think that the Sabres actually won the Cup on anything less than grit, hard work and sheer determination. And say "hi" to Katie Couric for me.