Holy shit, Homer!

Per Khan (and an extra-special high-five to saraneuie for the link), TSO's most favorite, Tomas Holmstrom, is the Wings' nominee for the Masterton Trophy, which is officially the League's award for most "sportsmanship, leadership and perseverance", or, as we like to say around these parts, being the biggest fucking boss that we've seen thus far.

Homer, man of so many poetic words, summarized his elation at learning of his nomination thusly:

"Oh, I'm honored,'' Holmstrom said.

This isn't your first trip to town. You know exactly how TSO feels about Homer. We jumped up and down for joy when Homer scored career goal #200 in December. We made him a get-well card and promised to pour out some MD 20/20 upon learning of his injury. I changed all the fucking pictures on this site to Homer's while he was sidelined. I got arrested but never indicted for that time I got stuck in Homer's cul-de-sac in the middle of the night with a flashlight, a crowbar, and a Jultomten costume. Bottom line: Homer rocks our socks.

With that in mind, I present you the following:

TSO's Open Letter to the Powers-That-Be Behind the Scenes
To Whom It May Concern:

It has recently been brought to the attention of The Scrappy Octopus that the scrappiest motherfucker ever, Tomas Holmstrom, is eligible to be named as a finalist for the Bill Masterton Memorial Trophy.

We understand that in order to keep up appearances, you still have to announce three finalists--you know, in an effort to coddle egos and create a pseudo-element of surprise. We fully expect that come June, the award will be Homer's.

In the interim, please ponder the following reasons why TSO believes it is in your best interests to hand the award over to #96:

1. First, the obvious: the location of Homer's office. Do you know what it's like to go to work every day in the absolute direst of environments? Probably not. Your office is most likely located in a cushy canopy of daffodils and rainbows. Imagine going to work every day on a train ride to hell with fire-roasted seats and the sound of Rosie O'Donnell's laughter playing on a continuous loop on the loudspeaker, forcing you to pray for the train to reach its destination, only when the train opens its doors, you find this waiting for you:



And sometimes, you get this instead:



And on really shitty days, you might come across this:



Yeah. Them apples fucking suck ass, don't they?

2. Homer's primary task is to plant his derriere in the faces of opposing goaltenders in the hopes of screening them from seeing shots or positioning himself for a quick deflection into the back of the net. To put this into perspective, imagine giving a grinding lapdance to this guy:



Kinda looks like the type who may or may not get a boner from the delightful combination of solitude, strychnine, and scrotum surface area.

3. Homer started off this year in a blaze of glory. Remember that time, not so far in the distant past, when he led the team in goals? For Christ's sake, he notched an assist on each of the three Wings' goals scored in the outing against Nashville this past Saturday. He has arguably been the most consistent player in terms of production on the team during this rollercoaster-shitfest of a year, despite being sidelined on two separate occasions due to injuries.

4. Homer's always doing work. Always. He works his ass off along the boards. He is one of the least polished skaters on the team, but how many games do we all watch him lumbering down the ice at Homer-mach-five to attempt to negate an untimely icing call or to outwrangle some asshole for control of the puck? The correct answer is every fucking game. If that's not perseverance, then fuck me sideways.

The bottom line is that in terms of surpassing expectations and in maintaining his work ethic and production in spite of adversarial circumstances this season, Homer's done it all. Somewhere deep down, you've gotta believe that his determination served as an inspiration to his teammates along the way, particularly as the Wings struggled with so many injuries this season.

So, in short, give him the fucking trophy. You don't really want to deal with a pair of scrappy octopi in Jultomten costumes at your door, do you?

We trust that you'll make the appropriate decision.

Very respectfully yours, for sure,
The Scrappy Octopus