an intricate conspiracy against the wings.
Scene: Gary Bettman's living room. Bettman is wearing a Penguins jersey with "Steelers" written on it in magic marker. Co-host Donald Fehr is wearing a cheesehead.
In the living room, a crowd has gathered around a large board that contains a traditional Super Bowl squares pool. One guest is finishing a lengthy dissertation.
Ted Leonsis: And that, my friends, is how to win a Super Bowl squares pool. It's the perfect strategy, and you should all thank me for sharing my genius with you.
Bettman: That's great, Ted. So are you going to buy a $2 square or what?
Leonsis: Uh, I'm a little short. Any chance somebody can chip in some of that?
Richard Peddie sighs, and hands over some change.
Leonsis (under his breath): Genius…
Bettman: OK, looks like the board is almost all filled. Has everyone had a chance to pick their square?
Fehr: Yeah, every single person at the party. Well, everyone except…
Everyone turns to stare at one guest.
Phil Kessel: Sigh.
Alexander Ovechkin runs over and snaps a photo.
Bettman: Leave him alone, Alex. OK, the big game is almost ready to start. Does everyone have a place to sit?
Cory Clouston climbs into his booster seat. John Ferguson Jr. sits down on the floor, facing the wrong way. Detroit Red Wings GM Ken Holland points out a comfortable chair in the corner.
Holland: I've thought about it, done my homework, weighed the pros and cons, and I've decided I'm going to sit right…
Garth Snow nonchalantly walks over and sits in Holland's spot.
Holland: Hey! Stop doing that!
Bettman: Tough break Ken. But there's still a bunch of empty chairs all around Phil.
Kessel: I hate you all so much.
The party is suddenly interrupted by the floor rumbling, followed by crashing sounds from outside.
Fehr (peering out window): Uh, Gary, there are 30 guys in tights running around outside, shooting lasers out of their eyes and smashing things.
Bettman: Thirty guys?
Fehr: Well, 29. Plus an angry tree. Who also seems to be wearing tights.
Bettman: Oh no. It's the heroes from our NHL Guardian project. Ever since we told Stan Lee that the entire idea was a terrible mistake, he's been threatening to unleash them against us.
Fehr: So wait, you're saying we're under attack from 30 angry heroes with super powers? What can we do?
Brent Johnson: I'll take care of it. Somebody hold my beer.
Johnson casually shakes off his glove and blocker and walks out the front the door. Three seconds later, he walks back in.
Johnson: They're all unconscious.
Bettman: Thanks Brent.
Johnson: Sorry it took so long. Hey, what happened to my beer?
Holland: Garth Snow probably took it.
Fehr: Uh oh. Gary, I thought we specifically said we weren't going to invite…
A figure emerges from the kitchen wearing an apron and oven mitts and carrying a tray.
Chris Pronger (cheery sing-song voice): Who wants some of my world-famous Super Bowl guacamole dip?
Pronger: What? Why not?
Bettman: Well, for starters it's probably made out of ground up kitten hearts.
Pronger: Oh come on. Just because I occasionally play on the edge doesn't mean I can't be a well-rounded person off the ice. And it just so happens that I worked all afternoon on this special recipe because I thought that if I made you guys something nice then maybe, just this once, you'd start treating me like a friend instead of some kind of monster. I guess I was wrong.
Bettman: Wow. Sorry Chris.
Everyone digs in.
Bettman (mouth full): Wow, this is really good. (Chewing.) And where did you get the serving bowl that looks like a hollowed out human skull?
Pronger: "Looks like"?
Everyone spits out their food and begins retching.
Bettman: Brent, you want to take care of this?
Johnson: I'm invincible, not crazy. I'm out of here.
Ovechkin: Me too.
Holland: Me too.
Garth Snow nonchalantly gets in Holland's car and drives away.
Holland: Oh come on!
Leonsis (disappearing out the door): This whole thing would have been so much better if I was in charge. Hey, can anyone spot me some cab fare?
Ferguson, Clouston and Peddie file out. Bettman and Fehr are left standing in the doorway.
Bettman: Wow. This place cleared out quick. I guess this is just another Bettman party disaster.
Fehr (placing an arm around Bettman): Yeah. But don't worry about it buddy. There's still time to make it to the party at Selig's house. I'll drive.
Bettman surveys the room, shakes his head, and turns for the door. He flicks off the light as he leaves.
Twenty minutes later, a lone figure still sitting in the otherwise empty room finally speaks.
Kessel: So do I get another car for this, or what?