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By Cam Colon

In Toronto

I am getting tired of listening to both sides of this lockout.

There’s no agreement in sight and the arguments are dragging on. It’s making my job really hard and the sex just isn’t there. That’s right. My wife has locked me out.

Citing my refusal to look into expansion of our league, and a tightening market for flowers and Pot-of-Gold chocolate, my wife, Camilla Colon, has locked her husband out of our arena of love.

This is the first lockout since we signed our original agreement in a quiet 1994 ceremony. The working relationship during the ensuing 10-year period was amicable.

At the very least, the games were played every night, there were hat-tricks a couple of times a week, and at least once a year I got drunk from drinking out of a 4-foot-tall silver cup while she wished she could. Bitch.

We’ve cancelled most of the season already, and there has been no games played–no hat-tricks for yours truly. One may say, “What’s the big deal?”

The deal is that I need hat tricks. Men need these agreements to be signed so that we don’t rot away from a sport that makes us better as people. What to do with the un-used sticks and pucks when the wife won’t let you in the dressing rooms? And so, idle sits the Zamboni of my marriage while the ice surface of our arena of love is bone-dry.

And, my support group is doing nothing. The group, Need Home Lovin’ to Prevent Affairs (NHLPA), has done nothing to support my needs while resolving the dispute. I still refuse to expand our two-team league.

We don’t need any fledgling expansion franchises running around the Colon household, yet she insists it will improve the parity of competition.

Just what I want, another team to which I have a losing record.

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