Here's a story you'll no doubt enjoy at my expense, only because this would only happen to me.

If you were anywhere in Manhattan or downtown Brooklyn on Saturday, you couldn't help but notice the large invasion of Santas running amok.  That, my friends, was because it was SantaCon, the unofficial holiday where your "inner-Santa" got to come out and play for a day.

Last year during SantaCon, we got some minor hits throughout the afternoon but nothing crazy.  So with that being said, I had that in mind when I decided to hit a matinee Devils/Habs game.  Any chance I have to see my Habs play, I'm going to take advantage of it and this game had been planned since August.  So I went to the game, knowing that the bar would be in good hands with THE RUNNING MAN, who normally runs Saturdays with an iron fist.  Little did I know what I was in store for.

First the good stuff.  The Devils/ Habs game was AWESOME!  For starters, there were TONS of Habs fans at the game.  So many fans, that I couldn't help but to tweet #BellCentreSouth during the course of the game.  It was great to see so many of my brethren enjoying the game!

During the game, I sent a text message to THE RUNNING MAN to check on his progress, but I didn't get a response.  I didn't think anything of it at first but after sending my 4th text and not getting a response, I began to worry.

After the game we headed to the NJ Transit train to head back to the city.  I called the bar and kept getting busy signals.  After about the fourth attempt I finally got someone to answer the phone.  It was THE RUNNING MAN and he sounded like he was in a state of panic.  "I'm overwhelmed and I'm out of change.  Get here now... click!"

Oh shit.  And I'm on a slow moving train.  Houston, we have a problem.  

(more to come)....

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