Thursday, December 20, 2007
Friday, December 07, 2007
Barnburner
Strawbs 4 Blades of Steel 4
Game Report
December 3, 2007
The Strawbs started out the game slowly which, in fact, is how they usually play the whole game. Archilles Perron set the tone early with his elegant listless swoops, his devil-may-care forechecking and a plethora of lethargic and aimless passes he had dreamed up in the off-season while langourously sunning himself naked in his own backyard. The Blades, intent on teaching old dogs new tricks, quickly shot out to a 3-1 lead and began celebrating their good luck and superior talent long before the first period had ended. Unfortunately for them, it turned for them out to be a bad case of celebratus interruptus.
During the terribly short break between periods, the Ice Marshall swiftly sized up the situation. Butcher Brophey had to be stopped. In the first period, he picked up 2 (and I know this will sound redundant) boneheaded penalties for holding and, surprise!, holding. Dr. Thug was chugging along on one lung, having coughed up the other in the dressing room just before game time. MagBoy was in an ornery mood, having been forced by the gorgeous MagGirl to iron and starch all her lacy underthings before he was allowed to play. His truculent mood translated into a series of 3 minute siestas in the sin bin, bosom companion to the resident Butcher. What were MagBoy’s sins? Bad wrestling and unscheduled knee surgery on an unsuspecting opponent.
In the face on these seemingly intractable problems and deleterious behaviours, the Ice Marshall promoted Whoahorny to centre, relegated a battered and forlorn Rob The Torch to defence, partially benched the Butcher and sent MagBoy home to finish his ironing. What a masterful stroke of hockey engineering. The Strawbs pounced on the unsuspecting Blades and took a 4-3 lead with less than 10 minutes remaining. The play moved back and forth, an on-ice poem stuffed with grace and lyricism.The Leak and his counterpart at the other end of the rink exhibited stellar work. One on one battles were fought with grit and determination. The titanic struggle continued until an unsupervised Butcher, miffed at his benching, snuck onto the ice to replace a dog-tired Shiny Shone Brightly. Within nanoseconds, he lay one of his errant mitts upon a charging Blade and was called for …… HOLDING. At this point, there were but 33 seconds left in the game. The Blades pulled their tender and had 6 skaters on the ice versus 4 for the Strawbs. The Ice Marshall took the faceoff, pulled the puck to a spot between his legs and knelt on the frozen biscuit in an effort to run down the clock. The opposing meathead centre took offense to this stategy and started cross-checking the IM across the skull. An incensed Gumby, guardian angel to all his teammates, physically advised the meathead of the inappropriateness of his actions and both he and the meathead were escorted to the penalty box. Because the penalties were off-setting, the man advantage for the Blades was now 6 men to 3, with 30 seconds remaining. Despite the Strawbs’ valiant efforts, the Blades somehow managed to tuck one in behind a sprawling Leak. Game tied 4-4. Game ended 4-4.
Now 4-4 is a good score for one reason only. It has become tradition that upon such a score, Freight Train becomes responsible for buying a whole lot of beer at the Terminal Tavren (yes, tavren). This is as a result of a poor decision on his part over 2 years ago. We won’t go into details. Let’s just say he is still rueing his musing.
So off to the drinking hole went the team (minus the banished Butcher), suffused with contentedness at having made a noteworthy comeback and delirious with the thought that the beer would be free, Freight Train having once again been hoist on his own petard.
Shoulders were slapped, bums pinched (by Samara Desert and the well-subattired MagGirl). Freight Train’s unintended generosity was toasted and those absent were slagged. And, as usual, peace reigned in an unpredictable universe.
4 jugs of Keiths, 4 Guinness, 2 Budlight, 1 Stella, 2 pounds of chicken wings and the warm afterglow of a barnburner were consumed.
Game Report
December 3, 2007
The Strawbs started out the game slowly which, in fact, is how they usually play the whole game. Archilles Perron set the tone early with his elegant listless swoops, his devil-may-care forechecking and a plethora of lethargic and aimless passes he had dreamed up in the off-season while langourously sunning himself naked in his own backyard. The Blades, intent on teaching old dogs new tricks, quickly shot out to a 3-1 lead and began celebrating their good luck and superior talent long before the first period had ended. Unfortunately for them, it turned for them out to be a bad case of celebratus interruptus.
During the terribly short break between periods, the Ice Marshall swiftly sized up the situation. Butcher Brophey had to be stopped. In the first period, he picked up 2 (and I know this will sound redundant) boneheaded penalties for holding and, surprise!, holding. Dr. Thug was chugging along on one lung, having coughed up the other in the dressing room just before game time. MagBoy was in an ornery mood, having been forced by the gorgeous MagGirl to iron and starch all her lacy underthings before he was allowed to play. His truculent mood translated into a series of 3 minute siestas in the sin bin, bosom companion to the resident Butcher. What were MagBoy’s sins? Bad wrestling and unscheduled knee surgery on an unsuspecting opponent.
In the face on these seemingly intractable problems and deleterious behaviours, the Ice Marshall promoted Whoahorny to centre, relegated a battered and forlorn Rob The Torch to defence, partially benched the Butcher and sent MagBoy home to finish his ironing. What a masterful stroke of hockey engineering. The Strawbs pounced on the unsuspecting Blades and took a 4-3 lead with less than 10 minutes remaining. The play moved back and forth, an on-ice poem stuffed with grace and lyricism.The Leak and his counterpart at the other end of the rink exhibited stellar work. One on one battles were fought with grit and determination. The titanic struggle continued until an unsupervised Butcher, miffed at his benching, snuck onto the ice to replace a dog-tired Shiny Shone Brightly. Within nanoseconds, he lay one of his errant mitts upon a charging Blade and was called for …… HOLDING. At this point, there were but 33 seconds left in the game. The Blades pulled their tender and had 6 skaters on the ice versus 4 for the Strawbs. The Ice Marshall took the faceoff, pulled the puck to a spot between his legs and knelt on the frozen biscuit in an effort to run down the clock. The opposing meathead centre took offense to this stategy and started cross-checking the IM across the skull. An incensed Gumby, guardian angel to all his teammates, physically advised the meathead of the inappropriateness of his actions and both he and the meathead were escorted to the penalty box. Because the penalties were off-setting, the man advantage for the Blades was now 6 men to 3, with 30 seconds remaining. Despite the Strawbs’ valiant efforts, the Blades somehow managed to tuck one in behind a sprawling Leak. Game tied 4-4. Game ended 4-4.
Now 4-4 is a good score for one reason only. It has become tradition that upon such a score, Freight Train becomes responsible for buying a whole lot of beer at the Terminal Tavren (yes, tavren). This is as a result of a poor decision on his part over 2 years ago. We won’t go into details. Let’s just say he is still rueing his musing.
So off to the drinking hole went the team (minus the banished Butcher), suffused with contentedness at having made a noteworthy comeback and delirious with the thought that the beer would be free, Freight Train having once again been hoist on his own petard.
Shoulders were slapped, bums pinched (by Samara Desert and the well-subattired MagGirl). Freight Train’s unintended generosity was toasted and those absent were slagged. And, as usual, peace reigned in an unpredictable universe.
4 jugs of Keiths, 4 Guinness, 2 Budlight, 1 Stella, 2 pounds of chicken wings and the warm afterglow of a barnburner were consumed.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
See, Over There ...
The Butcher points out to the IM where he thinks the new practice facility for the Strawbs should go.The IM had different thoughts.
IM: That's Siberia over there.
BB: Ya. I know.
IM: That's where you'll be practising next if you don't stop killing us with your stupid penalties.
BB: What stupid penalties?
IM: Are your bags packed?
Friday, November 30, 2007
MagBoy Rues His Performance
Last Monday, November 26, 2007, MagBoy weaved his magic in the Strawbs' net, surrendering 6 soft goals on 7 shots. Here he is pictured on Wednesday, November 29, 2007 at the Terminal Tavren seeking solace in the only object in the universe empathetic to his plight.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Failed Experiment A Huge Success
Game Report
November 26, 2007
Thrashers 6 Strawbs 3
Machiavelli once said “Tutti fan tutti, dar es saalam” which, in English, translates roughly to either “Your hair is on fire” or, what is more likely, “ Set the bar low enough and your success is guaranteed.” Well, last night, the bar was set so low, it was buried under a sea of barely visible expectations.
After an earlier thrashing of the Thrashers by the Strawbs this month, The Vice, in his infinite wisdom, autocratically appointed himself Interim Supreme Tactician For The Advancement of Mediocraty in Hockey and came up with a game plan to make last evening’s tilt a more interesting one: to wit, put MagBoy in nets, let Jesse The Leak patrol the right wing, move the best offensive players to defence and switch the hapless Dmen to forward. This was, on paper, a brilliant strategy worthy of John Ferguson Junior. Yet….
Disaster ensued. Of the 3 goals scored by the Strawbs, 2 came from off the sticks of relocated forwards playing defence under the Vice’s master plan. Pyjama Man and Warrin’ Peace, normally hard-nosed, hard-drinking centers, both found the back of the Thrashers’ net from their new positions. The only recently promoted forward of any consequence on the evening was Shiny Shone Brightly who tallied the Strawbs’ first goal of the game on a superb screen shot from the top of the circle. The rest of the offence was truly offensive.
In nets, MagBoy, despite giving it his all, looked like a beached whale on bad coke. He did more writhing on his back than Xaviera Hollander at an out of town Shriners’ convention. Each of the 6 goals he allowed was less spectacular than the last. He might have done better had he bothered to stop constantly ogling his girlfriend, the coquetish MagGirl, every 10 or 15 seconds, desperately seeking her stingy approval, which approval never did come. Historians of the Killer Strawberries will certainly recall that it was only 2 short years ago that MagBoy was banned from skating within 10 feet of his own net as a punishment for his shoddy substitute goaltending in a game of consequence at the time. The Vice, one of the most forgiving of men on the planet (thanks mostly to a very poor memory), wanted to give MagBoy a chance last night to redeem himself. MagBoy did not. The 10 foot ban is now a lifetime ban.
For weeks now, Gumby has been pleading his case to play forward where, in his opinion, he would outshine anyone else on the ice, even if he were forced to play using only half his brain. While he was moved to forward for the tilt and allowed to play on his full brain, he failed to live up to his own self-inflated press. At the 10 minute and 37 second mark, he was unceremoniously tossed from the match for his third boneheaded infraction, thereby eclipsing Butcher Brophey’s dubious record setting penalty performance perpetrated earlier in the season. Hooking, unsportsmanlike conduct and slashing were all he shinily contributed on this evening. “I didn’t do nothin’” he whined on his way out the door. “It’s gotten so you can’t even tell a referee to go screw himself with his girfriend’s strap-on without the dimwit getting upset. The game ain’t what it used to be.” Gumby was so incensed by the whole affair that, rather than take his lumps and an unnecessary shower, he found himself a perch in the stands so that he could continue to berate the zebras in his own inimitable fashion. He was summarily asked to leave the arena by both referees, his own teammates, and the Zamboni driver.
Now, an astute reader might ask how this ill-conceived experiment could be termed a success. Here is how the Vice spun it in the dressing room after the game.
“What I was looking for tonight was to have everyone gain an appreciation for the difficult job each of us has in our regular positions. I also wanted to make the game more interesting. I think both objectives were met.” Since most of the Strawbs are acutely aware of the futility of arguing with faulty logic put forward by a faulty mind, they all agreed wholeheartedly with the Vice. To his face. Unfortunately, it was the Ice Marshall who had to contend with the disgrutled Guinea pigs at the Terminal Tavren. He managed to smooth the ruffled feathers by promising that the Vice’s team duties in future will be limited to party planning and ordering new hats, two tasks at which he excels. Tutti fan tutti indeed.
The only winner on the evening was the sagacious Dr. Thug who, upon learning of the proposed game strategy, suddenly developed a temporary case of epilepsy, dipthteria and Aids, rendering him unavailable for the horror show which was to come. Get better soon, you friggin’ baby!
6 Guinness, 4 Stella, 1 Kilkenny, 2 Bass, 2 Bud Light, some lame Zowie wings and some low expectations were consumed.
November 26, 2007
Thrashers 6 Strawbs 3
Machiavelli once said “Tutti fan tutti, dar es saalam” which, in English, translates roughly to either “Your hair is on fire” or, what is more likely, “ Set the bar low enough and your success is guaranteed.” Well, last night, the bar was set so low, it was buried under a sea of barely visible expectations.
After an earlier thrashing of the Thrashers by the Strawbs this month, The Vice, in his infinite wisdom, autocratically appointed himself Interim Supreme Tactician For The Advancement of Mediocraty in Hockey and came up with a game plan to make last evening’s tilt a more interesting one: to wit, put MagBoy in nets, let Jesse The Leak patrol the right wing, move the best offensive players to defence and switch the hapless Dmen to forward. This was, on paper, a brilliant strategy worthy of John Ferguson Junior. Yet….
Disaster ensued. Of the 3 goals scored by the Strawbs, 2 came from off the sticks of relocated forwards playing defence under the Vice’s master plan. Pyjama Man and Warrin’ Peace, normally hard-nosed, hard-drinking centers, both found the back of the Thrashers’ net from their new positions. The only recently promoted forward of any consequence on the evening was Shiny Shone Brightly who tallied the Strawbs’ first goal of the game on a superb screen shot from the top of the circle. The rest of the offence was truly offensive.
In nets, MagBoy, despite giving it his all, looked like a beached whale on bad coke. He did more writhing on his back than Xaviera Hollander at an out of town Shriners’ convention. Each of the 6 goals he allowed was less spectacular than the last. He might have done better had he bothered to stop constantly ogling his girlfriend, the coquetish MagGirl, every 10 or 15 seconds, desperately seeking her stingy approval, which approval never did come. Historians of the Killer Strawberries will certainly recall that it was only 2 short years ago that MagBoy was banned from skating within 10 feet of his own net as a punishment for his shoddy substitute goaltending in a game of consequence at the time. The Vice, one of the most forgiving of men on the planet (thanks mostly to a very poor memory), wanted to give MagBoy a chance last night to redeem himself. MagBoy did not. The 10 foot ban is now a lifetime ban.
For weeks now, Gumby has been pleading his case to play forward where, in his opinion, he would outshine anyone else on the ice, even if he were forced to play using only half his brain. While he was moved to forward for the tilt and allowed to play on his full brain, he failed to live up to his own self-inflated press. At the 10 minute and 37 second mark, he was unceremoniously tossed from the match for his third boneheaded infraction, thereby eclipsing Butcher Brophey’s dubious record setting penalty performance perpetrated earlier in the season. Hooking, unsportsmanlike conduct and slashing were all he shinily contributed on this evening. “I didn’t do nothin’” he whined on his way out the door. “It’s gotten so you can’t even tell a referee to go screw himself with his girfriend’s strap-on without the dimwit getting upset. The game ain’t what it used to be.” Gumby was so incensed by the whole affair that, rather than take his lumps and an unnecessary shower, he found himself a perch in the stands so that he could continue to berate the zebras in his own inimitable fashion. He was summarily asked to leave the arena by both referees, his own teammates, and the Zamboni driver.
Now, an astute reader might ask how this ill-conceived experiment could be termed a success. Here is how the Vice spun it in the dressing room after the game.
“What I was looking for tonight was to have everyone gain an appreciation for the difficult job each of us has in our regular positions. I also wanted to make the game more interesting. I think both objectives were met.” Since most of the Strawbs are acutely aware of the futility of arguing with faulty logic put forward by a faulty mind, they all agreed wholeheartedly with the Vice. To his face. Unfortunately, it was the Ice Marshall who had to contend with the disgrutled Guinea pigs at the Terminal Tavren. He managed to smooth the ruffled feathers by promising that the Vice’s team duties in future will be limited to party planning and ordering new hats, two tasks at which he excels. Tutti fan tutti indeed.
The only winner on the evening was the sagacious Dr. Thug who, upon learning of the proposed game strategy, suddenly developed a temporary case of epilepsy, dipthteria and Aids, rendering him unavailable for the horror show which was to come. Get better soon, you friggin’ baby!
6 Guinness, 4 Stella, 1 Kilkenny, 2 Bass, 2 Bud Light, some lame Zowie wings and some low expectations were consumed.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Starting Line Up to Tonight's Game
If all Strawbs attend, here is the starting line up. If there are some absent players, there will be a juggling act.
GOALIE - Mag Boy
DEFENSE - Ice Marshall & Dr. Thug
Warrin' Peace & Archilles
CENTERS - 444 Freight Train & Whoarny
WINGERS - The Leak & Shiney
Butcher & Gumby
Pajama Man & Vice
GOALIE - Mag Boy
DEFENSE - Ice Marshall & Dr. Thug
Warrin' Peace & Archilles
CENTERS - 444 Freight Train & Whoarny
WINGERS - The Leak & Shiney
Butcher & Gumby
Pajama Man & Vice
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Sominex on Ice
Game Report
November 22, 2007
Strawbs 8 Thrashers 3
As Billie Shakespeare, the Strawbs' publicist, scandal extinguisher and poet laureate, so aptly put it after dozing through last night’s yawner : “ It was a tale told by an idiot, unfull of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” The game was so dull, so lifeless, so excrutiatingly stultifying that the puck left the ice after the first shift. The referees refused to blow their whistles under any circumstances and instead spent most of their energies imploring the timekeeper to remove all but 2minutes from the official game clock. The opposition yawned and lazily braided each other’s hair while the Strawbs listened half-heartedly to the Ice Marshall as he tried to rouse them with selected excerpts from Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. The narrowcasting of the match to the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu did not reach its intended destination because the electrons carrying the signal gave up just outside Vancouver, paralyzed, like Buren's Ass, between Apathy and Indifference.
The air stagnated under the unbearable weight of the overbearing boredom. Planets ceased moving and Lindsay Lohan checked into the Betty Ford for the seventh time this week, her will sapped by an uncaring universe. Aqualung, our friend, started away uneasy. Supertramp took the long way home. It was the day the mu…sic died.
The Strawbs profoundly apologize to its fan, the constant Samara Desert, victim of icehockeynarcolepsy, who had to be revived after the game by using a Stunner 500, the cardiac zapper recently installed in the lobby of Pete Palangio arenas for just such an eventuality.
At the Terminal Tavren, 2 kegs of Guinness refused to be tapped. The preternaturally irritating Mair, Devil’s Spawn,Brat Extraordinaire and Waitress From Hell, could not even be bothered to curl her upper lip. Management shut the lights out at 11pm without so much as a “by your leave”. The team went home sober for the first time in Strawbs’ history. But who cares?
November 22, 2007
Strawbs 8 Thrashers 3
As Billie Shakespeare, the Strawbs' publicist, scandal extinguisher and poet laureate, so aptly put it after dozing through last night’s yawner : “ It was a tale told by an idiot, unfull of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” The game was so dull, so lifeless, so excrutiatingly stultifying that the puck left the ice after the first shift. The referees refused to blow their whistles under any circumstances and instead spent most of their energies imploring the timekeeper to remove all but 2minutes from the official game clock. The opposition yawned and lazily braided each other’s hair while the Strawbs listened half-heartedly to the Ice Marshall as he tried to rouse them with selected excerpts from Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. The narrowcasting of the match to the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu did not reach its intended destination because the electrons carrying the signal gave up just outside Vancouver, paralyzed, like Buren's Ass, between Apathy and Indifference.
The air stagnated under the unbearable weight of the overbearing boredom. Planets ceased moving and Lindsay Lohan checked into the Betty Ford for the seventh time this week, her will sapped by an uncaring universe. Aqualung, our friend, started away uneasy. Supertramp took the long way home. It was the day the mu…sic died.
The Strawbs profoundly apologize to its fan, the constant Samara Desert, victim of icehockeynarcolepsy, who had to be revived after the game by using a Stunner 500, the cardiac zapper recently installed in the lobby of Pete Palangio arenas for just such an eventuality.
At the Terminal Tavren, 2 kegs of Guinness refused to be tapped. The preternaturally irritating Mair, Devil’s Spawn,Brat Extraordinaire and Waitress From Hell, could not even be bothered to curl her upper lip. Management shut the lights out at 11pm without so much as a “by your leave”. The team went home sober for the first time in Strawbs’ history. But who cares?
Los Lost Hombres
Saw these wayward directionally challenged misfits hitchiking down a dead end street yesterday; what the heck does that tell you!Friday, November 23, 2007
Freight Train Feted On His 50th
A handsome bunch of Strawberries guide Freight Train 444 into his second half century. If he had stopped talking so much, he might actually have benefitted from some really good advice from his elders and juniors.
Thanks to Warrin' Peace and the beautiful Samara Desert for letting us desecrate the Garage of Bad Ideas.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Gumby Gives Notice
Game Report
November 19, 2007
Strawbs 6 Jet Rangers 2
It was a question which occupied over 3 hours of intensive, and at times, heated debate at the recent Executive retreat at the beautiful Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu. As all interested fans are acutely aware, there has been a recent rash of goals scored by careless Strawberries on their own goaltender, the puck-smacked Jesse The Leak, a man who does not need any more stress in his pathetic little life. In last night’s tussle with a chippy team of Jet Rangers, Gawdawful Gumby served notice that he has set his sights on catching up to Shiny Shone Brightly, the Strawbs’ current leader in goals against his own team. Not only did the pumpkin-socked picaroon put the puck into his own net, thus putting his team down 1-0 early in the game, he did it with such reckless vehemence that his follow-through almost decapitated his own pipetender. Shiny Shone 2, Gumby 1.
There were various theories propounded and examined in an attempt to understand this less-than’stellar behaviour. While all theories had merit, especially those which questioned the dubious psychological makeup of the 2 players involved, the Executive has concluded that, in all likelihood, the errant behaviour can be attributed to presence of Whoahorny in the lineup. The evidence is damning. All goals scored by Strawbs against themselves have occurred when Whoahorny deigns to show up for a match. The team’s physician and astrologist, Dr. Ura S. Hole, MD, PhD, XYZ, is of the opinion that Whoahorny’s pre-game self- prescribed combination of A535, nitroglycerin and orally ingested Aqua Velva is reacting to produce a little understood noxious gas, CH4CH4NO7. This gas, known colloquially on the street as “The Stupifactor”, causes long-term dementia in people of low self-esteem who sit too closely to its source. Whoahorny, whenever he has shown up, has always been flanked closely by the wayward goal scorers. Dr. Hole has proposed several antidotes to the problem. The most likely to be adopted is to have Whoahorny dilute the Aqua Velva with one part vinegar and 2 parts Smarten Up before each match.
The evidence and its concomitant theory may also explain the continued on-ice shenanigans of the once dependable Butcher Brophey. In the previous game, the good doctor was tossed for getting 3 penalties in 11 minutes. In this game, he quickly picked up 2 penalties, which in his objectively subjective opinion, he did not deserve. With one more infraction, he would be sent to the showers once again. As he served his second penalty of the evening, he leaned over to the Strawbs’ bench and pleaded to be put up to forward. “I can’t play defence with these referees” he vociferously proclaimed. “They’re calling me for phantom infractions. I gotta play forward or I won’t make it to the end of the game.” What a dilemma for the coaching staff: keep The Butcher in the game at a position he can’t even begin to comprehend or let him stay back and get tossed. The staff chose to get him tossed; a wise decision which resulted in victory.
There were a couple of other instances of note. The Vice, slugged unexpectedly at center ice by a misbehavin Ranger, performed an emergency sphincterectomy on the offender, thereby depleting the opposition ranks by one asshole. Dr. Thug, who self-concusses for the advancement of science, once again became inexplicably mesmerized by the puck. As soon as the biscuit hits his stick, he stops, looks skyward, invokes some kind of weird Sanskrit chant and then lets the other team skate away with an unearned scoring chance. CH4CH4NO7? Dr. Hole is looking into it.
After the game, most Strawbs ventured home to finish the day’s dusting and to clean up the supper dishes. Freight Train 444 and the puck-challenged Dr. Thug repaired to Leo’s, Freight Train’s preferred pre-class imbibery. What they discussed is anyone’s guess.
1 shared Stella and some very strange chants were probably consumed.
November 19, 2007
Strawbs 6 Jet Rangers 2
It was a question which occupied over 3 hours of intensive, and at times, heated debate at the recent Executive retreat at the beautiful Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu. As all interested fans are acutely aware, there has been a recent rash of goals scored by careless Strawberries on their own goaltender, the puck-smacked Jesse The Leak, a man who does not need any more stress in his pathetic little life. In last night’s tussle with a chippy team of Jet Rangers, Gawdawful Gumby served notice that he has set his sights on catching up to Shiny Shone Brightly, the Strawbs’ current leader in goals against his own team. Not only did the pumpkin-socked picaroon put the puck into his own net, thus putting his team down 1-0 early in the game, he did it with such reckless vehemence that his follow-through almost decapitated his own pipetender. Shiny Shone 2, Gumby 1.
There were various theories propounded and examined in an attempt to understand this less-than’stellar behaviour. While all theories had merit, especially those which questioned the dubious psychological makeup of the 2 players involved, the Executive has concluded that, in all likelihood, the errant behaviour can be attributed to presence of Whoahorny in the lineup. The evidence is damning. All goals scored by Strawbs against themselves have occurred when Whoahorny deigns to show up for a match. The team’s physician and astrologist, Dr. Ura S. Hole, MD, PhD, XYZ, is of the opinion that Whoahorny’s pre-game self- prescribed combination of A535, nitroglycerin and orally ingested Aqua Velva is reacting to produce a little understood noxious gas, CH4CH4NO7. This gas, known colloquially on the street as “The Stupifactor”, causes long-term dementia in people of low self-esteem who sit too closely to its source. Whoahorny, whenever he has shown up, has always been flanked closely by the wayward goal scorers. Dr. Hole has proposed several antidotes to the problem. The most likely to be adopted is to have Whoahorny dilute the Aqua Velva with one part vinegar and 2 parts Smarten Up before each match.
The evidence and its concomitant theory may also explain the continued on-ice shenanigans of the once dependable Butcher Brophey. In the previous game, the good doctor was tossed for getting 3 penalties in 11 minutes. In this game, he quickly picked up 2 penalties, which in his objectively subjective opinion, he did not deserve. With one more infraction, he would be sent to the showers once again. As he served his second penalty of the evening, he leaned over to the Strawbs’ bench and pleaded to be put up to forward. “I can’t play defence with these referees” he vociferously proclaimed. “They’re calling me for phantom infractions. I gotta play forward or I won’t make it to the end of the game.” What a dilemma for the coaching staff: keep The Butcher in the game at a position he can’t even begin to comprehend or let him stay back and get tossed. The staff chose to get him tossed; a wise decision which resulted in victory.
There were a couple of other instances of note. The Vice, slugged unexpectedly at center ice by a misbehavin Ranger, performed an emergency sphincterectomy on the offender, thereby depleting the opposition ranks by one asshole. Dr. Thug, who self-concusses for the advancement of science, once again became inexplicably mesmerized by the puck. As soon as the biscuit hits his stick, he stops, looks skyward, invokes some kind of weird Sanskrit chant and then lets the other team skate away with an unearned scoring chance. CH4CH4NO7? Dr. Hole is looking into it.
After the game, most Strawbs ventured home to finish the day’s dusting and to clean up the supper dishes. Freight Train 444 and the puck-challenged Dr. Thug repaired to Leo’s, Freight Train’s preferred pre-class imbibery. What they discussed is anyone’s guess.
1 shared Stella and some very strange chants were probably consumed.
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Garage of Bad Ideas
Game Report
November 15, 2007
Blades of Steel 2 Strawbs 1
As usual, Dr. Bonehead Butcher Brophey set the tone early. Not only was he late arriving, he also managed to compound his poor start with matching poor play. At around the 5 minute mark of the first period, he sauntered up the stairs leading to the ice surface, Slurpy in one hand and a scalpel in the other. As leisurely as Bhudda groovin’ on a hookah, he surveyed the rink, scratched his nether regions and somehow managed to convince himself that it was time to make his way to the Strawbs’ bench. On his first shift, he was called for holding. On his second shift, he was called for holding. On his third shift, he was called for holding and much to the satisfaction of his own team mates, was summarily tossed from the game. Eleven minutes of game time, 9 of them penalty minutes: a new personal record of ineptitude. “I have no idea why he bothered to show up” said an exasperated Ice Marshall. “I know things aren’t great at home or at work or in any part of his sordid life for that matter, but one does expect a certain level of professionalism, even from our weaker-minded players.”
Speaking of weaker-minded players, how about Jesse The Leak? How anyone can go from brilliant to abysmal in the span of 1 minute is anyone’s guess. The hapless tender went from robbing a Bladed Steeler on a sure goal to handing one to the opposition on a platter. The Leak will be spending the coming week in the company of the Butcher as the Butcher teaches him how to properly manipulate a hockey stick, for carving and for moving the puck.
Fortunately, there was little lamenting of the tough loss. After all, Freight Train Laronde would be turning 50 at midnight. In the dressing room post game, Freight Train was presented with a fine bottle of 10 year old Aberlour to mark the occasion. Before you could say “open it”, the nectar was making its way down the aging veteran’s gullet. A tasting lineup formed in front of him and the libation soon suffered serious volume depletion. Cans of Labatts 50 mysteriously appeared in everyone’s hands and the party was on. Not wishing to break any more rules than absolutely necessary, the team quitted the arena fashionably early and set out for a rendezvous at the home of the perpetually partying Warrin’ Peace. And a good party it was. The team was not allowed to actually enter Warrin’s house, on the orders of his new spousal unit, the gorgeous Samara Desert, the team’s #1 fan of all-time. “It’s not that I don’t like you boys” she noted “but I haven’t had time to dust since June, what with Warrin’s libido and my penchant for laying about.” It mattered not. The garage had already been meticulously prepared for the continuing festivities.
Freight Train was toasted at every available opportunity or, rather, between the jibberish-infused rants of the team’s self-appointed sage, Mr. Gawdawful Gumby. For a guy who can barely tie his own skates without instruction, he sure has a lot of opinions, which, of course, he is compelled to share ad nauseum, ad infintum and ad shutupum. It’s not that his observations are worthless. They are. It’s just that their value is almost always surpassed by the vehemence with which they are delivered. Thank G*d we can all turn a deaf ear when needed.
The best moment of the evening occurred at 11:45, 15 minutes before Freight Train was to begin life in his sixth decade. Somehow, the 40 gallons of hooch ingested to that point by Freight Train had made its way to the exit end of his digestive system. In an effort to heed his screaming bladder, our soon-to-be quintagenerian left the garage to make a liquid deposit in the backyard. The ever-alert MagBoy, immediately started a very loud countdown to midnight, in the full knowledge that Freight Train would be in mid-stream, unable to stop the inevitable flow he had started, thus making him unavailable at the magic moment when he crossed the half century mark. “30..29..28..27..26..……..4..3..2..1…Happy Birthday!” we yelled, a full 14 minutes before the birthday boy really turned 50 and way before he could make his way back to the inner sanctum. As he busted his way through the garage door, a full 10 seconds after countdown ended, he looked absolutely crestfallen that he had missed his own birthday milestone. After the boys stopped peeing themselves with laughter, Freight Train was let in on the joke and properly feted as the true midnight arrived. To mark his entry to the downside of life, he booted Gumby off his soapbox, and launched into what can only be described as the “One Hundred Worst Ideas of All-Time” tirade. There were more gaps in his logic that a Bryan McCabe-led defence or a Vice Marshall’s grammar lecture. It did not matter. With Gumby’s shrill diatribes and Freight Train’s oral performance, the garage was christened, for time eternal, “The Garage of Bad Ideas”. We’ll be back.
1 bottle of Aberlour, 50 Labatts 50, 24 Bud-Lite, 3 Guinness, 4 Groelsch, a mountain of nachos and cheese and some really really bad ideas were consumed.
November 15, 2007
Blades of Steel 2 Strawbs 1
As usual, Dr. Bonehead Butcher Brophey set the tone early. Not only was he late arriving, he also managed to compound his poor start with matching poor play. At around the 5 minute mark of the first period, he sauntered up the stairs leading to the ice surface, Slurpy in one hand and a scalpel in the other. As leisurely as Bhudda groovin’ on a hookah, he surveyed the rink, scratched his nether regions and somehow managed to convince himself that it was time to make his way to the Strawbs’ bench. On his first shift, he was called for holding. On his second shift, he was called for holding. On his third shift, he was called for holding and much to the satisfaction of his own team mates, was summarily tossed from the game. Eleven minutes of game time, 9 of them penalty minutes: a new personal record of ineptitude. “I have no idea why he bothered to show up” said an exasperated Ice Marshall. “I know things aren’t great at home or at work or in any part of his sordid life for that matter, but one does expect a certain level of professionalism, even from our weaker-minded players.”
Speaking of weaker-minded players, how about Jesse The Leak? How anyone can go from brilliant to abysmal in the span of 1 minute is anyone’s guess. The hapless tender went from robbing a Bladed Steeler on a sure goal to handing one to the opposition on a platter. The Leak will be spending the coming week in the company of the Butcher as the Butcher teaches him how to properly manipulate a hockey stick, for carving and for moving the puck.
Fortunately, there was little lamenting of the tough loss. After all, Freight Train Laronde would be turning 50 at midnight. In the dressing room post game, Freight Train was presented with a fine bottle of 10 year old Aberlour to mark the occasion. Before you could say “open it”, the nectar was making its way down the aging veteran’s gullet. A tasting lineup formed in front of him and the libation soon suffered serious volume depletion. Cans of Labatts 50 mysteriously appeared in everyone’s hands and the party was on. Not wishing to break any more rules than absolutely necessary, the team quitted the arena fashionably early and set out for a rendezvous at the home of the perpetually partying Warrin’ Peace. And a good party it was. The team was not allowed to actually enter Warrin’s house, on the orders of his new spousal unit, the gorgeous Samara Desert, the team’s #1 fan of all-time. “It’s not that I don’t like you boys” she noted “but I haven’t had time to dust since June, what with Warrin’s libido and my penchant for laying about.” It mattered not. The garage had already been meticulously prepared for the continuing festivities.
Freight Train was toasted at every available opportunity or, rather, between the jibberish-infused rants of the team’s self-appointed sage, Mr. Gawdawful Gumby. For a guy who can barely tie his own skates without instruction, he sure has a lot of opinions, which, of course, he is compelled to share ad nauseum, ad infintum and ad shutupum. It’s not that his observations are worthless. They are. It’s just that their value is almost always surpassed by the vehemence with which they are delivered. Thank G*d we can all turn a deaf ear when needed.
The best moment of the evening occurred at 11:45, 15 minutes before Freight Train was to begin life in his sixth decade. Somehow, the 40 gallons of hooch ingested to that point by Freight Train had made its way to the exit end of his digestive system. In an effort to heed his screaming bladder, our soon-to-be quintagenerian left the garage to make a liquid deposit in the backyard. The ever-alert MagBoy, immediately started a very loud countdown to midnight, in the full knowledge that Freight Train would be in mid-stream, unable to stop the inevitable flow he had started, thus making him unavailable at the magic moment when he crossed the half century mark. “30..29..28..27..26..……..4..3..2..1…Happy Birthday!” we yelled, a full 14 minutes before the birthday boy really turned 50 and way before he could make his way back to the inner sanctum. As he busted his way through the garage door, a full 10 seconds after countdown ended, he looked absolutely crestfallen that he had missed his own birthday milestone. After the boys stopped peeing themselves with laughter, Freight Train was let in on the joke and properly feted as the true midnight arrived. To mark his entry to the downside of life, he booted Gumby off his soapbox, and launched into what can only be described as the “One Hundred Worst Ideas of All-Time” tirade. There were more gaps in his logic that a Bryan McCabe-led defence or a Vice Marshall’s grammar lecture. It did not matter. With Gumby’s shrill diatribes and Freight Train’s oral performance, the garage was christened, for time eternal, “The Garage of Bad Ideas”. We’ll be back.
1 bottle of Aberlour, 50 Labatts 50, 24 Bud-Lite, 3 Guinness, 4 Groelsch, a mountain of nachos and cheese and some really really bad ideas were consumed.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Blades Bend Then Break Under Strawberry Barrage
Strawberries 6 Blades of Steel 0
Game Report
November 8, 2007
It was the fastest of times, it was the slowest of times, it was a day of incredulity, it was a night of wondrous belief, it was the season of scintillation, it was an epoch of hope, it was the winter of despair, it was the era of blissful incompetence. We had the whole schedule before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to the OHL Cup, we all going direct to the standings cellar. There was a godless gypsy on defence and a true disciple on left wing-in short, the game was so far like a dream, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on it being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of exposition only. We, of course, will be nothing but totally objective.
While some of the Strawbs players were ramping up their games, others continued to be mired in the muck of their own lassitude. Let us begin with the Ramper-Uppers. Freight Train 444, demoted to defence for previous offensive infractions best left undescribed, brought his game up 3 notches, scoring twice from the point using a modified version of the wristshot he perfected as a shy yet petulant 6 year old in the slums of Sudbury. He could have scored more goals ...many more goals… but discretely chose instead not to embarrass his bosom buddy, the taciturn Archilles Perron who, for the last 336 games, has been struggling to find the form which first endeared him to the Executive. Goal-less since 1998, and precariously positioned on a secret trade bubble, Archilles broke out his slump. What must have been going through his head as he streaked magisterially down the left wing, his manly mane struggling to keep up with the rest of his speeding frame? We’ll probably never know but we can only imagine what daemons he must have shrugged off as he broke loose across the Blades’ blueline, deked left, then right, then left again, stopped to tie his lace and smooth back his late arriving hair. Refreshed, he carried on unmolested to the net which must have seemed to him smaller than the shadow cast by Gumby’s current bundle of morals. With great precision and care, Archilles whistled the rubber toward the minuscule opening to the goaltender’s left. The puck hesitated for a moment, gathered courage and thus fortified, rammed itself ecstatically into the mesh.
Freight Train and Archilles were not the only ones to distinguish themselves on this night of nights. The Vice Marshall, hobbled at home by the unrelenting demands for perfection perpetrated upon his august self by the beautiful Madame LaChaise Lounge, dug deeply into his checkered past to regale his unsuspecting team mates with a move he had only used once before, inadvertently, in a championship PeeWee hockey game against the Losers of Zwiebrucken, Germany, captained at the time by the redoubtable and diarrheatically prolix Kernal Grant, retired. (More about the dubious Kernal later). Now, some players travel at the speed of light. Not the Vice. Not his style. He prefers to go with his strengths, one of his strengths being deception. On this evening, he was at his deceptive best. As he floated aimlessly between the blue and red lines, humming obscure Bob Dylan tunes to himself, the puck suddenly presented itself at his feet. Immediately, he sprung to half-life, and entered his snake charmer mode. While slowly weaving back and forth, cuddling the puck in successive long sweeps of his hockey stick, he bored into submission the only Blades’ defenceman between him and the net. Moving at warp slowness, he moved the biscuit forward between the somnabulant defender’s legs, picked it up again about a day later on the other side of the blueline, and made a beeline for the net. With the dexterity of a young Houdini, the Vice slid the puck under the goaltender, much to the delight of a screaming Dr. Thug. The whole affair was like watching a slow motion Swahili version of “Waiting For Godot” . Painful to watch but good for the soul.
Speaking of Houdini, there was more legerdemain to be had. Well, not exactly legerdemain…more like “What-the-hell-is-doing-now-demain”. Our air-conditioned hippy gypsy, Gawdawful Gumby once again distinguished himself by scoring on a breakaway. How did it happen?
There was a faceoff in the Strawbs’ end. The Vice gained control of the puck as it was dropped and flipped it to center ice to a waiting Gumby, whose real job it was to remain in his own end until it was safe for him and his defence partner to leave. He left the zone early to pursue one of his inexplicable whims. He whimmed himself to center ice, grabbed the Vice’s offering and deposited it smugly into the Blades’ net. With his best “I could do this all the time” look, he glided blithely past his team mates as they lined up to congratulate him, grunted a few syllables of reluctant thanks and took his place at the end of the bench, as content as a wild mouse in an abandoned catnip factory.
It would seem inappropriate, in the light of the excellence noted above, to point out the low points in the game. There were a few. But then again, too few to mention. Most could be attributed to the lack of support the Strawbs have been receiving in the stands lately. True, the reliable Samara Desert was in her usual post, willing her new husband and slave, the slick Warrin’ Peace, to greatness. Unfortunately, there was no hide nor hair to be found belonging to Magnesium Girl, Miss White Go Go Boots, Madame La Chaise Lounge, Pamdaemonium, Glasgow Glamour or Mrs. Lucky, current squeeze of the Ice Marshall himself. What will it take to secure their fickle affection?
Elated by the victory and disappointed by the dearth of adulation, the team met up after the game at the usual watering hole. Backs were patted, egos stroked and mild oaths uttered. Brilliant plays were described with the greatest care. It was the best of times.
6 black and tans, two “here’s what your getting”, 4 Budlight, 7 Stella, 2 jugs, 2 pounds of wings and the best, most excellent, superlative and acme scratching comraderie was had.
Game Report
November 8, 2007
It was the fastest of times, it was the slowest of times, it was a day of incredulity, it was a night of wondrous belief, it was the season of scintillation, it was an epoch of hope, it was the winter of despair, it was the era of blissful incompetence. We had the whole schedule before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to the OHL Cup, we all going direct to the standings cellar. There was a godless gypsy on defence and a true disciple on left wing-in short, the game was so far like a dream, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on it being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of exposition only. We, of course, will be nothing but totally objective.
While some of the Strawbs players were ramping up their games, others continued to be mired in the muck of their own lassitude. Let us begin with the Ramper-Uppers. Freight Train 444, demoted to defence for previous offensive infractions best left undescribed, brought his game up 3 notches, scoring twice from the point using a modified version of the wristshot he perfected as a shy yet petulant 6 year old in the slums of Sudbury. He could have scored more goals ...many more goals… but discretely chose instead not to embarrass his bosom buddy, the taciturn Archilles Perron who, for the last 336 games, has been struggling to find the form which first endeared him to the Executive. Goal-less since 1998, and precariously positioned on a secret trade bubble, Archilles broke out his slump. What must have been going through his head as he streaked magisterially down the left wing, his manly mane struggling to keep up with the rest of his speeding frame? We’ll probably never know but we can only imagine what daemons he must have shrugged off as he broke loose across the Blades’ blueline, deked left, then right, then left again, stopped to tie his lace and smooth back his late arriving hair. Refreshed, he carried on unmolested to the net which must have seemed to him smaller than the shadow cast by Gumby’s current bundle of morals. With great precision and care, Archilles whistled the rubber toward the minuscule opening to the goaltender’s left. The puck hesitated for a moment, gathered courage and thus fortified, rammed itself ecstatically into the mesh.
Freight Train and Archilles were not the only ones to distinguish themselves on this night of nights. The Vice Marshall, hobbled at home by the unrelenting demands for perfection perpetrated upon his august self by the beautiful Madame LaChaise Lounge, dug deeply into his checkered past to regale his unsuspecting team mates with a move he had only used once before, inadvertently, in a championship PeeWee hockey game against the Losers of Zwiebrucken, Germany, captained at the time by the redoubtable and diarrheatically prolix Kernal Grant, retired. (More about the dubious Kernal later). Now, some players travel at the speed of light. Not the Vice. Not his style. He prefers to go with his strengths, one of his strengths being deception. On this evening, he was at his deceptive best. As he floated aimlessly between the blue and red lines, humming obscure Bob Dylan tunes to himself, the puck suddenly presented itself at his feet. Immediately, he sprung to half-life, and entered his snake charmer mode. While slowly weaving back and forth, cuddling the puck in successive long sweeps of his hockey stick, he bored into submission the only Blades’ defenceman between him and the net. Moving at warp slowness, he moved the biscuit forward between the somnabulant defender’s legs, picked it up again about a day later on the other side of the blueline, and made a beeline for the net. With the dexterity of a young Houdini, the Vice slid the puck under the goaltender, much to the delight of a screaming Dr. Thug. The whole affair was like watching a slow motion Swahili version of “Waiting For Godot” . Painful to watch but good for the soul.
Speaking of Houdini, there was more legerdemain to be had. Well, not exactly legerdemain…more like “What-the-hell-is-doing-now-demain”. Our air-conditioned hippy gypsy, Gawdawful Gumby once again distinguished himself by scoring on a breakaway. How did it happen?
There was a faceoff in the Strawbs’ end. The Vice gained control of the puck as it was dropped and flipped it to center ice to a waiting Gumby, whose real job it was to remain in his own end until it was safe for him and his defence partner to leave. He left the zone early to pursue one of his inexplicable whims. He whimmed himself to center ice, grabbed the Vice’s offering and deposited it smugly into the Blades’ net. With his best “I could do this all the time” look, he glided blithely past his team mates as they lined up to congratulate him, grunted a few syllables of reluctant thanks and took his place at the end of the bench, as content as a wild mouse in an abandoned catnip factory.
It would seem inappropriate, in the light of the excellence noted above, to point out the low points in the game. There were a few. But then again, too few to mention. Most could be attributed to the lack of support the Strawbs have been receiving in the stands lately. True, the reliable Samara Desert was in her usual post, willing her new husband and slave, the slick Warrin’ Peace, to greatness. Unfortunately, there was no hide nor hair to be found belonging to Magnesium Girl, Miss White Go Go Boots, Madame La Chaise Lounge, Pamdaemonium, Glasgow Glamour or Mrs. Lucky, current squeeze of the Ice Marshall himself. What will it take to secure their fickle affection?
Elated by the victory and disappointed by the dearth of adulation, the team met up after the game at the usual watering hole. Backs were patted, egos stroked and mild oaths uttered. Brilliant plays were described with the greatest care. It was the best of times.
6 black and tans, two “here’s what your getting”, 4 Budlight, 7 Stella, 2 jugs, 2 pounds of wings and the best, most excellent, superlative and acme scratching comraderie was had.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Fickle Fans Abandon Strawberries
Game Report
Strawberries 6 Tequila Thrashers 1
November 1, 2007
One would have expected more from a fan base which, only a few short months ago, was carried along with the fabled Strawberries to its first exhilarating Intramural World Ice Hockey Championship. Every night last season, the Strawbs came to play, hell bent on securing the prize which had so tantalizingly eluded them for years. In the 06-07 season, Butcher Brophey played through tremendous lower body pain self-described as bordering on unbearable. Gumby was frequently short on medication; the Vice was dealing with painful daemons of a personal nature, and Dr.Thug was experiencing a lot of difficulty with his son’s grade 12 math, an endless barrage of quadrilateral nomenclature, 4th level derivatives and right angled triangles with no hypotenuses. He almost failed his son’s course but pulled out a pass at the last minute by studying all night before the final exam and transmitting his knowledge to Little Richard through reverse data osmosis, a technique he perfected while on sabbatical in South America. YET these obstacles were only the tip of the iceberg. Despite the mountain of roadblocks facing them at virtually every turn, the Strawberries clawed their way to the top; not for themselves so much as for their athletic supporters in the stands: truly a case of unadulterated selflessness.
And how have they been rewarded this year? Spottily at best. Up to game four of the new season, the fan base had been growing as rapidly as the fungus in Mag Boy’s helmet. Unfortunately, game 4 was a stinker. The Executive believes that large doses of Valium were surreptitiously snuck into the bench’s water supply. It was a sloppy affair, best forgotten. The fans, spoiled rotten by consistently superb play over the last 17 years, scurried from the building before the post game handshakes were completed. What a fickle bunch of feckless fans.
Without the droves of supporters which have helped carry the team in recent years, the team was not at its best in this game. There was no flow, no grace, no heart to the match. Not once did Gumby question the integrity, intelligence or manhood of his sworn enemy, Mr. Stupid Referee. Pyjama Man's 3 goal effort went unrecognized. The Ice Marshall sulked and Freight Train pouted. Archilles Perron glided about aimlessly, a small shell of his former competitive self. Shiny Shone Brightly refused to rally his teammates by scoring on his own net, leaving management no choice but to question his commitment to the team. On the lone goal scored by the Tequilers, The Leak lay flaccidly in his goal crease, too unmotivated to make the short 6 inch slide to his left to secure a shutout. Warrin' Peace just plain sucked.
In the end, the Strawberries, true professionals in every sense, pulled out win number 4 of the new season. It was a joyless victory. Fans, please come back. We are only doing what we do because of you.
6 jugs of flat beer, a tainted water and a sea of self-pity were consumed.
Strawberries 6 Tequila Thrashers 1
November 1, 2007
One would have expected more from a fan base which, only a few short months ago, was carried along with the fabled Strawberries to its first exhilarating Intramural World Ice Hockey Championship. Every night last season, the Strawbs came to play, hell bent on securing the prize which had so tantalizingly eluded them for years. In the 06-07 season, Butcher Brophey played through tremendous lower body pain self-described as bordering on unbearable. Gumby was frequently short on medication; the Vice was dealing with painful daemons of a personal nature, and Dr.Thug was experiencing a lot of difficulty with his son’s grade 12 math, an endless barrage of quadrilateral nomenclature, 4th level derivatives and right angled triangles with no hypotenuses. He almost failed his son’s course but pulled out a pass at the last minute by studying all night before the final exam and transmitting his knowledge to Little Richard through reverse data osmosis, a technique he perfected while on sabbatical in South America. YET these obstacles were only the tip of the iceberg. Despite the mountain of roadblocks facing them at virtually every turn, the Strawberries clawed their way to the top; not for themselves so much as for their athletic supporters in the stands: truly a case of unadulterated selflessness.
And how have they been rewarded this year? Spottily at best. Up to game four of the new season, the fan base had been growing as rapidly as the fungus in Mag Boy’s helmet. Unfortunately, game 4 was a stinker. The Executive believes that large doses of Valium were surreptitiously snuck into the bench’s water supply. It was a sloppy affair, best forgotten. The fans, spoiled rotten by consistently superb play over the last 17 years, scurried from the building before the post game handshakes were completed. What a fickle bunch of feckless fans.
Without the droves of supporters which have helped carry the team in recent years, the team was not at its best in this game. There was no flow, no grace, no heart to the match. Not once did Gumby question the integrity, intelligence or manhood of his sworn enemy, Mr. Stupid Referee. Pyjama Man's 3 goal effort went unrecognized. The Ice Marshall sulked and Freight Train pouted. Archilles Perron glided about aimlessly, a small shell of his former competitive self. Shiny Shone Brightly refused to rally his teammates by scoring on his own net, leaving management no choice but to question his commitment to the team. On the lone goal scored by the Tequilers, The Leak lay flaccidly in his goal crease, too unmotivated to make the short 6 inch slide to his left to secure a shutout. Warrin' Peace just plain sucked.
In the end, the Strawberries, true professionals in every sense, pulled out win number 4 of the new season. It was a joyless victory. Fans, please come back. We are only doing what we do because of you.
6 jugs of flat beer, a tainted water and a sea of self-pity were consumed.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Recent Soiree A Wild Success
Cher woos an unsuspecting Ice Marshall at The Hugh Hefner Cottage located on the grounds of the infamous Aloha Baby Compound
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Pre-Season Perfection
Strawbs 12 Tequila Thrashers 5
Game Report
October 25, 2007
The Strawbs would never make claims to perfection, personal, professional or otherwise. There are just too many flaws to go around, some egregious and many others actively withheld from public consumption. Moreover, the team has been burned on a regular basis as the result of that destroyer of mortals, otherwise known as hubris. If experience has taught us anything, it is that today’s victories are but wisps in the wind, the slow receding echoes of vainglory. That being said, we kicked the shit out of the Thrashers last night and they deserved it.
Inspired by Freight Train’s fabulous offensive performance of the Monday, previous, Warrin’ Peace stumbled and scrapped and scurried to put in the best game he has ever played, including the imaginary ones forever forged in his own fertile yet deluded mind. The man was on fire. Cheered on by the team’s new #1 fan, the sultry and dangerously deceiving Samara Desert, Warrin’ laid a personal beating upon the demoralized Thrashers, scoring three goals of such exquisite beauty that Venus herself blushed in her celestial aerie. “Now I know how Gretzky felt night after night” quoth the second year man. “It was like the game was slowed down and I was playing in slow motion.” Nobody had the bad taste to let Warrin’ know that the whole game WAS played in slow motion, what with the Thrashers having to play in street shoes after their manager made off with most of their hockey equipment just before game time.
Even though they may not have been shod properly for a tilt on ice, the Thrashers, manned mostly by women of Amazonian extraction, they did bring their sticks and sharpened elbows to the game. And use them they did, much to the exasperation of a team raised on Ghandi and Martin Luther King. There was more hooking on the ice last night than there ever was on a Yonge Street Saturday night. At one point during the game, there were so many broken Thrashers sticks on the ice festooned with pieces of Strawbs’ helmets, shin pads and genital protection gear that a crack team from Columbia Forests Products was called in to collect the discarded wood for use in the next four shifts at the Rutherglen strandboard plant. The opponent’s poor gamesmanship only served to rile up the perpetually riled up Dr. Thug, who, as all amateur historians know, earned his moniker in 1999 by putting through the back wall of Pete Palangio Arenas a 72 lb waif of the female persuasion who had had the temerity to suggest earlier to him that he was a wimp. Unfortunately, she learned the hard way that Dr. Thug does not take kindly to aspersions upon his manhood. Well it must have a trying day at home, because the good Doctor showed up to the match touchier that a bull in rutting season. Disgusted by the unnecessary liberty taking on ice, he promptly put an end to the one sided carnage by chopping off the punching hand of the Thrashers’ biggest offender. From then on, the game settled down into a low level grudge match complete with shoddy goaltending on both sides.
Jesse The Leak did not have his best game of the year. On four successive occasions, one of the male Thrashers beat him on the left side with the same move, a move so obvious that neophyte hockey aficionado, Samara Desert, knew the correct name for it: deke. One hopes this display was nothing more than one of those brief mind farts which occasionally afflicts the otherwise solid goaler.
To the grave concern of management, Archilles Perron still not has ramped up his game to 2004-2005 levels. When queried about his slow start to the season, Archilles lamented that he is recovering from an injury sustained this summer during a severe storm while playing the 4th hole at Osprey Links in the company of Glasgow Glamour, one of the only two good things ever to be exported from Scotland. “What injury is that?” inquired the insatiably interested Shiny Shone Brightly, the squad’s leading candidate for Rookie of The Year. “Well I thought it was a good idea at the time but I guess I was wrong. My advice to all of you is: don’t mix Viagra and iron pills. It’s deadly when lightning is around.” Ouch.
The Strawbs would like to thank all members of the standing room only crowd who cheered their team on to victory on this night: Madame Lachaise, unopinionated carrot-topped companion of the redoubtable Vice Marshall, ponderous Pamdaemonia, president of the Global Dithering Club, Samara Desert, nurse, bonne vivante and quiet troublemaker, and Orillia Denis The Dealer, hockey and drinking mentor to Warrin’ Peace. Without your support, our team’s liquid refreshment bill at the Terminal Tavren would not be anywhere near record levels.
7 Stellas, 14 Guinnnesses, 6 Keith’s Red, 4 Bud Light, a blueberry tea (what the …?) and some errant wood chips from the battering clubs of untamed Amazons were consumed.
Game Report
October 25, 2007
The Strawbs would never make claims to perfection, personal, professional or otherwise. There are just too many flaws to go around, some egregious and many others actively withheld from public consumption. Moreover, the team has been burned on a regular basis as the result of that destroyer of mortals, otherwise known as hubris. If experience has taught us anything, it is that today’s victories are but wisps in the wind, the slow receding echoes of vainglory. That being said, we kicked the shit out of the Thrashers last night and they deserved it.
Inspired by Freight Train’s fabulous offensive performance of the Monday, previous, Warrin’ Peace stumbled and scrapped and scurried to put in the best game he has ever played, including the imaginary ones forever forged in his own fertile yet deluded mind. The man was on fire. Cheered on by the team’s new #1 fan, the sultry and dangerously deceiving Samara Desert, Warrin’ laid a personal beating upon the demoralized Thrashers, scoring three goals of such exquisite beauty that Venus herself blushed in her celestial aerie. “Now I know how Gretzky felt night after night” quoth the second year man. “It was like the game was slowed down and I was playing in slow motion.” Nobody had the bad taste to let Warrin’ know that the whole game WAS played in slow motion, what with the Thrashers having to play in street shoes after their manager made off with most of their hockey equipment just before game time.
Even though they may not have been shod properly for a tilt on ice, the Thrashers, manned mostly by women of Amazonian extraction, they did bring their sticks and sharpened elbows to the game. And use them they did, much to the exasperation of a team raised on Ghandi and Martin Luther King. There was more hooking on the ice last night than there ever was on a Yonge Street Saturday night. At one point during the game, there were so many broken Thrashers sticks on the ice festooned with pieces of Strawbs’ helmets, shin pads and genital protection gear that a crack team from Columbia Forests Products was called in to collect the discarded wood for use in the next four shifts at the Rutherglen strandboard plant. The opponent’s poor gamesmanship only served to rile up the perpetually riled up Dr. Thug, who, as all amateur historians know, earned his moniker in 1999 by putting through the back wall of Pete Palangio Arenas a 72 lb waif of the female persuasion who had had the temerity to suggest earlier to him that he was a wimp. Unfortunately, she learned the hard way that Dr. Thug does not take kindly to aspersions upon his manhood. Well it must have a trying day at home, because the good Doctor showed up to the match touchier that a bull in rutting season. Disgusted by the unnecessary liberty taking on ice, he promptly put an end to the one sided carnage by chopping off the punching hand of the Thrashers’ biggest offender. From then on, the game settled down into a low level grudge match complete with shoddy goaltending on both sides.
Jesse The Leak did not have his best game of the year. On four successive occasions, one of the male Thrashers beat him on the left side with the same move, a move so obvious that neophyte hockey aficionado, Samara Desert, knew the correct name for it: deke. One hopes this display was nothing more than one of those brief mind farts which occasionally afflicts the otherwise solid goaler.
To the grave concern of management, Archilles Perron still not has ramped up his game to 2004-2005 levels. When queried about his slow start to the season, Archilles lamented that he is recovering from an injury sustained this summer during a severe storm while playing the 4th hole at Osprey Links in the company of Glasgow Glamour, one of the only two good things ever to be exported from Scotland. “What injury is that?” inquired the insatiably interested Shiny Shone Brightly, the squad’s leading candidate for Rookie of The Year. “Well I thought it was a good idea at the time but I guess I was wrong. My advice to all of you is: don’t mix Viagra and iron pills. It’s deadly when lightning is around.” Ouch.
The Strawbs would like to thank all members of the standing room only crowd who cheered their team on to victory on this night: Madame Lachaise, unopinionated carrot-topped companion of the redoubtable Vice Marshall, ponderous Pamdaemonia, president of the Global Dithering Club, Samara Desert, nurse, bonne vivante and quiet troublemaker, and Orillia Denis The Dealer, hockey and drinking mentor to Warrin’ Peace. Without your support, our team’s liquid refreshment bill at the Terminal Tavren would not be anywhere near record levels.
7 Stellas, 14 Guinnnesses, 6 Keith’s Red, 4 Bud Light, a blueberry tea (what the …?) and some errant wood chips from the battering clubs of untamed Amazons were consumed.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Freight Train 444 Lets His Stick Do The Talkin’
Strawbs 7 Traumatized Titans 3
Game Report
October 22, 2007
The normally taciturn and enigmatic Freight Train 444 finally got his act together on the ice, scoring the first hat trick of his sputtering 49 year old hockey career. Video tape of two of his goals were sent by the Executive to the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu for review by the team’s Compensation Committee chaired by the asset-rich and underexposed Pamela Anderson of Baywatch fame. Miss Anderson was an off-season acquisition negotiated by the Ice Marshall to replace the non-recovering Olsen twin. Miss Anderson, an expert in rewarding men for doing the things she likes, is reportedly recommending a 72.76% increase in Freight Train’s base compensation package. “He has a nice package now, but I’m a believer in fostering bigger packages” she said.
Dr. Thug was also a big contributor on the night. He shook off the effects on 5 weeks of self-administered reality-relief medication and set up 4 goals. “I could have scored as many as Freight Train” he confided, “but I could not really see the net through the haze of my new health regimen. I just slapped at the puck all night and it ended up on the right sticks. Karma I guess.” More like horseshit luck.
Jesse The Leak, currently flunking a Diplomacy For Dummies course at his new alma mater, Degrees To Go U., continued his strong work between the pipes, making several key saves down low in the early going. “I’m seeing the puck better now that the Butcher has slimmed down to a svelte 380 kilos. Now if only Gumby’s head were not so inflated by his delusions of adequacy, I’d be stopping even more shots”. Well, having dissed the irascible Gumby with his less than diplomatic musings, he should expect a lot more shots next game, maybe even one from the barrel of a shotgun.
And things got worse for Gumby from there. As he was leaving the ice surface after the match and making his mumbling way down the stairs to the dressing room, one of the team’s newest fans, the Impudent Insolent Impertinent Lip, middle spawn of the Ice Marshall himself, baited the poor pumpkin-socked picaroon with words of derision. “You’re worse than my dad said you were” blurted the badly behaved bezonian, thus crushing any dignity which may have been left in the barely beating bosom of our bedraggled bustard. One hopes he will recover.
After the game, Freight Train invited all his teammates to join him at the Terminal Tavren (yes, tavren) to congratulate him on his outstanding performance. Those who cared, showed up and heaped adulation upon him. He has set a new bar for himself, one the Executive hopes he can continue to clear.
Liquid tar-like substances and various other libations were consumed between frequent pats to the back of the evening’s hero.
Game Report
October 22, 2007
The normally taciturn and enigmatic Freight Train 444 finally got his act together on the ice, scoring the first hat trick of his sputtering 49 year old hockey career. Video tape of two of his goals were sent by the Executive to the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu for review by the team’s Compensation Committee chaired by the asset-rich and underexposed Pamela Anderson of Baywatch fame. Miss Anderson was an off-season acquisition negotiated by the Ice Marshall to replace the non-recovering Olsen twin. Miss Anderson, an expert in rewarding men for doing the things she likes, is reportedly recommending a 72.76% increase in Freight Train’s base compensation package. “He has a nice package now, but I’m a believer in fostering bigger packages” she said.
Dr. Thug was also a big contributor on the night. He shook off the effects on 5 weeks of self-administered reality-relief medication and set up 4 goals. “I could have scored as many as Freight Train” he confided, “but I could not really see the net through the haze of my new health regimen. I just slapped at the puck all night and it ended up on the right sticks. Karma I guess.” More like horseshit luck.
Jesse The Leak, currently flunking a Diplomacy For Dummies course at his new alma mater, Degrees To Go U., continued his strong work between the pipes, making several key saves down low in the early going. “I’m seeing the puck better now that the Butcher has slimmed down to a svelte 380 kilos. Now if only Gumby’s head were not so inflated by his delusions of adequacy, I’d be stopping even more shots”. Well, having dissed the irascible Gumby with his less than diplomatic musings, he should expect a lot more shots next game, maybe even one from the barrel of a shotgun.
And things got worse for Gumby from there. As he was leaving the ice surface after the match and making his mumbling way down the stairs to the dressing room, one of the team’s newest fans, the Impudent Insolent Impertinent Lip, middle spawn of the Ice Marshall himself, baited the poor pumpkin-socked picaroon with words of derision. “You’re worse than my dad said you were” blurted the badly behaved bezonian, thus crushing any dignity which may have been left in the barely beating bosom of our bedraggled bustard. One hopes he will recover.
After the game, Freight Train invited all his teammates to join him at the Terminal Tavren (yes, tavren) to congratulate him on his outstanding performance. Those who cared, showed up and heaped adulation upon him. He has set a new bar for himself, one the Executive hopes he can continue to clear.
Liquid tar-like substances and various other libations were consumed between frequent pats to the back of the evening’s hero.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Strawbs Kick Off Birthday Week in Grand Style
Strawberries 5 Mighty Piglets 1
Game Report
October 18, 2007
The annual self-administered and self-promoted “Rob the Torch’s Birthday Week” celebrations began with great fanfare last Thursday night at the beautiful Pete Palangio Arenas. To mark the kickoff, the Strawbs donned, for the first time ever, a full set of matching team socks, save for Gawdawful Gumby who, in his usual truculent style, refused to include himself in another “juvenile, conformist and frankly quite communistic undertaking”. Just imagine this kind of behaviour from a man who soils his own bed because it helps him to get up in the morning.
The new socks were not your mundane, run of the mill, plain Jane and vanilla socks. No sirree. The new hosiery was, by Executive Fiat, specially made by a local haberdashery, Socks to Be You, to honour those breathtaking red fishnet stockings favoured by the team’s most demanding fan, the wistful Miss White Go Go Boots. It is not often a professional sporting team honours inanimate objects (the stockings, not Miss WGGB) but, given the surreal motivating effect of Miss White Go Go Boots’ clothing choices upon the hormonal outputs of those fortunate enough to bask occasionally in her reflected glory, the honouring is fully understandable.
And honour the socks they did. Pyjama Man, in his first game of the season, single-handedly emasculated the Mighty Piglets, turning them into a million freeze dried bacon bits with four unanswered goals of a quality befitting both his new socks and the Birthday Week celebrations. Dr. Thug sprung himself from the clutches of his own moving phlegm pile to complete the team’s scoring…well almost. There was another goal scored. Shiny Shone McCabe, disoriented by the lights and intoxicated with the thrill of playing with his first real hockey team in 34 years, took it upon himself to ruin a fabulous outing by the rejuvenated Jesse The Leak, by brazenly depositing the puck into his own net. At his post-game debriefing in the Zamboni Room, Shiny Shone admitted he had always found that goaltenders are prone to become complacent when they record shutouts. All he was trying to do was ensure that that The Leak’s burgeoning ego did not impede his future performance. The Executive promptly excoriated the new boy for thinking thoughts not approved by management. The Executive also believes that the threat of a prolonged rehabilitation stint with the Bottom Feeding Blowfish (or worse, the bumbling Nasty Cupcakes) has cured Shiny of any further unauthorized actions.
There was one other disappointment, normally overlooked. On the basis of his rigorous summer training regimen, Archilles Perron, long suffering betrothed of Ms.Glasgow Glamour, was elevated to the first line alongside the team’s leaders in all departments which count. Buffed to a svelte 168 pounds by a diet of non-alcoholic beverages, tofu, seaweed and sugar-free gum, Archilles ought to have shone. He did not. In fact, he was a black hole of shininess, a dim shadow of amorphous inefficiency lost in a sea of ineptitude. One hopes he gets better soon.
Fortunately, nothing could take the shine off the end result. A big win is a big win, even more so when accomplished with the sartorial splendour afforded by new socks.
The celebrations surrounding Rob the Torch’s Birthday Week continued to the wee hours of the morning, with massive quantities of subsidized beverages being quaffed at Leo’s, Freight Train 444’s frequent pre-class imbibery. The festivities will end around next Wednesday when the Torch’s frail liver finally screams surrender.
21 jugs of liquid swill, most of it strained through a pair of red fishnet stockings found discarded on the floor of the Zamboni Room, were consumed.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Strawbs Wing Aviators
Strawberries 3 Aviators 2
Game Report
October 15, 2007
The tension in the dressing room before the first game of the new season was palpable yet subdued. From among the reserved susurrations, there could be detected an aura of high expectation for the coming season, tinged with an unspoken concern surrounding the level of play to be expected from a team, which quite frankly, had let itself go to seed in the off-season.
Seated against the far wall, while casually dusting the dead moths and desiccated mouse droppings from his disheveled equipment, Whoahorny Richardson calmly applied a light layer of nitro to his ailing chest in the hope that tonight would not be the night he croaked at his own blue line as a swarm of testosterone infused jackanapes descended upon his donkless goaltender. Butcher Brophey, recently elevated to that rare air of academia known to us lesser mortals as the “Doctorate”, a Doctorate conferred upon him by the Laxative Institute of Higher Business Studies of Bath-and-Spa, England, nervously tugged at a hockey undergarment best described as “beyond recognition”. The smell which emanated from said undergarment was causing much nausea all around until the proud Doctor acted upon the unanimous suggestion that he dispose of the offending article by using one the trash cans located in the arena parking lot. “I’ve had the best sex of my life in this thing” he protested. “Well you shoulda wiped yourself off on the curtains instead” growled unsympathetic Gumby, no stranger himself to the benefits of a handy set of drapes.
The new kid (aged 30 something), Shiny Shone Brightly did not know what to make of the pre-game proceedings but did show the Executive that he was worthy of his promotion to the big team by keeping his thoughts unuttered until he had actually made some kind of useful contribution to his new team.
With the determination of Dick Cheney on a duck hunt and with a Championship to defend, the Strawbs ascended the long stairway from the dressing room to the ice surface, encouraged by the screams of delight and admiration emanating from its solid fan base. Mag Girl, atwitter with lust at the sight of her man and men in uniform, and Samara Desert, lost in a gossamer reverie recounting her recent honeymoon with Warrin’ Peace, stomped their feet in appreciation, hopeful that their support might lead to victory on the ice and later at home. Both fans were resplendent in their blue-rinsed squirrel coats, gifts from the Executive last year at the end of season celebration.
The game started off at a very high pace. Mag Boy scrolled about the ice like a piece of overstretched barbed wire finally released from its imprisonment between the cedar posts of an ancient field fence. While there was much to admire in his enthusiasm, his direction and purpose left something to be desired. In his defence, he did score 2 of the team’s 3 goals, one of which certainly looked intended.
Jesse The Leak, recent graduate of the College and unfortunate student of the newly minted Doctor Butcher, turned in a first period performance worthy of Bambi’s mother after she took the bullet to the skull. The two first shots he faced, with a combined velocity of point 2 metres per day, found the back of the net with ease. Fresh from a dressing down between periods, he regained the form expected of him, blanking the pesky Aviators over the final 22 minutes.
Gumby gumbied gumbyesquely and was plus 4 on the night according to his own suspect calculations. He termed his performance “a granular one” and was quickly correctly by the ever sharp Freight Train 444 who noted that the performance was more glandular than granular, the gland in question being located at the end of his lower colon. “What’s grammar gotta do with it?” cried an exasperated Gumby, clearly hurt by the remark.
Although they chose not to score on this occasion, the versatile Vice Marshall and the laconic Ice Marshall ensured that the grit necessary for a repeat championship was present in spades. “By going to the box so frequently, we were trying to accomplish 2 things” announced the Ice Marshall at game’s end. "Firstly, by sitting in the box, we made it highly unlikely that we would take another penalty for at least the next 3 minutes. And secondly, this group of chronic underachievers and humility deficient aficionados of women’s fine lingerie needs to feel a little adversity to get their games to the level needed for success." As the sagacity of the proffered tactics slowly seeped into the barely conscious recesses of the team’s collective psyche, a suggestion was made that there existed a location where the beer was cold and the chicks even colder. “We’re not going to your place again, Brophey,” screamed all in unison, warmed by the prospect of free booze but even more frightened of running into a Miss White Go Go Boots not known for welcoming any male attention which she herself had not initiated.
The victors and their fans congregated post-tussle at the Bull. The game was duly reviewed and aspersions cast upon those pusillanimous Strawbs who failed to show for the match (Archilles, Pyjama Man and the self-concussed Dr. Thug).
8 Guinness, 3 Stella Artois, 2 Bud Light, 2 Red Keiths, one Sissy Singapore Sling and some parsimonious praise were consumed.
Game Report
October 15, 2007
The tension in the dressing room before the first game of the new season was palpable yet subdued. From among the reserved susurrations, there could be detected an aura of high expectation for the coming season, tinged with an unspoken concern surrounding the level of play to be expected from a team, which quite frankly, had let itself go to seed in the off-season.
Seated against the far wall, while casually dusting the dead moths and desiccated mouse droppings from his disheveled equipment, Whoahorny Richardson calmly applied a light layer of nitro to his ailing chest in the hope that tonight would not be the night he croaked at his own blue line as a swarm of testosterone infused jackanapes descended upon his donkless goaltender. Butcher Brophey, recently elevated to that rare air of academia known to us lesser mortals as the “Doctorate”, a Doctorate conferred upon him by the Laxative Institute of Higher Business Studies of Bath-and-Spa, England, nervously tugged at a hockey undergarment best described as “beyond recognition”. The smell which emanated from said undergarment was causing much nausea all around until the proud Doctor acted upon the unanimous suggestion that he dispose of the offending article by using one the trash cans located in the arena parking lot. “I’ve had the best sex of my life in this thing” he protested. “Well you shoulda wiped yourself off on the curtains instead” growled unsympathetic Gumby, no stranger himself to the benefits of a handy set of drapes.
The new kid (aged 30 something), Shiny Shone Brightly did not know what to make of the pre-game proceedings but did show the Executive that he was worthy of his promotion to the big team by keeping his thoughts unuttered until he had actually made some kind of useful contribution to his new team.
With the determination of Dick Cheney on a duck hunt and with a Championship to defend, the Strawbs ascended the long stairway from the dressing room to the ice surface, encouraged by the screams of delight and admiration emanating from its solid fan base. Mag Girl, atwitter with lust at the sight of her man and men in uniform, and Samara Desert, lost in a gossamer reverie recounting her recent honeymoon with Warrin’ Peace, stomped their feet in appreciation, hopeful that their support might lead to victory on the ice and later at home. Both fans were resplendent in their blue-rinsed squirrel coats, gifts from the Executive last year at the end of season celebration.
The game started off at a very high pace. Mag Boy scrolled about the ice like a piece of overstretched barbed wire finally released from its imprisonment between the cedar posts of an ancient field fence. While there was much to admire in his enthusiasm, his direction and purpose left something to be desired. In his defence, he did score 2 of the team’s 3 goals, one of which certainly looked intended.
Jesse The Leak, recent graduate of the College and unfortunate student of the newly minted Doctor Butcher, turned in a first period performance worthy of Bambi’s mother after she took the bullet to the skull. The two first shots he faced, with a combined velocity of point 2 metres per day, found the back of the net with ease. Fresh from a dressing down between periods, he regained the form expected of him, blanking the pesky Aviators over the final 22 minutes.
Gumby gumbied gumbyesquely and was plus 4 on the night according to his own suspect calculations. He termed his performance “a granular one” and was quickly correctly by the ever sharp Freight Train 444 who noted that the performance was more glandular than granular, the gland in question being located at the end of his lower colon. “What’s grammar gotta do with it?” cried an exasperated Gumby, clearly hurt by the remark.
Although they chose not to score on this occasion, the versatile Vice Marshall and the laconic Ice Marshall ensured that the grit necessary for a repeat championship was present in spades. “By going to the box so frequently, we were trying to accomplish 2 things” announced the Ice Marshall at game’s end. "Firstly, by sitting in the box, we made it highly unlikely that we would take another penalty for at least the next 3 minutes. And secondly, this group of chronic underachievers and humility deficient aficionados of women’s fine lingerie needs to feel a little adversity to get their games to the level needed for success." As the sagacity of the proffered tactics slowly seeped into the barely conscious recesses of the team’s collective psyche, a suggestion was made that there existed a location where the beer was cold and the chicks even colder. “We’re not going to your place again, Brophey,” screamed all in unison, warmed by the prospect of free booze but even more frightened of running into a Miss White Go Go Boots not known for welcoming any male attention which she herself had not initiated.
The victors and their fans congregated post-tussle at the Bull. The game was duly reviewed and aspersions cast upon those pusillanimous Strawbs who failed to show for the match (Archilles, Pyjama Man and the self-concussed Dr. Thug).
8 Guinness, 3 Stella Artois, 2 Bud Light, 2 Red Keiths, one Sissy Singapore Sling and some parsimonious praise were consumed.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Howdy horrendiferous hackers.
It is time to sign up for the Strawbs. The cost is $160 this year, up from $140. The executive has launched a formal protest and fully expects that nothing will happen.
For those of you fortunate enough to work in the executive’s shadow at the Education Centre, go see Laura in Athletics (C250) to sign up and pay asap. Apparently there is a late fee of $20 which applies as of tomorrow. I think they might give us a couple of days grace (max), as defending OHL Chumps.
For those less fortunate and less skilled, come to my house at 905 Pinewood Rd. (just off Jane St.) tonight after 7:30 or, at the latest, tomorrow after supper, with your cheques payable to Canadore College. If I should be temporarily away at the time of your visit, check my mailbox at the end of my driveway for sign up sheets. Fill in the sheet and leave your cheque. Bring beer and munchies.
Love,
IMW
It is time to sign up for the Strawbs. The cost is $160 this year, up from $140. The executive has launched a formal protest and fully expects that nothing will happen.
For those of you fortunate enough to work in the executive’s shadow at the Education Centre, go see Laura in Athletics (C250) to sign up and pay asap. Apparently there is a late fee of $20 which applies as of tomorrow. I think they might give us a couple of days grace (max), as defending OHL Chumps.
For those less fortunate and less skilled, come to my house at 905 Pinewood Rd. (just off Jane St.) tonight after 7:30 or, at the latest, tomorrow after supper, with your cheques payable to Canadore College. If I should be temporarily away at the time of your visit, check my mailbox at the end of my driveway for sign up sheets. Fill in the sheet and leave your cheque. Bring beer and munchies.
Love,
IMW
Monday, August 06, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Temper tantrum Fails To Put Damper on Inaugural Strawberries Golf Tourney
Despite the petty growling of one rather irascible Strawbette invitee, the first annual Killer Strawberries’ Serenity Now! Golf Classic could only be termed, in the words of the team’s Poet Laureate, Miss White Go Go Boots herself, “a marvelous congeries of bonhomie, sportsmanship and karmic connection with universe”.
The day started off luminously with a beneficent sun beaming down magnanimously on the assembled throng, caressing them with the warmth they so miss in their own homes. Fourteen intrepid souls hacked and slashed their ways into Strawberry history at the beautiful Osprey Links Golf and Country Club located in Callander, Ontario, home to the world’s most extensive used suppository exhibit. Among the throng, one could easily collect autographs from such current Strawbs’ greats as the dictatorial Vice Marshall (AKA Rob the Torch), godless Gawdawful Gumby, the recently lei’d Butcher Brophey (PhD, LMNOP), next year’s team captain Warrin’ Peace, the outfoxed Magnesium Boy, the relentlessly browbeaten Archilles Perron and the incredibly handsome Ice Marshall Walpole. Strawb’s alumnium, the category filled with those forced out to hockey pasture in recent years, was almost adequately represented by the aging Moses McLean (alum 1898) and the peerless raconteur, Snowtop O’Farrell who last toiled for the Strawberries wearing the toque he inherited from Aurel Joliette, his younger half-brother.
To demonstrate the team’s commitment to sensitivity, gender equality and other such pinko communist, tree hugging, granola eating, hemp wearin’, Birkinstockian drivel, the lesser sex was invited to join in the festivities, provided they remain quiet and walk at least fifteen yards behind the magnificent men in their rich and vibrant lives. Participating under these generous terms of engagement were the winsome Siren of Brockville, the only woman silly enough to be married to Moses Mclean, Miss White Go Go Boots, resplendent in her squirrel-skin golf shoes and matching red micro-mini designed for maximum titillation on short putts, the hard hitting, hard drinkin’, buffed to a tee, Postmistress Lori the Luscious, sporting the first Guinness Book recognized haido, done completely by self-administered WhipperSnipper TM, and last and least, the earlier referred-to irascible Strawbette, Glasgow Glamour, a virago of vicious vulturine vituperation.
On this august occasion, all golfers played below par, ensuring the course was properly fed with scores of errant balls, missed opportunities and well- considered epithets of the unrepeatable variety. Gawdawful Gumby probably summed it up best, when in a rare moment of poignant introspection, he declared “My game is really hard on this course.” Not only was the game hard on the course, it was hard on the players too. On at least four separate occasions, the pressure bubbled over to such a degree that Warrin’ Peace saw himself cruelly afflicted with sphincter seizures so great that his playing partner, MagBoy, had to perform the emergency de-sphincter-seizuring manoeuvres he reluctantly learned on an ill-advised 1991 camping trip sponsored by the former Bishop of the Diocese of Boston. Moses McLean had to quit on the sixteenth hole after he ran out of balls. While he did not finish the round, he did still manage to record a score of 102, good for 7th place overall, by retrogression. The Siren of Brockville found the water so often, it appeared she was carrying around her own wet spot. Snowtop O’Farrell replaced so many disturbingly deep divots, he was offered an apprenticeship position with Burrow’s Country Store and Landscaping Emporium. The Vice was so brutal, so dictatorial and so disruptive to wildlife that the management of Osprey gave him a 5 year membership to Highview G & CC, complete with unlimited bar tab. Osprey ought to be out of business by this time next year.
Glamour Glasgow, who, despite her relative newness to the game, still managed to provide a boat load of useless advice to her hangdog husband, the badly hectored Archilles, a man marked for sainthood in the “marital-hell endured” category. The Postmistress was almost flawless over her nine hole stint, shooting a highly commendable 51 from the men’s tees. If she learns to control her potty mouth, she is destined for golfing greatness. Whatever she may be called in the Strawb’s dressing room, Miss White Go Go Boots lived up to her new reputation as a dazzling dresser from tee to green. Women of the world take note: this lady knows how to deport herself in any venue, from Buckinham palace to the Zamboni Room at Palangio Arenas. A true professional in every sense.
At the end of the ordeal, the revelers congregated at the closest terminal tavren (yes, tavren), the nattily appointed Callander Tavren and Shuffleboard Shootery. Lies were recounted with relish, scores tabulated but not audited, accusations of cheating were wantonly wielded like spare change in a sailor bar, and complaints fell upon deaf ears. Glasgow Glamour lost her fetching moniker by demanding that the “Lesser Sex Award” be renamed to something she ludicrously termed “less offensive to women”. Despite the foolishness of her unrequested and pre-mature ejaculation, the award has been renamed the “Miss Temper Tantrum Trophy” to honour her brilliant diplomacy-infused contribution to male-female relations worldwide. In a secret vote after her long anticipated departure from the tavren, it was decided that the trophy shall be hers in perpetuity, to be displayed proudly atop her home karaoke system.
The sartorially sagacious Miss White Go Go Boots was rewarded with the conferring upon her dignified self of the highly sought after “Poesie” Award, given to “the tournament participant most encouraged to take up another sport”. Upon winning the coveted award, Miss White Go Go Boots cried like a baby, comforted by the fact that she could finally, with dignity, end the soul-sucking charade that she had been hoping beyond hope would save her tattered marriage. Good luck with that one.
While frivolity has its place, all was not frivolous at the awards ceremony. The first “Big Dick” Trophy, emblematic of Strawberry golfing supremacy, was brought out with tremendous fanfare and to raucous acclaim. The Ice Marshall, acting as Master of Ceremonies and Temper Tantrum Controller, announced the individual scores in descending order of incompentence. As a fevered hush engulfed the room, it all came down to the last 2 names on the list. The runner up was announced; his score a scintillating 86 on a course bent on humiliating even the most seasoned sportsman. Archilles Perron, by finishing second, had beaten his nemesis, the rotund third place Butcher Brophey. Archilles was jubilant in his runnerupship and vowed to return a better golfer, husband and friend at the next Annual. The Ice Marshall, after waiting for Archilles’ well-earned congratulatory backslaps to subside, then got around to announcing the tournament victor. As he shook his own hand in victory, the crowd rushed to the restrooms to throw up. Whispers of “anyone but him” could be deciphered between whelps of regurgitation. With the help of the wisdom and Zen-like tranquility which has marked his storied career, the Ice Marshall hosted his Big Dick, secure in his own manhood and at one with life's meaning, in a universe known for its warped sense of humour. After his head became a little less swelled, he donned the gorgeous Green Plaid Jacket which seemed to fit him perfectly. Peace reigned in the Cosmos and the Gods of Golf smiled upon all.
18 pitchers of draft, 2 glasses of whine, a thousand chicken wings, 1 low-cal chicken wrap with double poutine, a few fries and the satiating glow of requited comraderie were consumed.
The day started off luminously with a beneficent sun beaming down magnanimously on the assembled throng, caressing them with the warmth they so miss in their own homes. Fourteen intrepid souls hacked and slashed their ways into Strawberry history at the beautiful Osprey Links Golf and Country Club located in Callander, Ontario, home to the world’s most extensive used suppository exhibit. Among the throng, one could easily collect autographs from such current Strawbs’ greats as the dictatorial Vice Marshall (AKA Rob the Torch), godless Gawdawful Gumby, the recently lei’d Butcher Brophey (PhD, LMNOP), next year’s team captain Warrin’ Peace, the outfoxed Magnesium Boy, the relentlessly browbeaten Archilles Perron and the incredibly handsome Ice Marshall Walpole. Strawb’s alumnium, the category filled with those forced out to hockey pasture in recent years, was almost adequately represented by the aging Moses McLean (alum 1898) and the peerless raconteur, Snowtop O’Farrell who last toiled for the Strawberries wearing the toque he inherited from Aurel Joliette, his younger half-brother.
To demonstrate the team’s commitment to sensitivity, gender equality and other such pinko communist, tree hugging, granola eating, hemp wearin’, Birkinstockian drivel, the lesser sex was invited to join in the festivities, provided they remain quiet and walk at least fifteen yards behind the magnificent men in their rich and vibrant lives. Participating under these generous terms of engagement were the winsome Siren of Brockville, the only woman silly enough to be married to Moses Mclean, Miss White Go Go Boots, resplendent in her squirrel-skin golf shoes and matching red micro-mini designed for maximum titillation on short putts, the hard hitting, hard drinkin’, buffed to a tee, Postmistress Lori the Luscious, sporting the first Guinness Book recognized haido, done completely by self-administered WhipperSnipper TM, and last and least, the earlier referred-to irascible Strawbette, Glasgow Glamour, a virago of vicious vulturine vituperation.
On this august occasion, all golfers played below par, ensuring the course was properly fed with scores of errant balls, missed opportunities and well- considered epithets of the unrepeatable variety. Gawdawful Gumby probably summed it up best, when in a rare moment of poignant introspection, he declared “My game is really hard on this course.” Not only was the game hard on the course, it was hard on the players too. On at least four separate occasions, the pressure bubbled over to such a degree that Warrin’ Peace saw himself cruelly afflicted with sphincter seizures so great that his playing partner, MagBoy, had to perform the emergency de-sphincter-seizuring manoeuvres he reluctantly learned on an ill-advised 1991 camping trip sponsored by the former Bishop of the Diocese of Boston. Moses McLean had to quit on the sixteenth hole after he ran out of balls. While he did not finish the round, he did still manage to record a score of 102, good for 7th place overall, by retrogression. The Siren of Brockville found the water so often, it appeared she was carrying around her own wet spot. Snowtop O’Farrell replaced so many disturbingly deep divots, he was offered an apprenticeship position with Burrow’s Country Store and Landscaping Emporium. The Vice was so brutal, so dictatorial and so disruptive to wildlife that the management of Osprey gave him a 5 year membership to Highview G & CC, complete with unlimited bar tab. Osprey ought to be out of business by this time next year.
Glamour Glasgow, who, despite her relative newness to the game, still managed to provide a boat load of useless advice to her hangdog husband, the badly hectored Archilles, a man marked for sainthood in the “marital-hell endured” category. The Postmistress was almost flawless over her nine hole stint, shooting a highly commendable 51 from the men’s tees. If she learns to control her potty mouth, she is destined for golfing greatness. Whatever she may be called in the Strawb’s dressing room, Miss White Go Go Boots lived up to her new reputation as a dazzling dresser from tee to green. Women of the world take note: this lady knows how to deport herself in any venue, from Buckinham palace to the Zamboni Room at Palangio Arenas. A true professional in every sense.
At the end of the ordeal, the revelers congregated at the closest terminal tavren (yes, tavren), the nattily appointed Callander Tavren and Shuffleboard Shootery. Lies were recounted with relish, scores tabulated but not audited, accusations of cheating were wantonly wielded like spare change in a sailor bar, and complaints fell upon deaf ears. Glasgow Glamour lost her fetching moniker by demanding that the “Lesser Sex Award” be renamed to something she ludicrously termed “less offensive to women”. Despite the foolishness of her unrequested and pre-mature ejaculation, the award has been renamed the “Miss Temper Tantrum Trophy” to honour her brilliant diplomacy-infused contribution to male-female relations worldwide. In a secret vote after her long anticipated departure from the tavren, it was decided that the trophy shall be hers in perpetuity, to be displayed proudly atop her home karaoke system.
The sartorially sagacious Miss White Go Go Boots was rewarded with the conferring upon her dignified self of the highly sought after “Poesie” Award, given to “the tournament participant most encouraged to take up another sport”. Upon winning the coveted award, Miss White Go Go Boots cried like a baby, comforted by the fact that she could finally, with dignity, end the soul-sucking charade that she had been hoping beyond hope would save her tattered marriage. Good luck with that one.
While frivolity has its place, all was not frivolous at the awards ceremony. The first “Big Dick” Trophy, emblematic of Strawberry golfing supremacy, was brought out with tremendous fanfare and to raucous acclaim. The Ice Marshall, acting as Master of Ceremonies and Temper Tantrum Controller, announced the individual scores in descending order of incompentence. As a fevered hush engulfed the room, it all came down to the last 2 names on the list. The runner up was announced; his score a scintillating 86 on a course bent on humiliating even the most seasoned sportsman. Archilles Perron, by finishing second, had beaten his nemesis, the rotund third place Butcher Brophey. Archilles was jubilant in his runnerupship and vowed to return a better golfer, husband and friend at the next Annual. The Ice Marshall, after waiting for Archilles’ well-earned congratulatory backslaps to subside, then got around to announcing the tournament victor. As he shook his own hand in victory, the crowd rushed to the restrooms to throw up. Whispers of “anyone but him” could be deciphered between whelps of regurgitation. With the help of the wisdom and Zen-like tranquility which has marked his storied career, the Ice Marshall hosted his Big Dick, secure in his own manhood and at one with life's meaning, in a universe known for its warped sense of humour. After his head became a little less swelled, he donned the gorgeous Green Plaid Jacket which seemed to fit him perfectly. Peace reigned in the Cosmos and the Gods of Golf smiled upon all.
18 pitchers of draft, 2 glasses of whine, a thousand chicken wings, 1 low-cal chicken wrap with double poutine, a few fries and the satiating glow of requited comraderie were consumed.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Killer Strawberries Golf Tournament 2007
The Killer Strawberries will be having their first golf tournament this Thursday, July 26 at Osprey Links in Callandar, ON. Tee off times for 18 holes start at 3pm and 9 holes at 5:15pm. Refreshments and bragging begins in the Callandar Tavern at 8pm. Notable Strawbs and ex-Strawbs golfing include: the Ice Marshall, the Vice Marshall, War 'N Peace, Gawdawful Gumby, Moses McLean and Mrs. Moses, SloMo O'Farrell and better half, Dr. Butcher Brophey and Miss GoGo Boots, Mag Boy, Archilles Perron and Joan, and Freight Train Laronde and his "caboose."
Any former and current Strawbs are encouraged to come out and play.
Any former and current Strawbs are encouraged to come out and play.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Dubious Achievement Night
Last night was Dubious Awards Night at the Aloha Baby East Compound. The real Dubious players were noticeable by their absence.Dubious Awards
The Leak - Was I Suppossed to Stop That?The Butcher - Miss White Go Go Boots Service Award
Gawdawful Gumby - Pokey Pumpkin-socked Picaroon
Whoahorny - A535, Smells Like Casselholme
Archilles - What's That Meshy Thing Behind the Goalie?
Ice Marshall - Suffering Fools Patiently
Magnesium Boy - When I Skate Fast, I Don't Have to Think
Pajama Man - My Crackberry Stole My Scoring Touch
The Torch - Creaky, Leaky, But Still Sneaky
Freight Train 444 - Scoring With a Velocity Challenged Shot
Dr. Thug - C'mon Boys, We Can Still Score Another 10 Goals Easy
Wanderin' Warren Peace - Yes Dear, No Dear, If You Say So Dear
Monday, April 09, 2007
DUBIOUS ACHIEVEMENT AWARDS NIGHT
The 2006-2007 Killer Strawberries' Dubious Achievement Awards Night is scheduled for Thursday, April 19, at the Aloha Baby East Compound. Bring your party hats.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Fly In The Ointment Still Tastes Sweet
Killer Strawberries Win Championship
Game Report
March 1 2007
Strawbs 1 Blades of Steel 0
It was a bittersweet ending to a Cinderella year.
The early scouting reports published in September had pegged the Strawbs to a 4th place finish, based mostly on adulterated photos obtained surreptitiously over the summer by the team’s unauthorized papparazzi. One particularily damning photo, allegedly taken in August, showed the unflattering aftermath of the team’s annual summer Bacchanalian Babefest and Shoe Shine at its retreat at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu. The photos were obviously Photoshopped by devious minds bent on sullying the immaculate character of this august squad of almost-canonized hockey saints.
In September, the whole team, save for an ovoid-shaped Butcher Brophey, showed up to training camp in better shape than ever. The Butcher blamed his faux pregnancy condition on a summer diet of potato chips, high-cal fatty tissue poppers made from the preserved spleens of his previous on-ice conquests and beer by the keg. Pyjama Man Gibbons lost over 65 pounds since his last game in February 2006 and he could not stop repeating the fact that, for the first time since 1965, he could actually see his own feet without the help of a well-placed mirror. Dr. Thug, fresh from picking unwitting mosquitos out of the malarial swamps of Nicaragua, was limiting himself to one 10,000 word treatise per hour on the subject of Non-EuclidianVariants In The Airborne Dispersal of Anopheles Vectors of Toxicity. Freight Train Laronde reported to camp armed with a new wristshot capable of exceeding 35 miles per hour at sea level (yeah, the Sea of Tranquility maybe). The Vice Ice, who hadn’t set a significant fire in over 2 years, boasted of a new liver donated to him by the estate of Dean Martin. “It may not be top quality, but it’s a lot better than my old one” quipped this newest hunk of hepatic handicraft.
Gumby Pettigrew, although 3 days late to camp due to a mixup in his self-prescribed medications, did show up sporting a new, less irascible attitude. While in the past, his Orneriness would ostentatiously ignore any questions related to his summer whereabouts, the current genesis of this Pumpkin-socked Picaroon was a lot more forthcoming by informing all questioners that perhaps they might like to ask their wives/girlfriends about what he was doing when they (the questioners) weren’t home.
Archilles Perron came prepared for a gruelling training session. Every muscle in his body was athletically taut. He attributed his stellar condition to the fact that his wife had walked all over him for the previous 6 months. Whether the “walking over” was metaphorical or not has yet to be determined but Archilles did let it be known to management that he was to be home by 3:30pm everyday during camp and that he had better not be late or else.
The team’s goaltending situation looked slightly less bleak than it had in the past. Jesse The Leak had spent the summer practising his coverage of loose rebounds and fishing the puck out of his own net. He also boasted to the whole squad that he was a changed netminder. That did not stop management from continuing to seek someone else for the position until it finally gave up on its search on October 25, 6 minutes before the team roster deadline.
Magnesium Boy, who self-concusses for fun, spent the off-season kissing his enamorata’s butt, in the vain hope that he would be let out twice a week during the season to hone his game with Strawbs. He must have done a half-assed job because it became quickly apparent that his bachelor days were vanishing quicker than his recent erections (he builds and sells ice huts). Strawbs’ management arranged an intervention on his behalf and was able to charm Magnesium Girl into letting her personal slave play twice a week, providing he buy her a new squirrel fur coat with matching boots so that she could fish comfortably in the warm side of the ice hut. The coat and boots were picked out for her specifically by that arbiter of good taste and beacon of sartorial splendour, Miss White Go Go Boots herself.
The Ice Marshall showed up with his own good news in tow. He had been scouting all summer for players who would fit the Strawberries’ mold without breaking it. While sojourning with The Paducca School For Wayward Babes Cheerleading Squad at his personal retreat on Lake Mindemoya near Wiky, the astute hockey man spotted Wanderin’ Warrin’ Peace practising his peerless stickhandling manoeuvres on a hockey rink made entirely of ice cubes purloined from Rusty Erickson’s trailer camped on the shores of said lake. The Ice Marshall immediately signed the Manitoulin Magic Man to a one way, 2 year, three clause contract to join the illustrious Strawberries starting in the 2006-2007 season. On hearing the news of his new contract, his second main squeeze at the time, Miss Samara Desert, joyously advised the rookie that they were now engaged and would be getting married after the season ended, preferably at a venue with indoor plumbing. The ever alert Ice Marshall, having noticed the desperation accompanying both the betrothal announcement and its reluctant acceptance, parked himself the next day at the only bus station on the island, caught the frightened rookie by the arm as he attempted to board the outbound bus for Sudbury and reminded him of his contractual obligations. After a brief paroxysm of tears, Warrin’ finally caught his breath and accepted his fate. He spent the rest of the summer picking out wedding stationery.
The team’s missing link was found by the Ice Marshall at a little known but well attended event put on by The Nuns For Nookie in beautiful Pembroke. Whoahorney Richardson was operating an A535 kiosk at the event’s small trade show, surrounded by itinerant hawkers and pedlars selling wares unknown to even Larry Flynt and his ilk. “A535 is a cure-all” Whoahorney told the IM. “I’ve used it for all my ailments since peewee. It even cured my onanism.” On the strength of his vocabulary alone, Whoahorney was signed to a day to day contract extending through November 2006 and extendable at the option of Strawbs’ management.
With this motley crew of chronic underachievers, the Strawberries entered the current season in hopeful fashion. Performance in the pre-January part of the schedule was tepid with wins equalling losses. But something happened over Christmas. Maybe it was the bonhomie of the season. Perhaps it was the strength of overblown New Year’s resolutions. Or the A535. Whatever it was, it worked. The Strawbs stormed out of the gate like stallions on Cialis. They lost but one game from then on, and a close one at that. With every on-ice battle, the squad became stronger, more tight-knit and more determined to prove those pusillanimous, pre-season pundits wrong. They entered the playoffs seeded #1 and did not disappoint. In a double elimination format, the Killer Strawberries’ juggernaut rolled over every opponent who dared get in its way. The team was firing on all cylinders, a well tuned machine of 12 moving parts focussed on the Cup. Undefeated. Defiant. Delirious with the anticipation of Cup glory.
But the fickle Gods of Hockey, ensconced on the icy side of Mount Olympus, are known for their love of irony. In what turned out to be the last game of the season, the Strawbs were to face the Blades of Steel, a team which was but one game from elimination. To claim the Cup, they would have had to beat the Strawbs twice in row. It was an unlikely scenario; so unlikely that the Gods decided the Blades should forfeit the encounter to which the Strawberries so looked forward: a case of hockey interruptus at its worst. There was joy in Hockeyville but it was a bittersweet joy.
In the past, the Killer Strawberries have tasted the acrid bitterness of victory stolen away by lesser mortals. Indeed, the Gods have pulled the rug out from under the Strawbs on numerous occasions. Hopes have been dashed and dreams trampled under the hooves of Olympian whim. Well screw you, Gods. The fly you put into our ointment this time is still oh so sweet.
4 Bud, 5 jugs of Keith’s, 1 jug of bad Kilkenny, 2 Bud Light, 3 Guinnesses, 1 Bass, 2 Blue, 1 glass of white wine (spilled onto her squirrel coat), 4 pounds of wings and a sweet tasting fly were consumed. For an instant, harmony reigned in an inscrutable universe and the Killer Strawberries proclaimed CHAMPIONS.
Game Report
March 1 2007
Strawbs 1 Blades of Steel 0
It was a bittersweet ending to a Cinderella year.
The early scouting reports published in September had pegged the Strawbs to a 4th place finish, based mostly on adulterated photos obtained surreptitiously over the summer by the team’s unauthorized papparazzi. One particularily damning photo, allegedly taken in August, showed the unflattering aftermath of the team’s annual summer Bacchanalian Babefest and Shoe Shine at its retreat at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu. The photos were obviously Photoshopped by devious minds bent on sullying the immaculate character of this august squad of almost-canonized hockey saints.
In September, the whole team, save for an ovoid-shaped Butcher Brophey, showed up to training camp in better shape than ever. The Butcher blamed his faux pregnancy condition on a summer diet of potato chips, high-cal fatty tissue poppers made from the preserved spleens of his previous on-ice conquests and beer by the keg. Pyjama Man Gibbons lost over 65 pounds since his last game in February 2006 and he could not stop repeating the fact that, for the first time since 1965, he could actually see his own feet without the help of a well-placed mirror. Dr. Thug, fresh from picking unwitting mosquitos out of the malarial swamps of Nicaragua, was limiting himself to one 10,000 word treatise per hour on the subject of Non-EuclidianVariants In The Airborne Dispersal of Anopheles Vectors of Toxicity. Freight Train Laronde reported to camp armed with a new wristshot capable of exceeding 35 miles per hour at sea level (yeah, the Sea of Tranquility maybe). The Vice Ice, who hadn’t set a significant fire in over 2 years, boasted of a new liver donated to him by the estate of Dean Martin. “It may not be top quality, but it’s a lot better than my old one” quipped this newest hunk of hepatic handicraft.
Gumby Pettigrew, although 3 days late to camp due to a mixup in his self-prescribed medications, did show up sporting a new, less irascible attitude. While in the past, his Orneriness would ostentatiously ignore any questions related to his summer whereabouts, the current genesis of this Pumpkin-socked Picaroon was a lot more forthcoming by informing all questioners that perhaps they might like to ask their wives/girlfriends about what he was doing when they (the questioners) weren’t home.
Archilles Perron came prepared for a gruelling training session. Every muscle in his body was athletically taut. He attributed his stellar condition to the fact that his wife had walked all over him for the previous 6 months. Whether the “walking over” was metaphorical or not has yet to be determined but Archilles did let it be known to management that he was to be home by 3:30pm everyday during camp and that he had better not be late or else.
The team’s goaltending situation looked slightly less bleak than it had in the past. Jesse The Leak had spent the summer practising his coverage of loose rebounds and fishing the puck out of his own net. He also boasted to the whole squad that he was a changed netminder. That did not stop management from continuing to seek someone else for the position until it finally gave up on its search on October 25, 6 minutes before the team roster deadline.
Magnesium Boy, who self-concusses for fun, spent the off-season kissing his enamorata’s butt, in the vain hope that he would be let out twice a week during the season to hone his game with Strawbs. He must have done a half-assed job because it became quickly apparent that his bachelor days were vanishing quicker than his recent erections (he builds and sells ice huts). Strawbs’ management arranged an intervention on his behalf and was able to charm Magnesium Girl into letting her personal slave play twice a week, providing he buy her a new squirrel fur coat with matching boots so that she could fish comfortably in the warm side of the ice hut. The coat and boots were picked out for her specifically by that arbiter of good taste and beacon of sartorial splendour, Miss White Go Go Boots herself.
The Ice Marshall showed up with his own good news in tow. He had been scouting all summer for players who would fit the Strawberries’ mold without breaking it. While sojourning with The Paducca School For Wayward Babes Cheerleading Squad at his personal retreat on Lake Mindemoya near Wiky, the astute hockey man spotted Wanderin’ Warrin’ Peace practising his peerless stickhandling manoeuvres on a hockey rink made entirely of ice cubes purloined from Rusty Erickson’s trailer camped on the shores of said lake. The Ice Marshall immediately signed the Manitoulin Magic Man to a one way, 2 year, three clause contract to join the illustrious Strawberries starting in the 2006-2007 season. On hearing the news of his new contract, his second main squeeze at the time, Miss Samara Desert, joyously advised the rookie that they were now engaged and would be getting married after the season ended, preferably at a venue with indoor plumbing. The ever alert Ice Marshall, having noticed the desperation accompanying both the betrothal announcement and its reluctant acceptance, parked himself the next day at the only bus station on the island, caught the frightened rookie by the arm as he attempted to board the outbound bus for Sudbury and reminded him of his contractual obligations. After a brief paroxysm of tears, Warrin’ finally caught his breath and accepted his fate. He spent the rest of the summer picking out wedding stationery.
The team’s missing link was found by the Ice Marshall at a little known but well attended event put on by The Nuns For Nookie in beautiful Pembroke. Whoahorney Richardson was operating an A535 kiosk at the event’s small trade show, surrounded by itinerant hawkers and pedlars selling wares unknown to even Larry Flynt and his ilk. “A535 is a cure-all” Whoahorney told the IM. “I’ve used it for all my ailments since peewee. It even cured my onanism.” On the strength of his vocabulary alone, Whoahorney was signed to a day to day contract extending through November 2006 and extendable at the option of Strawbs’ management.
With this motley crew of chronic underachievers, the Strawberries entered the current season in hopeful fashion. Performance in the pre-January part of the schedule was tepid with wins equalling losses. But something happened over Christmas. Maybe it was the bonhomie of the season. Perhaps it was the strength of overblown New Year’s resolutions. Or the A535. Whatever it was, it worked. The Strawbs stormed out of the gate like stallions on Cialis. They lost but one game from then on, and a close one at that. With every on-ice battle, the squad became stronger, more tight-knit and more determined to prove those pusillanimous, pre-season pundits wrong. They entered the playoffs seeded #1 and did not disappoint. In a double elimination format, the Killer Strawberries’ juggernaut rolled over every opponent who dared get in its way. The team was firing on all cylinders, a well tuned machine of 12 moving parts focussed on the Cup. Undefeated. Defiant. Delirious with the anticipation of Cup glory.
But the fickle Gods of Hockey, ensconced on the icy side of Mount Olympus, are known for their love of irony. In what turned out to be the last game of the season, the Strawbs were to face the Blades of Steel, a team which was but one game from elimination. To claim the Cup, they would have had to beat the Strawbs twice in row. It was an unlikely scenario; so unlikely that the Gods decided the Blades should forfeit the encounter to which the Strawberries so looked forward: a case of hockey interruptus at its worst. There was joy in Hockeyville but it was a bittersweet joy.
In the past, the Killer Strawberries have tasted the acrid bitterness of victory stolen away by lesser mortals. Indeed, the Gods have pulled the rug out from under the Strawbs on numerous occasions. Hopes have been dashed and dreams trampled under the hooves of Olympian whim. Well screw you, Gods. The fly you put into our ointment this time is still oh so sweet.
4 Bud, 5 jugs of Keith’s, 1 jug of bad Kilkenny, 2 Bud Light, 3 Guinnesses, 1 Bass, 2 Blue, 1 glass of white wine (spilled onto her squirrel coat), 4 pounds of wings and a sweet tasting fly were consumed. For an instant, harmony reigned in an inscrutable universe and the Killer Strawberries proclaimed CHAMPIONS.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Pink Sink at Rink
Strawb Juggernaut Rolls On
Game Report
February 22, 2007
Strawbs 7 Rec’n Crew Flamingoes 5
The brash and aimlessly cocky pink Flamingoes came out flying, hellbent on showing an older team that its place in the sun had expired long ago with Tutenkhamen and Herotodus of Alexandria. Boy, were they wrong. The Strawbs, facing unprecedented adversity when its pre-game stash of Geritol and A535 failed to materialize, dug deep and produced a gem of a game, to thwart a hubris taunting throng of pink jerseyed youths, drunk on visions of playoff grandeur.
The Strawbs bent but did not break. They led the whole way, trading goals frequently with a determined Rec’n Crew, whose total bench age (175 years) was dwarfed by that of that of their creaky yet treacherous adversary (516 years). As Aristidis so bodly formulated in 312 BC, “It is not the age of youth which triumpheth in the end but, since time immemorial, it is the youth in age which prevaileth.” Aristidis, despite the unfortunate speech impediment, is still, of course, immaculate in his accuracy.
Pyjama Man, recovering from his recent addadictomy, led the Killer Strawberries’ charge with four goals whose beauty has been unmatched since Helen of Troy was scoring for Trojans. He hit every open spot in the opponent’s net, including one from which the hapless netminder finally retrieved his jockstrap. The VIM and IMW teamed up like they used to do on the frozen surfaces of Lahr and Soest and Zwiebrucken. While shorthanded, the VIM, scrambling for the puck in his own end, spotted the IMW cruising the Flamingoes’ blueline disguised as a faceoff circle, and drilled a beautifully banked pass off the far end boards. The ever alert pseudo faceoff circle remorphed into a scoring threat, scooped the rebounding biscuit and promptly deposited it behind a baffled and less than jovial goaltender.
Butcher Brophey, whose feisty approach to the game had been left at home on a basement shelf for the last 5 matches, finally returned ugly and ornery and was quickly tossed from the tussle for repeated illegal use of a non-surgical instrument in a surgical manner. Rumour has it that Miss White Go Go Boots had been seen stretching in the Zamboni room during the first intermission and that the Butcher, as mooneyed as a lovestruck puppy feeling his first oats, began to deliberately remove the vital organs of several Flamingoes so that he could get tossed and thus personally verify the rumour. This is not what anyone would call “taking one for the team.” It was a selfish move by selfish man for selfish reasons.
The true grit of the unselfish Strawbs was evidenced quite clearly in the last 4 minutes of the game. The Flamingoes were pressing hard. The zebras seemed to want to help the misguided youth by penalizing the Strawbs for infractions which only existed in their febrile little referee minds. For what seemed like an eternity, the penalty box was jammed with a concoction of ripe Strawberries. Some were forced to sit on teammates’ laps or to hang from the rafters, given the limited space available. At one time there was over 250 years of hard earned experience in the Sin Bin. But in the end, it did not matter. The unpenalized Strawbs swirled and swung and dove and roved like whirling dervishes at an ADD revival. Jesse The Leak was magnificent all evening and especially so in the last 4 minutes, stopping shots with his dangling appendix and other assorted misplaced organs. “I wasn’t letting anything get by me,” he declared. “I thrive on adversity and amphetamines. Besides, Buttface, Alaska is the last place I want to be these days, what with the dreaded syphilis on the wax.”
Freight Train was pure hockey locomotion on the left side, Dr. Thug looked at least 4 years younger than his reputed yet unverified 58 years, Archilles made some lovely, unintercepted passes (at the fans), Whoahorney laid in a few jaw-rattlin’ shoulders and Gumby was at his taunting best when the game was on the line. It is believed that his caustic line, “Don’t turn pink on us now,” so confused the opposition that they were still trying to decode the cryptic message well after midnight. Because they are unschooled in offensive Zen, it is not likely this famous koan will ever make sense to them.
Certainly, part of last night’s victory had to be attributable to the tremendous turnout for Fan Appreciation Night. Once again, the Strawbs were cheered on by a standing room only crowd of 2 adoring and vocal fans (the turtle-skirt wearing Samara Desert, current main squeeze of the incomparable Warrin’ Peace and the shy, retiring Mag Girl, the brains and boss behind the emerging MagGirlBoy Empire). We do not count Miss White Go Go Boots as a fan for the purposes of this game only. She did not emerge from the Zamboni Room until the team and its fans had reassembled at the Terminal Tavren. All we know is that Palangio Arenas has the only Zamboni with a back seat and that Miss WGGB likes to drive from the back seat. She arrived late, without explanation or remorse, to the team’s watering hole by way of a black stretch limousine, clutching a dozen white roses, a near empty flask of Johnny Walker Red and grin that would make the Cheshire Cat blush.
Upon her arrival, Fan Appreciation Night got into full swing. The team’s 3 fans were feted with rare blood-red tulips and a box of limited edition, thigh slimming Cherry Blossoms. A poem, written in their honour by squad’s Poet Laureate For Life, Rhymin’ Simon Hymen, was read by the IMW. Sometime soon it will be published, but suffice it to say that, upon the reading’s conclusion, there was not a dry eye or piece of unsullied lingerie to be found within hearing distance.
2 Kilkenny, 10 Steamwhistle, 4 Guinness, 6 Bud, 2 Bud Light, 1.5 Stella Artois, a glass ofwhite wine, 3 pounds of chicken wings and some dregs of Johnny Walker Red were consumed.
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