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.