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.