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.