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.