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Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Tequila Thrashers March 2008

Here are the Tequila swillers prior to defeating the defending champions, the Killer Strwberries.

Killer Strawberries March 2008

Here are the Strawbs prior to their heart breaking loss to the Tequila Thrashers. Missing from the photo, but not from the game is Warren Peace.

Killerstrawberries in Germany

Attention Germans: Here is the german version of this site.
Die strawbs waren fast un-besiegt (The strawbs were almost un-defeated)

Saturday, March 22, 2008


Tequila Thrashers 3 Strawbs 2

Final Game Report 2008

Last night, a peevish lesser god of sports, a god who probably just scraped his way into the Pantheon, beaned the Strawberries with a knuckleball so vicious, it may take weeks for the team to recover. It was the last game in a double elimination format. In game 1, the Thrashers won 5 to 4 in an overtime shootout. In game 2, the Strawbs replied with a 5-4 victory of their own. All the marbles in the schoolyard were at stake in game 3 and both teams came prepared to cart off the booty.

The betting line in Vegas had the Killer Strawberries favoured by 1.5 goals. To ensure the predicted victory, the Strawbs’ Executive and coaching staff had spent the previous week formulating a winning strategy at the Aloha Baby Compound East in Oahu. Unfortunately, Scotch, late night partying, Cuban cigars and a mind sapping addiction to Dionysian revelry, normally a fine combination if one doesn’t have to get up the next day, proved to be a toxic cocktail in this instance. What looked good on paper didn’t pan out so well on the ice.

The Strawbs struck early. By the 4 minute mark they were leading 2-0. Sadly, MagBoy, poorly versed in the concepts of premature counting of chickens and hubris, made the bald faced assertion that a cakewalk was about to happen. A shocked gasp shook the Strawberries’ bench. If the team’s unified wisdom has one major tenet, it is that cockiness will inevitably get whacked mercilessly with the Sledgehammer of Humiliation, which comes in many disguises. And arrive the Sledgehammer did, in the form of a dancing knuckleball to the squad’s collective skull. The Thrashers clawed their way back into the game, scoring the winning goal with a mere 1 minute and 48 seconds left to run on the clock. After having allowed absolutely no breakaways the whole game, a rare defensive brain fart left a good looking, nattily attired Thrasher of the female persuasion alone with the puck in front of Jesse The Leak, whose performance to that point in the match was deserving of induction into the Canadore Intramural Hockey Hall of Fame. Without hesitation, Tequila Sheila slammed the puck into the yawning mesh, thus emasculating, with one swing of a stick, a whole team of shocked hockey veterans. Despite a furious assault on the opposition’s net during the remaining seconds, The Strawbs could not pierce the Thrasher armour. A malicious god chuckled in glee as the final buzzer sounded. If a middle finger could make a noise, it would have been that noise.

Like the true gentlemen they are, the Killer Strawberries screwed up their internal fortitude, bit their bottom lips, donned the best smiles they could muster and lined up to congratulate the deserving victors.( Sir Gumby hugged the winning goal scorer and managed to get her grandmother's e-mail address.) Slowly, the Strawbs made their way to the dressing room, with each player repeatedly going through Kubler-Ross's 5 stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance swirled about the arena until the Vice put it all into perspective. “Although I too am crestfallen in light of the victory which has eluded us, I am proud of they way everybody played. Warrin’ Peace and Freight Train were selfless in shutting down the Rocket Man who scored 10 of the Thrashers’ 12 goals in this series. The Butcher played like a man half his weight and twice his IQ. Whoa.Horny didn’t drink for 3 whole days before tonight’s tilt. Shiny Sean was a much smaller liability on defence than the Executive predicted. Gumby showed up with his teeth brushed and his hair finely combed, each and every night. Dr. Thug fought his own demons and played like a young 56 year old, despite the fact that he is soon to enter his seventh decade of unchecked debauchery. Archilles played through his mediocrity with the determination of a dog attacking a bone. The Ice Marshall led us to courageous defeat even though his left ankle and right elbow were broken. Pyjama Man fought off the effects of lascivious and relentless pre-game sex to put in a couple of semi-solid shifts. MagBoy embarrassed himself much less than usual and often put his Crackberry away in time to take his turns on the ice. Jesse was so effective in shutting down the Thrashers, maybe we should change his name from Jesse The Leak to Jesse The Drip.” The Vice continued his inane yet enlightened prattling and finally summed the whole affair in the way only he can. “Winning is for losers” he philosophied. That kind of wisdom is priceless.

As this will be the last game report for the year, perhaps forever (given the whispers of forced retirement which have been emanating from the impatient younger players on the team), it would be an egregious oversight not to write a few words about the Strawbs’ loyal following. Thank you Miss White Go Go Boots for inspiring us with your sartorial splendour and the tireless work ethic which caused you to miss the most important game in Strawberries’ history. Thank you Madame LaChaise Lounge for allowing your man to travel freely back and forth between Aloha Baby Compound East and your home at the centre of the Compound For Minor Vice. You might want to install a couple of surveillance cameras to keep you better informed of the “strategy sessions” held during your lengthy absences. Thank you Pandaemonium for skulking out of town in the middle of the night after making us addicted to your less-than-undying support. Thank you MagGirl for cheering us on, despite the burden of the “umarried” label you are forced to carry around. Thank you Loans Jones and the Pyjama Man Spawn (Dora & Flora) for cheering on #74, even if he played like a dying Toller Cranston. Thank Lazily LaMoan for coming out to your first game in 6 years in order to see the Freight Train mow down little girls in the fashion taught to him by Dr. Thug. And a final big Merci to Samara Desert who continues to hope beyond hope that Warrin’ Peace will be elevated to the team Executive, based on his hockey skills alone. For being voted #1 Killer Strawberries Fan for 2008, the team hereby upgrades your moniker to Samara Dessert. You are now fully qualified to launder our equipment and attend, unescorted, all level 2 team functions.

Post-game, the Strawbs continued the grieving at the Terminal Tavren. Backs were slapped in commiseration, tears dried with dirty napkins and egos soothed with copious libation. 7 Guinness, 3 Steamwhistle, 4 largemouth Bass, 22 Stella, 4 Bud Light, 2 girlie drinks which looked suspiciously like sour apple martinis, 2 Blue, 41 Kilkenny, 5 pounds of wings with extra cholesterol, and a pile of Kubler-Ross were consumed.

Friday, March 14, 2008

The Juggernaut Wobbles But Does Not Break

The Leak prepares to face down another breakwaway

Killer Strawberries 5
Tequila Thrashers 4 (SO)

Game Report
March 13, 2008

The Killer Strawberries came perilously close to self-destruction last evening in its playoff tilt against a surprising Thrashers’ squad. By the time game was a minute and 33 seconds old, the Strawbs’ were already down 2-0, thanks to some handsome play by the normally reliable Butcher Brophey. The Butcher had obviously spent himself and his afternoon frolicking in his new “One Guy-Four Chicks” hot tub. He showed up to the arena smelling of bromine, scotch, expensive perfume and burnt latex. He was glassy-eyed, unsteady on his feet and his breath was so bad he was asked to dress in the washroom. He must have lost a little blood as well, as evidenced by the host of festering hickeys which adorned his Adonis-like frame. To say that he came unprepared and remained unprepared would be an understatement. All night long, he skated like he had tied the laces of one hockey boot to another. He looked like Beelzebub shrinking from a pyx every time the puck came within 20 feet of his confused being. Not even the presence of his main squeeze, the incredibly beautiful and talented Miss White Go Go Boots (she was also giving off olfactory hintsof a misspent afternoon) could move him from atrocious to mediocre on the hockey playing scale. The team is hopeful his post game demotion to the Nasty Cupcakes will serve as the wakeup call needed to get him back into fighting form.

By the 10 minute mark, the score had increased to 3-0. The Thrrashers had scored on 2 of its 3 breakaways and potted another on a screen shot. Fortunately, the Strawbs’ remained undaunted, knowing full well they had the manpower and cunning to get back into the game. In one of the best Machiavellian moves of the season, the Strawberries Executive, watching a live game feed to the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu had the Butcher paged to a pay phone in the lobby of the arena. The Butcher had to take off his skates and walk over to take the call. By the time he returned to the bench, the game was virtually over. With its cancer thus excised, the Killer Strawberries notched up its play. Freight Train 444, using a Dr. Thug-like scream, convinced the zebras that a puck stuck against the opposition’s post had actually crossed the line. Archilles Perron, after repeatedly smashing his head against the back wall to wake himself from his stupour, slipped a beauty into the high left hand corner of the net: score 3-2 Thrashers.

With just 10 minutes to play, the feisty Tequilers took off on another breakaway and beat a disheartened Jesse The Leak with a fancy deke. Thrashers 4, Strawbs 2. A lesser team would have folded at this time. But not the murderous fruit. With Whoahorny going hoarse on the bench screaming obscenity-filled encouragement to his teammates, the Strawbs fought back to 4-3 with just under 5 minutes remaining. Painfully, the clocked ticked down as the Strawberries unsuccessfully swarmed the Thrasher battlements. Then, with a scant 67 seconds left til golf time, Shiny Sean emerged from his coma. Over the opponent’s blueline he swooped. Inside the opponent’s blueline he wheeled. At the top of the circle, he glanced forward and spotted Archilles picking his nose, alone at the side of the Tequila net. He fed the nasally occupied Perron with a pass so lovely it has been sent to the Smithsonian for display alongside George Bush Junior’s sole remaining brain cell. The astonished Archilles made no mistake with the biscuit. With 58.5 seconds showing on the clock, he drove the puck to very back of the net, tying the score 4-4. The fans went wild, with some of them baring many of their intimate body parts, while others were content to make proposals of marriage and no-string-attached romps in the Zamboni Room.

The Butcher, who had just returned to the bench still wondering who had tried to call him on the arena’s only public telephone, pleaded to be allowed to redeem himself on-ice. A swift chorus of “screw you, hot tub head” quickly squelched any hope he may have been harbouring. The team finished out the game and headed to the overtime shootout.

And what a shootout it was. Everyone was in a state of high anticipation as the Ice Marshall doled out the shooting privileges. Whoahorny was to go first on the strength of his well trimmed beard. Shiny Sean would follow, and Pyjama Man would close the deal. Whoahorny shot and missed. Thrasher 1 was stymied by the wily Leak. Next, Shiny Sean cut left, dropped his right shoulder, spun around, stopped to blow his nose and surreptitiously deposited the puck deep into the upper mesh of the net. The Leak slammed closed his five hole and thwarted Thrasher 2. Finally, Pyjama Man, looking a lot like a banshee on speed, screamed in, launched a rocket to the goalie’s shoulder and watched helplessly as the puck careened of the crossbar, then the post, the goalie’s leg, back to the post and out into the stands. Thrasher 3 didn’t stand a chance. The Leak blew himself up to 5 times his size and allowed not a sliver of the space-time continuum to be seen anywhere behind him. STRAWBS WIN! STRAWBS WIN!

The next game promises to a dilly. All fans are requested to attend. History is to be witnessed.

At the post game assembly, Sir Gumby congratulated the squad on its persistence, fortitude, determination and overall good luck. He raised his glass and his 5 iron, exclaiming, “It ain’t golf season yet!”

4 Bass, 5 Stella, 4 half and half, 3 Bud, 3 Bud Light, 7 Guinness, 6 Kilkenny, 4 pounds of chicken wings and some shootout euphoria were consumed.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Juggernaut Jitterbug

Killer Strawberries 13 Blades of Steel 1

Game Report
March 10, 2008

The instructions from the coaching staff and Sir Gumby were simple…”Bury them early”.
And bury them they did. Last night, the Strawbs continued their march to the Cup with a convincing 13 to 1 victory over a disheartened and shell shocked squad of befuddled Blades. It was the team’s concensus that the score would have been a lot closer had the Vice, Archilles and Warrin’ Peace bothered to show up. Fortunately, they had unfinished business elsewhere and their snubs only served to energize the juggernaut.

Except for a small 30 second let up half way through the second period, the team kept up a relentless barrage of offensive hockey not seen since the days of Moses McLean, a once glorious Strawb now gone to seed. For those of you who never had the privilege of witnessing Moses in action (Moses inaction?), suffice it to say that he was probably the most offensive player ever to toil for the Strawbs.

MagBoy, playing on a line with Pyjama Man and the Ice Marshall, was the leading scorer on the evening, potting 4 lovely markers under the adoring watch of his long time girlfriend, the swooning, unmarried, post-nasal dripping MagGirl, the only fan to witness the determined squad in action, despite the litany of health woes which currently ail her. MagBoy’s linemates contributed 5 more goals, some of which will be remembered for years to come because of the grace, beauty and wizardry they embodied. By whom they will be remembered is anybody’s guess.

The second line of Whoahorny, Dr. Thug and Freight Train were but a grain less spectacular than the top line. That they were pumped for the game is undeniable. Dr. Thug had so much adrenaline coursing through his tired veins that he missed scoring into 6 feet of open net. The expletive he screamed as he shot wide is still reverberating through the universe, having caused a significant earthquake on Mars around 10pm last night. You’ve gotta love the enthusiasm.

The D was solid. After having given up 12 breakaways 2 games ago, they were determined to atone. Not once was The Leak left alone to fend for himself. Shiny, Gumby and the Butcher (who continued his uninterrupted 456 consecutive game parade to the penalty box) were so effective, they have been asked to anchor the team next Thursday when the Killer Strawberries play for all the marbles against the surging Thrashers.

Jesse The Leak was a veritable Berlin Wall between the pipes. Not even the breeze off passing Blades could make it past him. He promises to repeat the performance in the finals, a promise he will be called upon to keep.

Post game, Freight Train 444 presented each of Whoahorny and the Ice Marshall with a bottle of birthday Scotch. It took about 14 seconds for the first bottle to disappear and about 24 seconds for the next… a Killer strawberry consumption record! Winning makes you thirsty and winning big makes you ravenous.

After all the dressing room back slapping, burping, towel snapping and toasting, the team made its way to the Terminal Tavren to gloat, prevaricate and scheme. Gumby promised to bring his 5 iron to the rink one more time, a subtle reminder to the squad that it’s either the Cup or golf. Dr Thug promised to scream louder every time he or a teammate scores. Freight Train advised that he would ensure there was more Scotch on Thursday, whatever the cost to his limited household budget. The Butcher promised spleen-on-a-stick for everyone. MagBoy said he would continue his torrid scoring pace. MagGirl promised to recruit at least one more fan for the championship final. Shiny promised to be handsomer and the Ice Marshall more debonnair (as if that were possible). Let the juggernaut roll!

5 Guinness, 2 Bud, 4 Bass, 2 Stella, 1 Kilkenny, 2 girlie drinks, 2 pounds of chicken wings and a gallon of optimism were consumed.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

Special Exclusive Report

February 28, 2008

By: David Willms, Special Correspondent to the Daily Delusional
Frog Hollow, Upstairs Bathroom and Bar

I have seen the future of beer league hockey and it is humbly ensconced in the burbs and exotic waterfront abodes of North Bay's hockey elite. Yes sir, the mighty Killer Strawberries juggernaut dispatched the opposition with such swift and cruel precision that the visiting team actually killed and ate their own goalie.... 15 minutes into the second period. The bloodletting continued, unabated, throughout the entire phantasmagorical/brutally honest contest of will and skill.

To be completely fair, said " goalie " was an admitted xenophobe and never really stood a chance of fending off the constant stream of laser guided rubber bombs coming off of what must surely be neutron powered hockey sticks. So complete was the Strawberry drubbing that I wept for the shattered egos and the obviously indigenous paucity of talent these poor mokes dragged through the front door of the Pete Palangio arena.

I can't even pretend to give you a play by play of the brilliant contributions of this most august lineup of ice gods, as I was not paying that much attention, distracted as I was by the thankless task of photographing cloying, inarticulate children of all ages, trying to relive the glory years. What I can offer are some observations, hastily considered, about the few Strawberries that I actually know well enough to be honest with.
In spite of his propensity for painting people in their worst possible light, the Ice Marshal Walpole is a selfless contributor of goodwill and sage guidance to the betterment of team productivity. So much so that I'm sure I saw him on his back, between the pipes of the opposing teams goal, just to make sure the goalie was wearing legal equipment. Such sacrifice.

Gawd Awful Gumby Takes a lot of flack for his alleged lack of passion and skill on ice. What a load of thunderclap....all I saw last Thursday was Mercury on blades...... grinding it out on every shift, causing the other team to lose what little poise it had garnered after potting a few miserable, odious, fey handed one pointers. Little wonder the team called him Gawd...once!!

Vice Ice Marshal Greenfield's performance can be summed up with one word...perfunctory. Such overly ambitious ennui has to be seen to be believed. There is one thing I don't quite understand though...the final score was 14 to 3 for the Strawbs and yet the Vice claimed 16 assists. I guess he must have had a hand in two goals against his own net. Yikes!!!

The rest of the squad, gold platted amulets of taste and decorum that they were, performed just a bit above and beyond their abilities, ensuring a very comfortable afterlife for all concerned.

It should be mentioned that the one penalty on the night was not given to Butcher this a first?

All in all a stellar outing, of which, the Strawberries should be immensely proud. The only black mark on the evening has to be awarded to Mr Fkia for the very funny but politically incorrect Mennonite incest joke that he told apres game. Shame on me....shame on me!

In the above picture Jessie The Leak is showing some team members a piece of gum that somehow got stuck to his jock....ouch!

Monday, March 03, 2008

Frolic With Canines Ends

Killer Strawberries 14 Titans 3
Game Report
February 28, 2008

After having lost an unprecedented 3 games in a row, one of them an important playoff match, the Killer Strawberries finally managed to end its ugly frolic with canines by administering a perfervid paddling to the collective posterior of a perplexed Titan squad.

The astute coaching staff, intent on the future replication of the effort which culminated in last night’s victory, has compiled a list of potential reasons for the Strawbs’ just-in-time return to hockey excellence. The reasons are in no particular order, since disorderliness seems to be the one common factor which characterizes every Strawberry’s normal on-ice performance.

Last night marked the first time all season that the lowly papparazzi, which, in the past, had mercilessly plagued this team of too handsome specimens, was allowed to penetrate the squad’s pre-game inner sanctum. Fresh from pestering the horde of pantyless poseurs parading about Hollywood, Mister Davidson FKIA the Third, heir to the throne of Frog Hollow, weaved his voyeuristic magic in the dressing room, capturing the photographic essence of more than one startled Strawberry. He continued his superb work from various vantage points around the rink, with his best action shots coming from his unlikely perch high in the arena bar. The Killer Strawberries seemed to flourish under the attention lavished upon them by the talented Davidson, so much so that, at times, the referees had to stop the game so that some of the more vain could comb their hair and straighten their stockings before being photographed. Due to the tremendous success of his efforts, Mister FKIA has been appointed Official Team Photographer To The Killer Strawberries, a position which ensures he will be invited to all team and executive functions, including the Annual Mazzola Appreciation Day held each August 30th at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu, Hawaii. (Provided of course he passes the requisite physical).

He has been absent for most of the season, what with his terrible struggles with nicotine, cheap Scotch, cheaper wine, a mysterious lung fungus, an unhealthy devotion to the Toronto Maple Leafs and his inane propensity for slamming his skull into objects harder than Krytonite. Dr. Thug finally emerged from his stupor to contribute meaningfully to the victory. He amassed an all-time team record 6 assists and possibly a goal or two. Because there was no league-sanctioned paper trail for the match, the team had to rely on his unquestionable integrity and extremely poor memory in order to confirm his remarkable performance. Just to be safe, the squad’s official statiscian rounded down Dr. Thug’s assist claim from 14 to 6 but did not tamper with his self-reported 2 goal tally. “I really did get 14 assists” he peevishly declared. “I assisted twice on each of my own goals alone.” Apparently, he is using the New Math to stroke his own ego.

Bonehead Butcher Brophey also emerged as a force to be reckoned with. Tired of lollygagging at home alone in his new Four Chicks-One Guy hot tub, allegedly in an effort to speed the healing to a shoulder he claims to have separated in 18 places, the team’s surgeon played like a pony snorting his first scent barnyard pheremone. His pugnacious play was greatly welcomed, as he continued to slash, hack, chop, carve and mutilate his way further into the Canadore Intramural Hockey League record books. It his hoped we have not seen the last of his awe inspiring outings.

The rest of the scoring was evenly spread out. Somebody got one and so did another few somebodies. It was unimously agreed that the most beautiful goal of the evening was notched by the Ice Marshall who had landed at Jack Garland Airport in North Bay only an hour before game time. Unshowered, unshaven and unmodest, IMW was whisked to the arena in a private limo driven by Miss White Go Go Boots herself who is seeking to supplement her unreported income with legitimate revenue. After paying her in both modes, IMW quickly dressed and was ready to go by the second shift. On this second shift, he skulked about the opposition’s blue line until he was spotted by the eagle-eyed Shiny. Shiny laid out a beautiful stretch pass which caught IMW in full stride, 3 metres behind the closest defender. Made stupid with an unwelcome surge of testosterone, epinephrine and seritonin, IMW did his best “deer on slippery ice” imitation, tripped over the blue line and careened, full speed ahead, into the oppostion’s goal, sending the net and a frightened goaltender through the back of the boards and into the parking lot. Because he had presciently lodged the puck into the small opening between his skate blade and his hockey boot only a moment before crossing the goal line, the goal was allowed to stand. Unfortunately, Mister Davidson FKIA the Third did not get any photos of the goal. He claimed later that he had run out of digital film for his digital camera. What a liar!

Post-game, the team, minus Whoahorny, Archilles and Jesse The Leak, each of whom were told earlier by their wives/girlfriends to be home right after the match, re-assembled at the Terminal Tavren to celebrate the occasion. Dr. Thug’s record was toasted, Samara Desert complimented on her new front teeth, and Mister FKIA’s camera stolen. A good time was had by all.

5 Stella, 4 Kilkenny, 4 Bud Light, 2 nice Bass, 4 pounds of chicken wings, 17 Guinness and 1 Guinness Book of Strawberry Records were consumed.