Ramrods 5 Killer Strawberries 3
Game Report
November 27, 2008
It was a close game until the final minute when a small, MagBoy-like brain fart resulted in an unfortunate turnover deep in the Strawberries end. With 57 seconds remaining on the clock, the Ramrods pounced on a poorly propelled puck and promptly deposited it behind a disconsolate Leak, who, until that point, had been stymieing the relentless opposition with superlative goaltending.
With the score now 4-3 in favour of the Ramrods, the Strawbs pulled their goalie and began putting on some good pressure in the opponent’s zone. Somehow the puck escaped the pressure and listlessly floundered back toward the Strawbs’ end of the rink. Dr. Billy The Goat Procunier (aka dr. Thug) sped to corral the biscuit before an icing could be called. Who knows why?
Exhausted from his skate back, he proceeded to launch a perfect pass across the front of his own net….perfect in the sense that it was sublime lunacy from a sublime lunatic. The puck was easily intercepted by a rather surprised Ramrodder who, faced with a yawning cage, deftly deeked out the crease, put a fake on the goal line and wired his gift horse into an astonished mesh: Ramrods 5 Strawberries 3.
At the Presser immediately following the game, a contrite Dr. Thug, his wicket firmly planted between his legs could only say “I’m sorry. I’ve been up late every night this week preparing for King Richard’s (his son’s) December mid-terms. All I can think about is E=MC2, ribonucleic acid, and the new Britney Spears video which I need to study for Rich’s Anatomy exam. I hope I won’t be sent down again to the farm team’s farm team.” The Executive was less forgiving than the good doctor was to himself, fining Billy The Goat a Panjoram (2 hogsheads) of single malt for his faux pas.
Other than the two last minute miscues, the Strawbs played a very strong game. Perhaps they were trying hard to ensure that their newest pickup, Slickery Elbows McMillan, would remain with the squad for the remainder of the season. Slickery had been recruited after a lengthy search by the tireless Executive of all the local frozen ponds, frozen ditches and customary, less-than-reputable, post-game watering holes. Slickery was spotted on November 25, 2008 exiting a rather dubious establishment at 2:22 am, as he drove out of the darkened parking lot with his headlights off, wearing little more than the self-satisfied grin of an incorrigible tomcat escaping a successful back alley encounter. He was pulled over by the alert Vice who promptly signed him to a one way, one year, no trade contract, pending a check of his possible involvement in any three way love triangles which could come back to haunt the team.
Slickery took no time establishing himself as a force to be reckoned with. Prowling the ice like an undercover eel, he slipped in here, dangled there and scored the game’s first goal: a sloppy shot but a goal nevertheless. Preliminary reviews of his play have been favourable. The rest of the team pulled up their red socks in his wake, with excellent efforts being proffered especially by Shiny Sean Brightly, Freight Train Laronde, Archilles and Warrin’ Peace; about time for at least 2 of them.
Butcher Brophey continued to strengthen the team with his prolonged absence. Rumours have been swirling about that the team’s tactical surgeon is undergoing an emergency addadicktomy somewhere near Gotenburg, Sweden. Other reports have him trying unsuccessfully to sanitize his equipment at Atomic Energy of Canada before he returns to wreak havoc on the teams in the Canadore Intramural league, including his own. Another rumour has him nursing Miss White Go Go Boots back to health after a strenuous Legionnaires’ Convention in Las Vegas, Manitoba. (Her convention, not his).
As was inevitable, the Killer Strawberries adjourned to the Terminal Tavren to discuss their performance and to generate new rumours. They were successful on both counts.
4 Stella, 6 Blue, 2 Bud Light, 2 Black and Tan, 1 celery stick, and half a Panjoram of single malt were consumed .
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Spitfires Find Wrong End of The Stick
Spitfires Find Wrong End of The Stick
Strawberries 5 Spitfires 1
Game Report
November 20, 2008
Strengthened by the absence of Butcher Brophey (hip flexor) and Sir Gumby (ego bruise), the Killer Strawberries shot down a squad of belligerent Spitfires by a score of 5-1, thus avenging an earlier loss earlier in the week.
Shiny Sean Brightly was the star of the game, playing 4 or 5 positions simultaneously, offending and defending insouciantly. As the Vice so diplomatically put it, “For a fatter guy than the Ice Marshal, he sure is nimble”.
Dr. Thug, MagBoy and Pyjama Man played with each other as best they ever have, going so far as to continue their triumph with a celebratory communal shower. After tallying up the claims of each of these stalwarts, the final score should have been 19-1, with each of the trio getting an additional 8 assists on the evening: 43 points on 5 official goals, another case of the new math gone terribly awry.
Warrin’ Peace was finally allowed out the house for more than 5 minutes in the last month, accompanied by his parole officer/wife who looked on begrudgingly from the comfort of the lobby. He promptly made his presence felt, swooping and dashing like a new born colt high on alfalfa. It was a good thing he didn’t come out stale because his name had been paired frequently with the word “trade” in the last 2 weeks. Perhaps he was spurred on by the excellent play of his left winger, Archilles Perron who finally broke free of the hockey doldrums to deliver his best on ice performance of the season. He attributed his improved play to the new Yanni CD he has started to play in his car on the way to the arena.
Freight Train and the Vice were veritable monoliths on defence and we’re not just referring to their imposing physiques in this case. They wisely used their bulks to force Spitfires to take the long way around to get to loose pucks. It is estimated that the feckless Spitfire foes skated an additional 4,324 miles on the evening just to get around the physical roadblocks scattered repeatedly in their way. Big can be beautiful.
While the score may suggest a cakewalk, it was anything but. Jesse The Leak was tested and came out on top on numerous occasions. Moreover, the Spitfires, fresh from their recent pre-frontal lobotomies, attempted to intimidate the Strawbs with their constant hacking and slashing and overall poor sportsmanship. Unfortunately, they found out that the Killer Strawberries cannot be frightened by much beyond their wives/girlfriends/mistresses. Whenever a foul was encountered, it was received with a counter-encounter; this usually took the form of an elbow to the head, blade to the scrotum or a nasty verbal rejoinder. On one occasion, near the end of the game, the Ice marshal was the victim of an attempted slew footing. To advise his opponent of his opposition to such a piece of poor sportsmanship, IMW promptly delivered a well placed two hander to the miscreant’s exposed hip flexor. The miscreant, in turn, took offence and charged the normally staid team leader. And what did the upstart get for his troubles? More troubles, in the form of a broken hand suffered while trying to re-arrange the Ice Marshal’s facial features. Unfortunately for the hapless assailant, his fist ran into the the marble block between his victim’s ears. “That’ll teach the little flibbertigibbit” spat the Ice Marshal in voice tainted with equal measures of scorn and triumph.
When the big scoring trio, mentioned above, finally emerged from the shower in dressing room 10, the team raced to catch final call at the Terminal Tavren. Injuries suffered were compared to injuries inflicted, and, continuing with the new math, it was determined that the Spitfires would probably all be dead or still in emerg. by next Tuesday. We are hopeful they have learned not to mess with the Israel of Canadore Intramural Hockey.
7 bottles of Black and Blue, 5 Stella, 3 Keiths, I Guinness and a can of whoopass were consumed.
Strawberries 5 Spitfires 1
Game Report
November 20, 2008
Strengthened by the absence of Butcher Brophey (hip flexor) and Sir Gumby (ego bruise), the Killer Strawberries shot down a squad of belligerent Spitfires by a score of 5-1, thus avenging an earlier loss earlier in the week.
Shiny Sean Brightly was the star of the game, playing 4 or 5 positions simultaneously, offending and defending insouciantly. As the Vice so diplomatically put it, “For a fatter guy than the Ice Marshal, he sure is nimble”.
Dr. Thug, MagBoy and Pyjama Man played with each other as best they ever have, going so far as to continue their triumph with a celebratory communal shower. After tallying up the claims of each of these stalwarts, the final score should have been 19-1, with each of the trio getting an additional 8 assists on the evening: 43 points on 5 official goals, another case of the new math gone terribly awry.
Warrin’ Peace was finally allowed out the house for more than 5 minutes in the last month, accompanied by his parole officer/wife who looked on begrudgingly from the comfort of the lobby. He promptly made his presence felt, swooping and dashing like a new born colt high on alfalfa. It was a good thing he didn’t come out stale because his name had been paired frequently with the word “trade” in the last 2 weeks. Perhaps he was spurred on by the excellent play of his left winger, Archilles Perron who finally broke free of the hockey doldrums to deliver his best on ice performance of the season. He attributed his improved play to the new Yanni CD he has started to play in his car on the way to the arena.
Freight Train and the Vice were veritable monoliths on defence and we’re not just referring to their imposing physiques in this case. They wisely used their bulks to force Spitfires to take the long way around to get to loose pucks. It is estimated that the feckless Spitfire foes skated an additional 4,324 miles on the evening just to get around the physical roadblocks scattered repeatedly in their way. Big can be beautiful.
While the score may suggest a cakewalk, it was anything but. Jesse The Leak was tested and came out on top on numerous occasions. Moreover, the Spitfires, fresh from their recent pre-frontal lobotomies, attempted to intimidate the Strawbs with their constant hacking and slashing and overall poor sportsmanship. Unfortunately, they found out that the Killer Strawberries cannot be frightened by much beyond their wives/girlfriends/mistresses. Whenever a foul was encountered, it was received with a counter-encounter; this usually took the form of an elbow to the head, blade to the scrotum or a nasty verbal rejoinder. On one occasion, near the end of the game, the Ice marshal was the victim of an attempted slew footing. To advise his opponent of his opposition to such a piece of poor sportsmanship, IMW promptly delivered a well placed two hander to the miscreant’s exposed hip flexor. The miscreant, in turn, took offence and charged the normally staid team leader. And what did the upstart get for his troubles? More troubles, in the form of a broken hand suffered while trying to re-arrange the Ice Marshal’s facial features. Unfortunately for the hapless assailant, his fist ran into the the marble block between his victim’s ears. “That’ll teach the little flibbertigibbit” spat the Ice Marshal in voice tainted with equal measures of scorn and triumph.
When the big scoring trio, mentioned above, finally emerged from the shower in dressing room 10, the team raced to catch final call at the Terminal Tavren. Injuries suffered were compared to injuries inflicted, and, continuing with the new math, it was determined that the Spitfires would probably all be dead or still in emerg. by next Tuesday. We are hopeful they have learned not to mess with the Israel of Canadore Intramural Hockey.
7 bottles of Black and Blue, 5 Stella, 3 Keiths, I Guinness and a can of whoopass were consumed.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Too Few Bodies
Spitfires 4 Killer Strawberries 2
Game Report
November 17, 2008
It has been a problem all season long. Except for one game this year, the Strawbs have been forced to face younger, faster and hungrier teams with a roster depleted by injury, pique, venereal disease and out-of-control wife control. Those who have shown up have played well above their abilities. It is unfortunate that Strawbs’ management couldn’t take all the extra weight put on by the team over the summer and create an additional skater or two for the team. Freight Train alone has put on enough bulk for 3 extra players. This is not a slight…it is just an observation. Freight Train has been carrying his weight night after night, unlike some gumbyesque others, whose name(s) cannot be mentioned in the interests of team harmony.
Last night was no exception to the chronic undermandedness of this august squad. Not only was the team at least one brick short of a load, some of the bricks had to play injured. The Vice was a veritable Timmy Cratchet, flaying about like a blind kitten caught in a bag of molasses. The team psychiatrist believes he is suffering from a loss of power which has accompanied his dethronement as Dictator By The Lake. Power corrupts…but loss of power corrupts absolutely.
Dr. Butcher Brophey played a stellar game despite the myriad of injuries which plagued his tortured torso. Although his ailments were self-reported, there is no reason to disbelieve that he was suffering from a hip flexor contusion, a jugular haematoma, non-athlete's foot, and a mysterious fungal affliction which is resulting in fewer post-game visits to the Zamboni Room. Looking at him in the dressing room, stripped to what is left of his manhood, one could not help but believe his claims. Nevertheless, his performance was exemplary against the Spitfires. In the dying seconds of the game, he hobbled his way into the opposition end and rifled a rocket off the crossbar, which shot, had it gone in, would have tied the game. He was chosen the game’s first star and received a certificate for a free hockey equipment sanitizing from Atomic Energy of Canada.
MagBoy continued his frenzied and feisty play, urged on certainly by a blond haired babe in the stands rumored to be his fiancee/housekeeper/personal banker. It could only have been love that propelled the team’s unofficial wit (he still has half-way to go before the full title is officially conferred upon him) to beat the crap out of the unfortunate Spitfire who:
a) tossed a carelessly lurid glance at his affianced, and,
b) had the temerity to skate across MagBoy's shadow in the dying embers of the game. It was a full evening’s work for our loose cannon and he deserves to be praised in this report.
Warrin’ Peace continued his string of unexplained absences. His latest excuse was that it is still deer season. This would normally be a good excuse but it has been learned that he was hunting deer on his home computer: doesn’t count. He had better show up soon or the team will not hold its next get together in his Garage Of Bad Ideas.
On the bright side, the team’s Executive has been summoned to Chicago by Obama’s presidential transition team. Seems the president-elect wants to ensure that the next round of free trade talks guarantees an unimpeded flow of Canadian hockey players to U.S. based teams. Apparently Obama once attended a charity-based hockey school in Oahu, Hawaii, which hockey school was one of the first eleemosynary ventures set up by the Strawbs’ Executive. Obama, a weak right winger, never forgot the kindness and especially the wisdom of the Strawbs’ organization which taught him the value of teamwork and practiced oratory. Young Barack was the first recipient of a Killer Strawberries Harvard scholarship and he obviously has used this leg-up to his advantage.
It is not expected that the prolonged absences of the Executive, now rooming temporarily at the Playboy Mansion, will affect this year’s drive to the Cup. The Executive plans to do some valuable recruiting while sojourning in Illinois. It is rumored that there will be some excellent talent on site which could boslter the team’s prospects on and off the ice.
As is and will forever be customary, the Strawbs recovened post-game at the Terminal Tavren to salve the wounds of defeat and to compare ailments, injuries and other personal affronts. Absentees were gently admonished and prayers of hope offered to the Great God Guinness.
20 bottles of Black and Blue, a pound of chicken wings, some flaccid fries and the team’s last tube of A535 were consumed.
Game Report
November 17, 2008
It has been a problem all season long. Except for one game this year, the Strawbs have been forced to face younger, faster and hungrier teams with a roster depleted by injury, pique, venereal disease and out-of-control wife control. Those who have shown up have played well above their abilities. It is unfortunate that Strawbs’ management couldn’t take all the extra weight put on by the team over the summer and create an additional skater or two for the team. Freight Train alone has put on enough bulk for 3 extra players. This is not a slight…it is just an observation. Freight Train has been carrying his weight night after night, unlike some gumbyesque others, whose name(s) cannot be mentioned in the interests of team harmony.
Last night was no exception to the chronic undermandedness of this august squad. Not only was the team at least one brick short of a load, some of the bricks had to play injured. The Vice was a veritable Timmy Cratchet, flaying about like a blind kitten caught in a bag of molasses. The team psychiatrist believes he is suffering from a loss of power which has accompanied his dethronement as Dictator By The Lake. Power corrupts…but loss of power corrupts absolutely.
Dr. Butcher Brophey played a stellar game despite the myriad of injuries which plagued his tortured torso. Although his ailments were self-reported, there is no reason to disbelieve that he was suffering from a hip flexor contusion, a jugular haematoma, non-athlete's foot, and a mysterious fungal affliction which is resulting in fewer post-game visits to the Zamboni Room. Looking at him in the dressing room, stripped to what is left of his manhood, one could not help but believe his claims. Nevertheless, his performance was exemplary against the Spitfires. In the dying seconds of the game, he hobbled his way into the opposition end and rifled a rocket off the crossbar, which shot, had it gone in, would have tied the game. He was chosen the game’s first star and received a certificate for a free hockey equipment sanitizing from Atomic Energy of Canada.
MagBoy continued his frenzied and feisty play, urged on certainly by a blond haired babe in the stands rumored to be his fiancee/housekeeper/personal banker. It could only have been love that propelled the team’s unofficial wit (he still has half-way to go before the full title is officially conferred upon him) to beat the crap out of the unfortunate Spitfire who:
a) tossed a carelessly lurid glance at his affianced, and,
b) had the temerity to skate across MagBoy's shadow in the dying embers of the game. It was a full evening’s work for our loose cannon and he deserves to be praised in this report.
Warrin’ Peace continued his string of unexplained absences. His latest excuse was that it is still deer season. This would normally be a good excuse but it has been learned that he was hunting deer on his home computer: doesn’t count. He had better show up soon or the team will not hold its next get together in his Garage Of Bad Ideas.
On the bright side, the team’s Executive has been summoned to Chicago by Obama’s presidential transition team. Seems the president-elect wants to ensure that the next round of free trade talks guarantees an unimpeded flow of Canadian hockey players to U.S. based teams. Apparently Obama once attended a charity-based hockey school in Oahu, Hawaii, which hockey school was one of the first eleemosynary ventures set up by the Strawbs’ Executive. Obama, a weak right winger, never forgot the kindness and especially the wisdom of the Strawbs’ organization which taught him the value of teamwork and practiced oratory. Young Barack was the first recipient of a Killer Strawberries Harvard scholarship and he obviously has used this leg-up to his advantage.
It is not expected that the prolonged absences of the Executive, now rooming temporarily at the Playboy Mansion, will affect this year’s drive to the Cup. The Executive plans to do some valuable recruiting while sojourning in Illinois. It is rumored that there will be some excellent talent on site which could boslter the team’s prospects on and off the ice.
As is and will forever be customary, the Strawbs recovened post-game at the Terminal Tavren to salve the wounds of defeat and to compare ailments, injuries and other personal affronts. Absentees were gently admonished and prayers of hope offered to the Great God Guinness.
20 bottles of Black and Blue, a pound of chicken wings, some flaccid fries and the team’s last tube of A535 were consumed.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
The Joy of Socks
Urban Outlaws 4 Killer Strawberries 2
Game Report
November 14, 2008
Once again, a shorthanded Strawbs squad came up against a benchful of screaming meemies so high on a toxic brew of raging male hormones that the meemies could barely restrain their hockey libidos long enough take a second breath. It was like playing against the hockey equivalent of a relentless and immoral hard-on. The Strawbs got a pretty good idea what it must be like today to be an unsuspecting teenage boy in a cougar bar.
Things were much different in Strawberryland where the team was so tired by the 2 minute mark that distress signals were being sent out in rudimentary sign language for anyone, anyone, to fire up and deliver the emergency defibrillator conveniently located somewhere in the dark recesses of the Zamboni room. The defibrillator never did arrive yet the Strawberries carried on as best they could under the circumstances.
And why were the Strawbs so shorthanded? Because the Vice and Sir Gawdawful, rather than showing up to the game, decided to venture to Sudbury to attend a Bob Dylan mumblefest. Such is the modern face of loyalty.
Despite the handicap, the Strawbs were able to partially subdue the priapetic beast. Pyjama Man was steady but his stick proved, on numerous occasions, to be six inches short of the goal. Freight Train used his hulking size to diplomatically chop down more than a few Outlaws buzzing about his besieged netminder. Archilles Perron got a shot on net. Dr. Thug, unable to find a young lady to mug, sulked briefly and then exploded in an impressive display of geriatric pique, elbowing his way to the game’s third star. Shiny did his best Zamboni impression, sliding to block a charging Outlaw, only to miss his target and wind up causing a small snow blizzard at the far end of the rink.
The real stars of the game were Jesse The Leak and the irrepressible MagBoy, recently affianced. Facing swarm after swarm of relentless Urban Outlaws, our goalie stood tall, making save after impossible save while carefully reminding his opponents (by less than gently applying the business end of his goalie stick to the seats of their sovereignty) to not take any unnecessary liberties with his august personage. MagBoy was magnificent. He played like a nine-armed octopus: left leg kicking, right leg flying, middle left leg jabbing, left handed arm on his right side flaying, tongue wagging, head nodding, both skatelaces undone, the team’s first star.
At game’s end, an exhausted (and did I mention shorthanded) Killer Strawberries squad congratulated its tormentors and repaired, barely breathing, to their sanctuary to lick their wounds and suffer private heart attacks. Unfortunately, it was not only an evening of torment on the ice. The cruelty of the universe reared its ugly head again in the dressing room.
Ice Marshal Walpole, six times voted “Best Undressed Strawb” by the growing Strawberry fan base, swore that he had shown up to the game wearing a matching pair of Brigadoon argyle socks, knitted especially for him by an adoring fan. While dressing for his late night, post game, tomcattery, he discovered that one of the socks had mysteriously disappeared sometime between game start and game finish. After ascertaining that no one had brought a portable clothes dryer to the game ( a known gateway for escaping socks), he scanned about the room for clues. It did not take him long to apprehend the culprit. As everyone should know by now, Dr. Butcher Brophey (no goals, no assists, 24 minutes in the Sin Bin on the evening) never washes his own equipment: says it gives him an edge…yes, that and a constant fungal infection to his nether regions. Never-washed equipment is an unsupervised,
impulsive, delinquent: a modern day Fagin. It is always on the lookout for recruits. And it is an easy recruiting job because equipment, like cats, hates to be washed. Any chance to find asylum in a friendly bag is irresistible to well cared for (but ultimately ungrateful) equipment. Such was the case here. The Ice Marshal was faced with a dilemma: repatriate the wayward Argyle or grant it the freedom it so evidently desired. The choice was rendered simple when the Ice Marshal realized that an emancipated sock is a happy sock. He quickly tossed the unescaped hosiery mate into Brophey’s travelling cesspool of stinky armour, stating ruefully “Be gone and good riddance, feckless Fruit Of The Loom.”
After scrubbing all body parts and culling their own equipment for suitable ejectees, the Strawbs reconvened at the Terminal Tavren to brainstorm ways to get back at the benedict Arnolds who chose the incomprehensible Dylan over a satisfying hockey beating. The only good idea came from MagBoy who suggested that next game, the absent Sudbury-loving reprobates be bound and tossed into Brophey’s hockey bag so that their filthy disloyalty could be mixed happily with the stench of unwashed anarchy.
4 Stella, 7 Guinness, 5 Blue, 3 pounds of chicken wings, 1 basket of dead potatoes and a sickening side dish of betrayal strained through dirty socks were consumed.
Game Report
November 14, 2008
Once again, a shorthanded Strawbs squad came up against a benchful of screaming meemies so high on a toxic brew of raging male hormones that the meemies could barely restrain their hockey libidos long enough take a second breath. It was like playing against the hockey equivalent of a relentless and immoral hard-on. The Strawbs got a pretty good idea what it must be like today to be an unsuspecting teenage boy in a cougar bar.
Things were much different in Strawberryland where the team was so tired by the 2 minute mark that distress signals were being sent out in rudimentary sign language for anyone, anyone, to fire up and deliver the emergency defibrillator conveniently located somewhere in the dark recesses of the Zamboni room. The defibrillator never did arrive yet the Strawberries carried on as best they could under the circumstances.
And why were the Strawbs so shorthanded? Because the Vice and Sir Gawdawful, rather than showing up to the game, decided to venture to Sudbury to attend a Bob Dylan mumblefest. Such is the modern face of loyalty.
Despite the handicap, the Strawbs were able to partially subdue the priapetic beast. Pyjama Man was steady but his stick proved, on numerous occasions, to be six inches short of the goal. Freight Train used his hulking size to diplomatically chop down more than a few Outlaws buzzing about his besieged netminder. Archilles Perron got a shot on net. Dr. Thug, unable to find a young lady to mug, sulked briefly and then exploded in an impressive display of geriatric pique, elbowing his way to the game’s third star. Shiny did his best Zamboni impression, sliding to block a charging Outlaw, only to miss his target and wind up causing a small snow blizzard at the far end of the rink.
The real stars of the game were Jesse The Leak and the irrepressible MagBoy, recently affianced. Facing swarm after swarm of relentless Urban Outlaws, our goalie stood tall, making save after impossible save while carefully reminding his opponents (by less than gently applying the business end of his goalie stick to the seats of their sovereignty) to not take any unnecessary liberties with his august personage. MagBoy was magnificent. He played like a nine-armed octopus: left leg kicking, right leg flying, middle left leg jabbing, left handed arm on his right side flaying, tongue wagging, head nodding, both skatelaces undone, the team’s first star.
At game’s end, an exhausted (and did I mention shorthanded) Killer Strawberries squad congratulated its tormentors and repaired, barely breathing, to their sanctuary to lick their wounds and suffer private heart attacks. Unfortunately, it was not only an evening of torment on the ice. The cruelty of the universe reared its ugly head again in the dressing room.
Ice Marshal Walpole, six times voted “Best Undressed Strawb” by the growing Strawberry fan base, swore that he had shown up to the game wearing a matching pair of Brigadoon argyle socks, knitted especially for him by an adoring fan. While dressing for his late night, post game, tomcattery, he discovered that one of the socks had mysteriously disappeared sometime between game start and game finish. After ascertaining that no one had brought a portable clothes dryer to the game ( a known gateway for escaping socks), he scanned about the room for clues. It did not take him long to apprehend the culprit. As everyone should know by now, Dr. Butcher Brophey (no goals, no assists, 24 minutes in the Sin Bin on the evening) never washes his own equipment: says it gives him an edge…yes, that and a constant fungal infection to his nether regions. Never-washed equipment is an unsupervised,
impulsive, delinquent: a modern day Fagin. It is always on the lookout for recruits. And it is an easy recruiting job because equipment, like cats, hates to be washed. Any chance to find asylum in a friendly bag is irresistible to well cared for (but ultimately ungrateful) equipment. Such was the case here. The Ice Marshal was faced with a dilemma: repatriate the wayward Argyle or grant it the freedom it so evidently desired. The choice was rendered simple when the Ice Marshal realized that an emancipated sock is a happy sock. He quickly tossed the unescaped hosiery mate into Brophey’s travelling cesspool of stinky armour, stating ruefully “Be gone and good riddance, feckless Fruit Of The Loom.”
After scrubbing all body parts and culling their own equipment for suitable ejectees, the Strawbs reconvened at the Terminal Tavren to brainstorm ways to get back at the benedict Arnolds who chose the incomprehensible Dylan over a satisfying hockey beating. The only good idea came from MagBoy who suggested that next game, the absent Sudbury-loving reprobates be bound and tossed into Brophey’s hockey bag so that their filthy disloyalty could be mixed happily with the stench of unwashed anarchy.
4 Stella, 7 Guinness, 5 Blue, 3 pounds of chicken wings, 1 basket of dead potatoes and a sickening side dish of betrayal strained through dirty socks were consumed.
Monday, November 10, 2008
An Historical Night
Killer Strawberries 11 F-Word 1
Game Report
November 6, 2008
Without criminally misexaggerating the quality of last night’s game against a dispirited F-Word squad, it can be safely said that whole affair was a monumental mismatch reminiscent of the day the Vice got married. There were some gems among the dross, however.
The aforementioned Vice scored his first tally in over 2 seasons, a lifter that actuallly made it from the blueline to the back of the net without once touching the intervening ice surface. Jesse The Leak managed to stop half of the shots directed at him, barely missing out on a colossally undeserved shutout. Dr. Thug, scored a beautiful goal to finally put the game out of reach. At the time the score was 10-1 Strawbs with under 45 seconds left on the clock. His Thuggery was so pleased with himself that he collected the puck from the opposition’s net for display on his home hearth. He claimed that it was his 8 millionth goal scored on full-mooned Thursdays in all the Novembers since he started playing organized hockey over 2 centuries ago.
Dr. Butcher Brophey made absolutely no visits to the Sin Bin all evening, not even to chat up the little cutie who was acting as timekeeper. “ I just didn’t feel like my old self” he claimed at a post game news conference, held at Casino Rama where he had gone to ogle Joan Rivers instead of contributing to his team.. “It was like my body was drained of all its testosterone. I hadn’t an ounce of manly fluid left in me after my big week.” Oddly, he refused to elaborate on the alleged “big week”. A big week for him is getting off the couch long enough to refill his pitcher of Scotch and to tell his live-in nanny that her a** is starting to look fat.
The real gem of the evening was not to be found on the ice at all. As everyone knows, Sir Gawdawful Gumby, nee P. Gumbington Pettigrew, has long believed that the modicum of talent he regularly displays on the frozen battlefields of icehockeydom has been the result of his own unwavering commitment to sporting excellence and a diet of controlled, yet tasteful debauchery. He has often bored us all with a recurring lamentation which holds that he has no strong hockey bloodlines coursing through his veins. According to Gumby lore, his mother was a wastrel asked to leave The Mother Of Perpetual Agony Convent at the ripe old age of 12. His father was a moonbeam.
A shocked Gumby shocked the rest of us as the team prepared for its post game journey to the Terminal Tavren. All the good-natured towel snaps to flaccid butts ceased as Gumby revealed for the first time that he had, all these years, been labouring under a dreadful misapprehension. Finally, he could attribute for what passed as his talent to a rich hereditary past.
According to our pumpkin-socked poltroon, his great great uncle, P. Grumblington Pettigrew-Pettigrew, was a star performer in the Stonehenge Intramural Hockey League back in its infancy, at a time when all hockey equipment was still made out of solid rock. Further according to Gumby, he (Gumby) had been searching the tattered archives at his ancestral family home in ButtFace, Alaska and found numerous sporting reports scratched out on rumpled papyrus, gloryfying the tremendous hockey prowess of his hitherto unknown relative. The archives recorded that, after an arranged marriage to his half-sister/aunt twice removed (the randy and mesmerizing P. Hornington Pettigrew), the uncle/half-brother, P. Grumblington, looking to provide properly for his enamoratta, tried out for and was made captain of the ButtFace Bottom Feeders Intramural Hockey Club, a captaincy he kept until his unfortunate death by mob-beating in 1908. The noble ancestor was and always will be the leading scorer of the now defunct Stonehenge League. His career earnings allowed his widowed bride to continue living the high life in Buttface until her untimely death by a short-circuited, coin-operated vibrator in 1912.
“I finally know where I’ve come from and why I am so good at what I do” bragged an obviously giddy Gumby. “Let’s go for a beer!” And for a beer they went.
4 Keiths, 8 Black and Tan, 4 Stella, 2 Blue, 5 Guinness, 4 pounds of chicken wings, 3 platters of low fat fries and some dubious bragging based on a very shallow gene pool were consumed.
Game Report
November 6, 2008
Without criminally misexaggerating the quality of last night’s game against a dispirited F-Word squad, it can be safely said that whole affair was a monumental mismatch reminiscent of the day the Vice got married. There were some gems among the dross, however.
The aforementioned Vice scored his first tally in over 2 seasons, a lifter that actuallly made it from the blueline to the back of the net without once touching the intervening ice surface. Jesse The Leak managed to stop half of the shots directed at him, barely missing out on a colossally undeserved shutout. Dr. Thug, scored a beautiful goal to finally put the game out of reach. At the time the score was 10-1 Strawbs with under 45 seconds left on the clock. His Thuggery was so pleased with himself that he collected the puck from the opposition’s net for display on his home hearth. He claimed that it was his 8 millionth goal scored on full-mooned Thursdays in all the Novembers since he started playing organized hockey over 2 centuries ago.
Dr. Butcher Brophey made absolutely no visits to the Sin Bin all evening, not even to chat up the little cutie who was acting as timekeeper. “ I just didn’t feel like my old self” he claimed at a post game news conference, held at Casino Rama where he had gone to ogle Joan Rivers instead of contributing to his team.. “It was like my body was drained of all its testosterone. I hadn’t an ounce of manly fluid left in me after my big week.” Oddly, he refused to elaborate on the alleged “big week”. A big week for him is getting off the couch long enough to refill his pitcher of Scotch and to tell his live-in nanny that her a** is starting to look fat.
The real gem of the evening was not to be found on the ice at all. As everyone knows, Sir Gawdawful Gumby, nee P. Gumbington Pettigrew, has long believed that the modicum of talent he regularly displays on the frozen battlefields of icehockeydom has been the result of his own unwavering commitment to sporting excellence and a diet of controlled, yet tasteful debauchery. He has often bored us all with a recurring lamentation which holds that he has no strong hockey bloodlines coursing through his veins. According to Gumby lore, his mother was a wastrel asked to leave The Mother Of Perpetual Agony Convent at the ripe old age of 12. His father was a moonbeam.
A shocked Gumby shocked the rest of us as the team prepared for its post game journey to the Terminal Tavren. All the good-natured towel snaps to flaccid butts ceased as Gumby revealed for the first time that he had, all these years, been labouring under a dreadful misapprehension. Finally, he could attribute for what passed as his talent to a rich hereditary past.
According to our pumpkin-socked poltroon, his great great uncle, P. Grumblington Pettigrew-Pettigrew, was a star performer in the Stonehenge Intramural Hockey League back in its infancy, at a time when all hockey equipment was still made out of solid rock. Further according to Gumby, he (Gumby) had been searching the tattered archives at his ancestral family home in ButtFace, Alaska and found numerous sporting reports scratched out on rumpled papyrus, gloryfying the tremendous hockey prowess of his hitherto unknown relative. The archives recorded that, after an arranged marriage to his half-sister/aunt twice removed (the randy and mesmerizing P. Hornington Pettigrew), the uncle/half-brother, P. Grumblington, looking to provide properly for his enamoratta, tried out for and was made captain of the ButtFace Bottom Feeders Intramural Hockey Club, a captaincy he kept until his unfortunate death by mob-beating in 1908. The noble ancestor was and always will be the leading scorer of the now defunct Stonehenge League. His career earnings allowed his widowed bride to continue living the high life in Buttface until her untimely death by a short-circuited, coin-operated vibrator in 1912.
“I finally know where I’ve come from and why I am so good at what I do” bragged an obviously giddy Gumby. “Let’s go for a beer!” And for a beer they went.
4 Keiths, 8 Black and Tan, 4 Stella, 2 Blue, 5 Guinness, 4 pounds of chicken wings, 3 platters of low fat fries and some dubious bragging based on a very shallow gene pool were consumed.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Standing Room Only Crowd Treated To Strawberry Delight
Killer Strawberries 4 Free Agents 2
Game Report
October 27, 2008
As bandwagons around the NHL get abandoned with predictable regularity, just the opposite is happening in our own backyard. The Killer Strawberries bandwagon is becoming crowded indeed, in no small part due to its early season success. Last evening you couldn’t even get a ticket to the return matchup between the Strawbs and their newest rivals, the tenacious and free wheeling Free Agents of Kalamazoo, Deep River, Port Au Prince, County Kerry, Ulan Bator and places beyond.
A Standing Room Only throng of 2 jostled about the arena in an attempt to get the best view of their on- ice heroes. Toes were crushed, hangnails splintered and lacy underthings ripped as the crowd prepared for the evening’s rematch. The VIP section was overflowing. Among the guests could be found the recently retired but not-dead-yet Madame LaChaise Lounge who was, just a month ago, self-appointed to the position of Field Marsha at the Compound For Minor Vice, once the almost exclusive domain of the redoubtable Dictator By The Lake, his grey eminence The Vice himself. Joining the Field Marsha was the delightful MagGirl, resplendent in the black and taupe squirrel coat purchased for her at last week’s Value Village Annual Used Fur Sale by her man, the swift skating/not-so-much-thinking MagBoy. It should be pointed out that the coat is a substitute for the engagement ring MagGirl has been expecting for the last 4 years. Better late than never I suppose.
MagGirl’s presence was certainly instrumental in elevating her beau’s on-ice play. Spurred on by her encouraging coos, MagBoy made love to his ego as he scored 2 highlight reel goals when they were needed the most. Apparently, the Vice was not quite so motivated by the presence of his new/old boss/wife/girlfriend/benefactoress. Having hidden himself away on defence for the better part of this season, he appeared befuddled at the centre’s position. His aging body was tone deaf to the urgings of his will as he fumbled about between the blue lines. At game’s end, he was heard complaining that even his wrinkles hurt. Despite his physical woes, he still managed to irk the auras of his opponents through the masterfully surreptitious use of small hooks, little knee applications and the occasional accidental body slam.
It only took four games into the season for Archilles Perron to display the wares what got him to the big team. After caressing a soft saucer-like pass from an alert Freight Train 444, Archilles barelled in on the frightened goaltender, head faked to his right and deposited the biscuit into a yawningly vacated top left corner. He has not scored a prettier goal in his illustrious career. (His other goal, in a peewee scrimmage, was actually quite ugly.)
The only 2 players who proved detrimental to the team were Warrin’ Peace and Sir Gumby. Warrin’ had a good excuse. His wife had told him he couldn’t play: kept leaving dirty dishes and dirtier pictures all over the house. He had been grounded for the first time since his third date with the gorgeous Samara Dessert. Happens to all of us.
Gumby was excuseless. He showed up to the game tired and surly, claiming physical and mental exhaustion. Forgot his helmet and his sense of humour. The replacement helmet found for him must have been too tight because on at least 2 occasions he had to be retrieved from the Free Agents’net, his tawdry garters caught irretrievably in the mesh. Couldn’t extricate himself from his dilemma on the second occurence and didn’t want to. Just sat there like Buddah on a cosmic bender. He was promptly benched, much to his satisfaction.
Post game, the players and its best looking fan assembled for a debriefing at the Terminal Tavren: everyone except for Archilles and for MagPie and his fiancee, both last seen entering the back seat of a pimped up Acura Vigor in the Pete Palangio parking lot, VIP section. Their health was toasted and their vigour admired.
4 Stella, 6 Black and Tan, 8 Keiths, 2 Blue, 1 Bud, 3 pounds of chicken wings and memories of long forgotten post-game trysts were consumed.
Game Report
October 27, 2008
As bandwagons around the NHL get abandoned with predictable regularity, just the opposite is happening in our own backyard. The Killer Strawberries bandwagon is becoming crowded indeed, in no small part due to its early season success. Last evening you couldn’t even get a ticket to the return matchup between the Strawbs and their newest rivals, the tenacious and free wheeling Free Agents of Kalamazoo, Deep River, Port Au Prince, County Kerry, Ulan Bator and places beyond.
A Standing Room Only throng of 2 jostled about the arena in an attempt to get the best view of their on- ice heroes. Toes were crushed, hangnails splintered and lacy underthings ripped as the crowd prepared for the evening’s rematch. The VIP section was overflowing. Among the guests could be found the recently retired but not-dead-yet Madame LaChaise Lounge who was, just a month ago, self-appointed to the position of Field Marsha at the Compound For Minor Vice, once the almost exclusive domain of the redoubtable Dictator By The Lake, his grey eminence The Vice himself. Joining the Field Marsha was the delightful MagGirl, resplendent in the black and taupe squirrel coat purchased for her at last week’s Value Village Annual Used Fur Sale by her man, the swift skating/not-so-much-thinking MagBoy. It should be pointed out that the coat is a substitute for the engagement ring MagGirl has been expecting for the last 4 years. Better late than never I suppose.
MagGirl’s presence was certainly instrumental in elevating her beau’s on-ice play. Spurred on by her encouraging coos, MagBoy made love to his ego as he scored 2 highlight reel goals when they were needed the most. Apparently, the Vice was not quite so motivated by the presence of his new/old boss/wife/girlfriend/benefactoress. Having hidden himself away on defence for the better part of this season, he appeared befuddled at the centre’s position. His aging body was tone deaf to the urgings of his will as he fumbled about between the blue lines. At game’s end, he was heard complaining that even his wrinkles hurt. Despite his physical woes, he still managed to irk the auras of his opponents through the masterfully surreptitious use of small hooks, little knee applications and the occasional accidental body slam.
It only took four games into the season for Archilles Perron to display the wares what got him to the big team. After caressing a soft saucer-like pass from an alert Freight Train 444, Archilles barelled in on the frightened goaltender, head faked to his right and deposited the biscuit into a yawningly vacated top left corner. He has not scored a prettier goal in his illustrious career. (His other goal, in a peewee scrimmage, was actually quite ugly.)
The only 2 players who proved detrimental to the team were Warrin’ Peace and Sir Gumby. Warrin’ had a good excuse. His wife had told him he couldn’t play: kept leaving dirty dishes and dirtier pictures all over the house. He had been grounded for the first time since his third date with the gorgeous Samara Dessert. Happens to all of us.
Gumby was excuseless. He showed up to the game tired and surly, claiming physical and mental exhaustion. Forgot his helmet and his sense of humour. The replacement helmet found for him must have been too tight because on at least 2 occasions he had to be retrieved from the Free Agents’net, his tawdry garters caught irretrievably in the mesh. Couldn’t extricate himself from his dilemma on the second occurence and didn’t want to. Just sat there like Buddah on a cosmic bender. He was promptly benched, much to his satisfaction.
Post game, the players and its best looking fan assembled for a debriefing at the Terminal Tavren: everyone except for Archilles and for MagPie and his fiancee, both last seen entering the back seat of a pimped up Acura Vigor in the Pete Palangio parking lot, VIP section. Their health was toasted and their vigour admired.
4 Stella, 6 Black and Tan, 8 Keiths, 2 Blue, 1 Bud, 3 pounds of chicken wings and memories of long forgotten post-game trysts were consumed.
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