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.