Gumby Crests The Hill..Doesn’t Like What He Sees

Killer Strawberries 7 Free Agents 3

Game Report

January 22, 2009

The inimitable P. Gumbington Pettigrew the Third kicked off his 50th Birthday Week Celebration by playing a whale of a game against a determined, but ultimately outgunned, Free Agent team. More like a beached whale of a game.

It is rumoured that, to initiate himself properly into his sixth decade, he awoke promptly at 10:30am on game day and phoned in to work citing “wellness issues” as the most likely cause of his tardiness and highly probable non-appearance later in the day. He then quickly poured himself his favourite libation, toasted the universe’s good luck in still having him around, dropped 1200milligrams of Ibuprofen and called it a day. The day slid by blissfully as he lolligagged about, alone, in his bed, floating in and out of daydreamy consciousness. Only the sharp dig into his side by the corner of his January Playboy magazine disturbed his heavenly slumber.

At 6pm, he dragged himself from his narcoleptic inertia, prepared himself a wholesome dinner of rye and coke, gulped it down and returned to his salacious dreams. At 9pm, he was awakened by the buzzer to his apartment. He had forgotten his promise to the Ice Marshal to be ready at 9 so that he could be chauffered to the game against the Free Agents. Stung by his oversight, he unhurriedly moped about his apartment, got dressed as leisurely as he thought he could get away with, brushed his teeth, gathered his equipment and lumbered nonchalantly out of his lair, descended a few steps, and tossed his equipment into the waiting chariot. With not even a hello, he bellowed “Hurry up, we’ll be late.”

Things went downhill from there. He was 10 minutes late for the start of the game, slurred useless instructions to his teammates throughtout the match, incessantly bombed the bench with gaseous emanations heavily scented with sulfur, threw up twice and generally played like crap. Fortunately, the rest of the Strawbs were firing on all cylinders. Dr. Thug potted two goals and screamed beautifully when 3 others were scored by his line. He screamed so loud, he gave himself another concussion. Freight Train, ever one to let a scoring opportunity go by, missed scoring a sure goal on at least 7 occasions. The Vice played like a much younger man…say 4 years old. The Butcher continued his love affair with the female time keeper by keeping her company as many times as he could without getting kicked out of the game for incurring too many penalties. Archilles Perron turned his nose up at 2 open nets and MagBoy continued to use the end boards as stopping devices. Pyjama Man could have stayed home and been more effective. Slickery was slicker than usual and Shiny shinier than usual. The Leak was uncharacteristically stingy. Warrin’ Peace showed up for his second game in a row. He claims he is finally recovered from the home health test he gave himself with his new vaccuum cleaner, the Turbo Sucker and Prostate Examiner IV.

In the dressing room after the match, Gumbyfest continued. Little was said about his flaccid on-ice performance as he shared the 12 year old Scotch and the 10 year Scotch given to him by the team in honour of his having survived the first 50 years of a wasted existence. Fine words of praise flowed effusively, congratulating him on the fine state of his digestive system, the resilience of his liver, his excellent choice of livery and personal hygiene products, and his amazing way with referees and women who don’t know him.

Later, the team assembled at the Terminal Tavren to top up alcohol levels to just below legal limits. Miss White Go Go Boots was there and presented Gumby with the finest French kiss since the morning Louis The 16th was beheaded. The Field Marsha was there too and allowed our intrepid hockeyman to touch the hem of her regal garment, the bathrobe she wears as she presides magisterially over the Compound For Minor Vice. Present also was Samarra Dessert, long suffering spouse of Warrin’ Peace. From her, Gumby received an open invitation to visit the garage of Bad Ideas on any Monday the 13th which should occur in the next calendar year, February and December excepted.

Ever gracious, Gumby thanked the adoring throng, claimed he was cautiously pessimistic about his future, toasted his own self and promptly fell asleep in his chair. How he got home is still a mystery.

10 Blue, 4 Bud, 2 Appletinis, 8 Guinness, 3 Stella, 5 pounds of chicken wings some fine recollections of a life well wasted were consumed.