Strawberries 3 Free Agents 1
Game Report
February 27
Extra seating had to be brought in last night to accommodate the pumped up Jaegermeister/Lysol fuelled throng of fans which showed up to cheer on their beloved squad of Strawberry delights. The noise was so great that the Killler Strawberries could barely think, not that anyone watching would have known the difference in cogitation levels between this game and any other Strawbs’ game for that matter. Led by award winning videographer and recently “fiftied” Gawdawful Gumby Scorcese, the fans chanted, stomped and clapped their squad to a 3-1 victory over a very determined and ornery bunch of Free Agents. For his work on the evening, Gawd has been invited to spend an afternoon this summer at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu, Hawaii so that he can record, on tape for posterity, some selected Executive wisdomisms. He will also be allowed to clean out the stables with the Olsen twin of his choice.
The game itself was a ragged affair. Of the 40 minutes of playing time, various members of the Killer Strawberries were asked to spend a total of 18 minutes and thirty six seconds in the company of the scorekeeper, a reformed pederast from Kingston Pen. On 3 occasions the Strawberries had to kill off a 5 on 3 disadvantage. It did so with aplomb, grit and lotsa luck.
It may have been a sign that the team, like a forgotten container of yogurt in an abandoned fridge, has been around the league well beyond its best before date. Near the end of the game, an exhausted Dr. Felonious Thug was attempting to corral a loose puck in front of the Strawbs' bench. With Dr. Thug’s back exposed, a Free Agent thought it would be good fun to slam him face first into the top of the boards. Felonious collapsed like a cheap suitcase. When he finally came to, he demanded of one of the Zebra’s to explain why no penalty was called on the play. The Zebra’s response: “Write another letter to the league”. It is true that the Executive has used pen and paper to excoriate the league's big foreheads for their lax supervision and repeatedly poor choice of certain bumbling officials. Officials can make or break a game. Officials need to be good. The league needs to use good officials.
All any team ever expects from officiators is a modicum of competence and accountability. Too often, neither is received. The Zebra’s response last night indicated, among other things, a total lack of impartiality bordering on retribution. Mr. Zebra, hockey is not a one way street. We make mistakes and we pay by way of goals against or by time spent in the sin bin. Your mistakes, when egregious enough, need to be pointed out to those who pay your stipends. We suck it up most of the time and so should you.
When they weren’t killing penalties, the Strawbs played very well on offence. The team was led by the torrid Slickery Mac who tallied twice, the second on a beauty featured later that evening on Sportsline or whatever Gumby’s new videography show is called. The third goal, which sealed the victory was lovely as well. Shiny Sean, who was born without kneecaps in a New Orleans brothel, picked up a feed just inside the Free Agent blueline and lobbed a gorgeous saucer pass to a waiting MagBoy who one timed the puck into the upper recesses on the net, much to the satisfaction of his enamorata, the beautiful MagGirl who was in attendance. She is said to have swooned.
The defence, strengthened by the continued absence of the Butcher and Gawdawful Gumby, was stellar. Warrin’ Peace, shanghai’d into a defenceman’s role, stepped up his game and proved himself admirably in the unaccustomed position. Freight Train also played back and used his size, reach and halitosis to great effect. The Vice, hampered by home cooking and memories of a recent bloodless yet life changing palace coup at the Compound For Minor Vice, hooked, tripped and grabbed his way, Brophey-style, to the game’s fifth star. His new old boss, Madame LaChaise, also in attendance, did not swoon but is said to have moderately approved of his play.
The Leak was solid in net. He had to be, given the amount of time the Strawbs spent short-handed. This will be the Leak’s last season, having accepted a position this April with Revenue Canada, College and University Professor Audit Division. The team will certainly miss his dexterity, urbanity, compassion and ability to overlook his teammates’ shortcomings, both on the rink and during tax filing season. Did we mention he was handsome to boot?
After the match, the team and its rabid fans, including some chick named Terry or Sherry or Bloody Mary or something like that, reconvened at its favoured den of iniquity, the down at the heels Terminal Tavren to celebrate the hard won victory. Zebras were calumniated, Canadore Hockey Central aspersed, fans’ love reciprocated, and gritty play recounted with glee.
18 Stella, 2 Appletinis with the little red umbrellas, 2 Sterling, 15 Keiths, 3 Steamwhistle, 2 pounds of Italian perogies ,4 pounds of chicken wings and some bitter recollections of penalties left uncalled were consumed.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Gutsy
Game Report
Killer Strawberries 5 Jetfires 1
February 21, 2009-02-28
Note: The writer would like to apologize to all regular followers of the infamous Killer Strawberries Hockey and Gentlemen's Club for the late filing of this game report. He has been in Kiev negotiating a new gas treaty between Russia and the Ukraine, which treaty is needed to ensure that the 200 million people in Europe do not freeze this winter. The negotiations were intense and the agreement was not concluded until 9 hours before the start of the first playoff game. The writer had to dash to the Strawbs' private Gulfstream which was waiting to transport him to Jack Garland Airport in North Bay so that he could play for his beloved team. He also had to slough off the effects of the 807 vodka toasts he was forced to consume at the treaty ratification ceremony which ended but minutes before his flight. He was also forced to forego the highly anticipated company of Olga and Tatiana who eagerly await his return to Kiev so that they may resume their discussions of the roles of women in Turginev and Tolstoy.)
It was a move which caught a severely shorthanded Killer Strawberries squad by surprise. Apparently, the sloping foreheads at Canadore Intramural Hockey Central allowed the Spitfires to amalgamate overnight with the Jet Rangers to form a new Jetfires team replete with sloping foreheads of its own. Not only that, but by some form of indecipherable alchemy, the new combination was awarded the same amount of season points as the Strawbs, turning last night’s game into a battle for first place and its concommitant bye in the first round of the playoffs. The alchemic additions, deletions and other mathematical legerdemain involved, among other things, involved not counting one of the Strawbs’ victories during regular league play. One can only hope that none of the officials involved ever works as a dispensing pharmacist or other profession where numbers, numerals, decimal points and exponents are used in life threatening situations.
The Strawbs, however, were undaunted. Well, at least the 7 skaters and 1 goalie who bothered showed up to the game were. The circumstances were so dire that Canada’s team was forced to use the Ice Marshal on defence, a position he hasn’t played since priests used to say mass in Latin with their backs and fat asses turned to the congregation.
Our 8 intrepids played excellently against its 14 gung ho opponents, scoring 5 times while allowing only 1 goal against. The Leak was superb between the pipes and will be allowed to start the next game (barring of course a blockbuster trade at the deadline).
The victory propelled the Strawbs into undisputed first place. They are itching for the playoffs to start so that they can claim the ultimate prize in all of hockeydom: the right to brag about past exploits for a whole year.
Post game, the few Strawbs who toiled against the Jetfires, save for Archilles Perron who had to go home to brush his teeth and finish dusting his wife’s toilet paper roll collection, reassembled at the Terminal Tavren to toast victory and slag those other Strawbs who did not contribute on the evening. The only absentee with a good excuse was P. Gumbington Pettigrew the Third, who was serving game 1 of his recent suspension, a suspension which resulted from his having used the inflammatory phrase “c’mon ref” in his questioning of a dubious call in last week’s game. And, despite the suspension, he came to the arena to support his colleagues, the sign of a gentleman, team player and desperate bachelor with nothing better to do at 11pm on a Thursday night.
4 Stella, 2 Sterling, 3 Guinness, 2 Keiths, 2 Blue and the satisfaction of a gutsy first place finish were consumed.
Killer Strawberries 5 Jetfires 1
February 21, 2009-02-28
Note: The writer would like to apologize to all regular followers of the infamous Killer Strawberries Hockey and Gentlemen's Club for the late filing of this game report. He has been in Kiev negotiating a new gas treaty between Russia and the Ukraine, which treaty is needed to ensure that the 200 million people in Europe do not freeze this winter. The negotiations were intense and the agreement was not concluded until 9 hours before the start of the first playoff game. The writer had to dash to the Strawbs' private Gulfstream which was waiting to transport him to Jack Garland Airport in North Bay so that he could play for his beloved team. He also had to slough off the effects of the 807 vodka toasts he was forced to consume at the treaty ratification ceremony which ended but minutes before his flight. He was also forced to forego the highly anticipated company of Olga and Tatiana who eagerly await his return to Kiev so that they may resume their discussions of the roles of women in Turginev and Tolstoy.)
It was a move which caught a severely shorthanded Killer Strawberries squad by surprise. Apparently, the sloping foreheads at Canadore Intramural Hockey Central allowed the Spitfires to amalgamate overnight with the Jet Rangers to form a new Jetfires team replete with sloping foreheads of its own. Not only that, but by some form of indecipherable alchemy, the new combination was awarded the same amount of season points as the Strawbs, turning last night’s game into a battle for first place and its concommitant bye in the first round of the playoffs. The alchemic additions, deletions and other mathematical legerdemain involved, among other things, involved not counting one of the Strawbs’ victories during regular league play. One can only hope that none of the officials involved ever works as a dispensing pharmacist or other profession where numbers, numerals, decimal points and exponents are used in life threatening situations.
The Strawbs, however, were undaunted. Well, at least the 7 skaters and 1 goalie who bothered showed up to the game were. The circumstances were so dire that Canada’s team was forced to use the Ice Marshal on defence, a position he hasn’t played since priests used to say mass in Latin with their backs and fat asses turned to the congregation.
Our 8 intrepids played excellently against its 14 gung ho opponents, scoring 5 times while allowing only 1 goal against. The Leak was superb between the pipes and will be allowed to start the next game (barring of course a blockbuster trade at the deadline).
The victory propelled the Strawbs into undisputed first place. They are itching for the playoffs to start so that they can claim the ultimate prize in all of hockeydom: the right to brag about past exploits for a whole year.
Post game, the few Strawbs who toiled against the Jetfires, save for Archilles Perron who had to go home to brush his teeth and finish dusting his wife’s toilet paper roll collection, reassembled at the Terminal Tavren to toast victory and slag those other Strawbs who did not contribute on the evening. The only absentee with a good excuse was P. Gumbington Pettigrew the Third, who was serving game 1 of his recent suspension, a suspension which resulted from his having used the inflammatory phrase “c’mon ref” in his questioning of a dubious call in last week’s game. And, despite the suspension, he came to the arena to support his colleagues, the sign of a gentleman, team player and desperate bachelor with nothing better to do at 11pm on a Thursday night.
4 Stella, 2 Sterling, 3 Guinness, 2 Keiths, 2 Blue and the satisfaction of a gutsy first place finish were consumed.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Sad Event
It's pretty sad that the "poet" lordiette of the Killer Strawberries can't post a write up to the last regular season game, also a fan appreciation night, where the Strawbs clinched 1st place in the division. Even more sad, is that this non-posting continues on the day of the first game of the playoffs. What is happening?
Sunday, February 22, 2009
See Mike, I do catch fish
This fish was a sleeper. He didn't start fighting until I told him his next best friend was basil.
Still no decent pikerel yet.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Grampa Takes Junior To The Woodshed
Killer Strawberries 10 Free Agents 3
Game Report
February 12, 2009
Just as the moon and the sun raise all boats with their pull of the tides, so competition raises the level of play in all sports. Hockey is no exception. It is this competitive aspect, coupled with large dollops of comraderie which make the game of hockey , at the professional level as much as at the pickup level on a lightly snow covered side street, such a pleasure to play, no matter the age of the participants.
Speaking of age, it is no secret that the Killer Strawberries are not getting any younger. The team’s average age is somewhere around 47 with a median age of 52. These figures used to be much higher in the days when Moses McLean carelessly patrolled the right side. Mr. McLean (Canadore College student number: XIII) now rests comfortably in his Barcolounger on Decrepit Lane, staring aimlessly out his picture window, reminiscing about the days when he ran with dinosaurs. We almost miss him. With Moses’ forced retirement, Dr. Billy Goat (Thelonius) Thug is saddled with the difficult task of ensuring the team’s median age never drops below 50. So far, the aging, dementia-prone puck handler has carried out this duty efficiently, effectively and with aplomb. The Strawbs have nothing but a deep, abiding respect their senescent teammate. Moreover, they respect their opponents because they realize that competiton tainted with disrecpect is really nothing more than savagery.
The Strawbs' respect for the aged and for opponents is, of course, no accident. Since our first taste of mother’s milk, we have been learning and relearning that respect for our elders and fellow competitors is a cornerstone upon which civilized society is founded. Apparently the content of mother’s milk has changed in the last 20 years. The change of 20 years ago was in evidence last night. With the score 7-3 in favour of the Strawberries, an obviously bottle-suckled Free Agent had the temerity to lay upon the Ice Marshal a vituperative and ugly version of the epithet “Grampa”, as in “Hey Grampa, you suck.” The result: Grampa and his teammates went on to take Junior Bottle-Breath and his ilk out to the woodshed for a final 10-3 whoopin’. Gotta hurt when your Grampa kicks your ass in a young man’s game.
The whoopin’ was a full team effort. The defence was solid. Butcher Brophey attributed the defence corps’ excellent play to Gumby’s pre-mature ejaculation (or is it ejection?) from the game at the 4 minute mark of the opening period for asking the referee if he wouldn’t better enjoy himself having sex elsewhere (or words to that effect). It was said in a very sincere, caring and respectful way. Despite the diplomatic delivery of Gumby’s gentle suggestion, he was forced to hit the showers early and had to watch from the sidelines as his team dismantled its foe. Jesse The Leak was superb, as he repeatedly flustered the Agents, especially on the 3 minute, 2 man-advantage power play they were awarded upon Gumby’s unexpected exit from the game.
With 10 goals, it is obvious the Strawbs were firing on all offensive cylinders. The offence was led by the Ice Marshall himself, who executed a rare triple hat trick: 3 goals, 3 assists and 3 penalties. It should be noted that he did not deserve any of the penalties. He took them all in stride, Zen moments of quiet resignation in the face of an unfair universe. Pyjama Man, unchaperoned by his babysitter, notched 2 goals. No one remembers who scored the other goals. Doesn’t matter cause they weren’t really needed.
After the game, all the Strawberries, save for Warrin’ Peace who had to hightail it home to finish putting away the dishes before his wife/ruler got home from her week-long spa visit, reconvened at the Terminal Tavren to refuel. The memory of Moses McLean was toasted and teammates hugged each other with insults: the perfect ending to an ass-whoopin' evening.
10 Guinness, 6 Stella, 2 Sterling, 3 Keiths, 4 pounds of chicken wings, a plate of ersatz bologna-flavouted perogies and recollections of woodshed justice were consumed.
Game Report
February 12, 2009
Just as the moon and the sun raise all boats with their pull of the tides, so competition raises the level of play in all sports. Hockey is no exception. It is this competitive aspect, coupled with large dollops of comraderie which make the game of hockey , at the professional level as much as at the pickup level on a lightly snow covered side street, such a pleasure to play, no matter the age of the participants.
Speaking of age, it is no secret that the Killer Strawberries are not getting any younger. The team’s average age is somewhere around 47 with a median age of 52. These figures used to be much higher in the days when Moses McLean carelessly patrolled the right side. Mr. McLean (Canadore College student number: XIII) now rests comfortably in his Barcolounger on Decrepit Lane, staring aimlessly out his picture window, reminiscing about the days when he ran with dinosaurs. We almost miss him. With Moses’ forced retirement, Dr. Billy Goat (Thelonius) Thug is saddled with the difficult task of ensuring the team’s median age never drops below 50. So far, the aging, dementia-prone puck handler has carried out this duty efficiently, effectively and with aplomb. The Strawbs have nothing but a deep, abiding respect their senescent teammate. Moreover, they respect their opponents because they realize that competiton tainted with disrecpect is really nothing more than savagery.
The Strawbs' respect for the aged and for opponents is, of course, no accident. Since our first taste of mother’s milk, we have been learning and relearning that respect for our elders and fellow competitors is a cornerstone upon which civilized society is founded. Apparently the content of mother’s milk has changed in the last 20 years. The change of 20 years ago was in evidence last night. With the score 7-3 in favour of the Strawberries, an obviously bottle-suckled Free Agent had the temerity to lay upon the Ice Marshal a vituperative and ugly version of the epithet “Grampa”, as in “Hey Grampa, you suck.” The result: Grampa and his teammates went on to take Junior Bottle-Breath and his ilk out to the woodshed for a final 10-3 whoopin’. Gotta hurt when your Grampa kicks your ass in a young man’s game.
The whoopin’ was a full team effort. The defence was solid. Butcher Brophey attributed the defence corps’ excellent play to Gumby’s pre-mature ejaculation (or is it ejection?) from the game at the 4 minute mark of the opening period for asking the referee if he wouldn’t better enjoy himself having sex elsewhere (or words to that effect). It was said in a very sincere, caring and respectful way. Despite the diplomatic delivery of Gumby’s gentle suggestion, he was forced to hit the showers early and had to watch from the sidelines as his team dismantled its foe. Jesse The Leak was superb, as he repeatedly flustered the Agents, especially on the 3 minute, 2 man-advantage power play they were awarded upon Gumby’s unexpected exit from the game.
With 10 goals, it is obvious the Strawbs were firing on all offensive cylinders. The offence was led by the Ice Marshall himself, who executed a rare triple hat trick: 3 goals, 3 assists and 3 penalties. It should be noted that he did not deserve any of the penalties. He took them all in stride, Zen moments of quiet resignation in the face of an unfair universe. Pyjama Man, unchaperoned by his babysitter, notched 2 goals. No one remembers who scored the other goals. Doesn’t matter cause they weren’t really needed.
After the game, all the Strawberries, save for Warrin’ Peace who had to hightail it home to finish putting away the dishes before his wife/ruler got home from her week-long spa visit, reconvened at the Terminal Tavren to refuel. The memory of Moses McLean was toasted and teammates hugged each other with insults: the perfect ending to an ass-whoopin' evening.
10 Guinness, 6 Stella, 2 Sterling, 3 Keiths, 4 pounds of chicken wings, a plate of ersatz bologna-flavouted perogies and recollections of woodshed justice were consumed.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
As The Habs Nosedive, The Strawbs Soar
Game Report
Strawbs 10 ALU Warriors 3
February 9, 2009
It is fortunate that the smarter Strawbs have stopped watching the Habs play in recent weeks, as Gumby’s team of underachieving Russsians, Finns, Yanks and Canadian Canadiens continues to spiral toward an ignominious 9th place finish in the Campbell Conference: fortunate because the Strawbs have not picked up the same bad habits which have plagued Les Glorieux since mid-January. Certainly, the Killer Strawberries are proud of the other bad habits they have picked up but thank Gitchigoomi they refuse to emulate the tanking Canadiens.
Last night’s matchup, a 10-2 victory over a stunned ALU squad, brought the Strawbs’ record to 5-1-2 since the new 2009 season began. Much of the consistent good results can be parked at Slickery Mac’s doorstep as he continues the same type of torrid scoring pace he once set in an obscure men’s league in San Francisco in the early 90’s. He has even become a post game regular at the Terminal Tavren, where the wait staff have fondly nicknamed him Handsome or Piss Tank or something or other.
Dr. Thug, his dementia in partial remission, played an excellent game, scoring a beauty on a one man wrecking crew play. After having niftily tucked the puck behind the startled goaltender on a partial breakaway, his inertia propelled him, face first, into the equally startled end boards. He was "with it" enough after his close encounter with concusssion number (n+1)x100 to look back to see what had happened to the puck he left behind. He screamed “Hallelujah” when he noticed the exasperated goaltender fishing out the good Dr.'s deposit from the back of the cage. Another notch for his bedposts or whatever else he notches.
Jesse The Leak made a solid, tail-between-his-legs return to the Strawberries after his disastrous try-out with the Thinkin’ Drinkin’ Stinkins of the now defunct C.R.A.P. hockey league. He made numerous good saves on the evening. He did however forget to carry the Ice Marshal’s equipment to his car after the match, pursuant to the terms of his new(post-Stinkins) contract with his beloved squad.
Butcher Brophey showed up to the arena with a new set of gently used equipment after his old equipment was put into emergency quarantine by the Centre For Disease Control. He picked up the almost spotless equipment at a mid-week yard sale lorded over by the Dictator By The Lake at the Compound For Minor Vice. Apparently, the Vice (aka The Dictator, Rob The Torch etc.) had won a minor lottery somewhere and had used the proceeds to update his old equipment. The equipment was about 5 years old on average but it had nary a scratch, material pull,drop of blood or sweat mark upon it: gently used indeed. And, who knew The Butcher and The Vice had fat asses of the same size and droop.
It was good to see Pyjama Man enter the dressing room 5 seconds before the puck was dropped. He said he would have stayed home but couldn’t get his babysitter to come over. “I knew the Strawbs would need me tonight, and since I hadn’t anything better to do, I brought my girls with me so I could play. I left the car running and they seem to be having fun playing with the lighter.”
Archilles was finally recovered from the horrible blister he has been stoically enduring since the terrible accident he had while drying the dishes at his home. He played poorly on the night but it was good to see him out of his house where unspeakable accidents seem to befall him almost weekly.
The team is struggling to find the right position for Shiny Sean who fancies himself a goal scorer. While he starts all his shifts at defence, he rarely finishes them there. He is forever darting at the opposition’s net, screaming for the puck to be put on his stick. When this inevitably does not occur, he pouts for while, regroups and tries the same stunt again. He is as habitually persistent/hard-headed as Gumby is habitually tardy/soft-headed. Unlike Gumby, however, he does have a goal this year.
And what’s with MagBoy? Again, last night, he slammed himself into the boards, even harder than Dr. Thug had done earlier in the game. It is obvious his skating lessons are not taking. Is he forgetting to take his medication? Are things okay at home? Is his medulla oblongata in a state of disrepair?
And what’s with Freight Train Laronde. There are rumours that he actually has soft hands and some very high tech moves which he uses in the training wheels league he skates in on Wednesdays According to a lowly placed source with new gently used equipment, Laronde can snap the puck into the top corner, through his legs while reciting Byronesque verse. Where is that talent when he plays for the Killer Strawberries? Come on Freight train, show us your stuff. After all, the team’s motto is “Show us your finesse or you get to play defence.”
And what’s with Warrin’ Peace. He continues to rack up his frequent absentee points at an alarming rate. Pretty soon he will be demoted from waterboy to waterwussy.
And finally, what’s with the poetry that has been seeping, like a mangy fox creeping, into an unguarded henhouse on the hill? Well, according to sports psychologist, Ozzie Andharriet, poetry can, if deftly applied, increase performance levels by .08% over the long run ( Note 1). So there.
All in all, the game was an excellent Strawbs outing and helped solidy the team’s grip on first place. To further solidy their grips, most of the players (save for the Vice who had to go home to iron out the wrinkles in his new equipment) ventured out to the Terminal Tavren. Old lies were recounted, new lies freshly minted, and a little Robbie Burns quoted for good measure.
8 Stella, 2 Black and Tan, 3 Guinness, 2 Sterling (huh?), 5 Steamwhistle, one “Hello, Handsome” and some iambic pentameter were consumed.
(1) Dr. Highly Selassie, The Book Of Useful Stats, Dubious Press, 2008
Strawbs 10 ALU Warriors 3
February 9, 2009
It is fortunate that the smarter Strawbs have stopped watching the Habs play in recent weeks, as Gumby’s team of underachieving Russsians, Finns, Yanks and Canadian Canadiens continues to spiral toward an ignominious 9th place finish in the Campbell Conference: fortunate because the Strawbs have not picked up the same bad habits which have plagued Les Glorieux since mid-January. Certainly, the Killer Strawberries are proud of the other bad habits they have picked up but thank Gitchigoomi they refuse to emulate the tanking Canadiens.
Last night’s matchup, a 10-2 victory over a stunned ALU squad, brought the Strawbs’ record to 5-1-2 since the new 2009 season began. Much of the consistent good results can be parked at Slickery Mac’s doorstep as he continues the same type of torrid scoring pace he once set in an obscure men’s league in San Francisco in the early 90’s. He has even become a post game regular at the Terminal Tavren, where the wait staff have fondly nicknamed him Handsome or Piss Tank or something or other.
Dr. Thug, his dementia in partial remission, played an excellent game, scoring a beauty on a one man wrecking crew play. After having niftily tucked the puck behind the startled goaltender on a partial breakaway, his inertia propelled him, face first, into the equally startled end boards. He was "with it" enough after his close encounter with concusssion number (n+1)x100 to look back to see what had happened to the puck he left behind. He screamed “Hallelujah” when he noticed the exasperated goaltender fishing out the good Dr.'s deposit from the back of the cage. Another notch for his bedposts or whatever else he notches.
Jesse The Leak made a solid, tail-between-his-legs return to the Strawberries after his disastrous try-out with the Thinkin’ Drinkin’ Stinkins of the now defunct C.R.A.P. hockey league. He made numerous good saves on the evening. He did however forget to carry the Ice Marshal’s equipment to his car after the match, pursuant to the terms of his new(post-Stinkins) contract with his beloved squad.
Butcher Brophey showed up to the arena with a new set of gently used equipment after his old equipment was put into emergency quarantine by the Centre For Disease Control. He picked up the almost spotless equipment at a mid-week yard sale lorded over by the Dictator By The Lake at the Compound For Minor Vice. Apparently, the Vice (aka The Dictator, Rob The Torch etc.) had won a minor lottery somewhere and had used the proceeds to update his old equipment. The equipment was about 5 years old on average but it had nary a scratch, material pull,drop of blood or sweat mark upon it: gently used indeed. And, who knew The Butcher and The Vice had fat asses of the same size and droop.
It was good to see Pyjama Man enter the dressing room 5 seconds before the puck was dropped. He said he would have stayed home but couldn’t get his babysitter to come over. “I knew the Strawbs would need me tonight, and since I hadn’t anything better to do, I brought my girls with me so I could play. I left the car running and they seem to be having fun playing with the lighter.”
Archilles was finally recovered from the horrible blister he has been stoically enduring since the terrible accident he had while drying the dishes at his home. He played poorly on the night but it was good to see him out of his house where unspeakable accidents seem to befall him almost weekly.
The team is struggling to find the right position for Shiny Sean who fancies himself a goal scorer. While he starts all his shifts at defence, he rarely finishes them there. He is forever darting at the opposition’s net, screaming for the puck to be put on his stick. When this inevitably does not occur, he pouts for while, regroups and tries the same stunt again. He is as habitually persistent/hard-headed as Gumby is habitually tardy/soft-headed. Unlike Gumby, however, he does have a goal this year.
And what’s with MagBoy? Again, last night, he slammed himself into the boards, even harder than Dr. Thug had done earlier in the game. It is obvious his skating lessons are not taking. Is he forgetting to take his medication? Are things okay at home? Is his medulla oblongata in a state of disrepair?
And what’s with Freight Train Laronde. There are rumours that he actually has soft hands and some very high tech moves which he uses in the training wheels league he skates in on Wednesdays According to a lowly placed source with new gently used equipment, Laronde can snap the puck into the top corner, through his legs while reciting Byronesque verse. Where is that talent when he plays for the Killer Strawberries? Come on Freight train, show us your stuff. After all, the team’s motto is “Show us your finesse or you get to play defence.”
And what’s with Warrin’ Peace. He continues to rack up his frequent absentee points at an alarming rate. Pretty soon he will be demoted from waterboy to waterwussy.
And finally, what’s with the poetry that has been seeping, like a mangy fox creeping, into an unguarded henhouse on the hill? Well, according to sports psychologist, Ozzie Andharriet, poetry can, if deftly applied, increase performance levels by .08% over the long run ( Note 1). So there.
All in all, the game was an excellent Strawbs outing and helped solidy the team’s grip on first place. To further solidy their grips, most of the players (save for the Vice who had to go home to iron out the wrinkles in his new equipment) ventured out to the Terminal Tavren. Old lies were recounted, new lies freshly minted, and a little Robbie Burns quoted for good measure.
8 Stella, 2 Black and Tan, 3 Guinness, 2 Sterling (huh?), 5 Steamwhistle, one “Hello, Handsome” and some iambic pentameter were consumed.
(1) Dr. Highly Selassie, The Book Of Useful Stats, Dubious Press, 2008
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Solid Effort Assures Victory
Game Report
February 5, 2009
Killer Strawberries 4 Jet Rangers 2
Last night’s matchup was a workmanlike affair for the Strawbs as they systematically dismantled the Jet Rangers offence and defence on their way to a 4-2 victory.
The Strawberries’ pipes were ably defended by fill-in, Cat Thomas, a shy philately enthusiast and small gauge train aficionado who was picked up to replace the mysteriously absent Jesse The Leak. Based on his performance, Mr. Cat was invited to be the team’s backup for the rest of the season. He diplomatically declined, citing his aversion to something he termed “low standards”. We presume he was speaking of the opposition.
The incredible rubber man, Dr. Thelonius Thug, returned from his nth hundredth head smacking to lead the team in cheerleading and on-ice fancy footwork. Although advised against suiting up by his online support group, the Dizzy Dinosaur Greats of Hockey, he did play well. Unfortunately, there were disturbing signs of his advanced dementia different from the old signs of his advanced dementia to which the team has become accustomed. Among the signs: Dr.Thug dressed and undressed 3 times before the game actually started because he was confused whether the Strawbs were the home team, the visiting team or the home team. On the plus side, The Vice extracted $50 bucks from the notorious tight wad by convincing him that he had not yet paid his entry fee to the team. The money will be put to a good cause at the Terminal Tavren or other such fine charitable organizations.
Freight Train 444 continued his inspired play as he was moved back and forth between centre and defence as the situation required. “I felt like a yo-yo out there” he reported after the game. “I don’t usually swing from both sides of the plate like that but it sure was fun.”
Slickery Mac was the game’s biggest offensive threat, scoring 2 beauties and constantly setting up the Ice Marshall, to no avail. (In his defence, the Ice Marshal was playing in a full body cast and was still reeling from his starter wife’s declaration that their 50 year old kitchen was going to be redone come hell or high water.) One of Slickery’s goals was an absolute beauty. He struck the puck with such force that it snapped the net’s back bar, ripped through the boards and struck a surprised Zamboni driver busily engaged in some kind of lurid ménage with a siren in white go go boots and her niece/aunt from a previous marriage.
Once again, the Strawbs were afflicted with an ugly case of absenteeism. The Leak, poor student by day, hot and cold goaltender by night, took it upon himself to attempt an unauthorized try-out with the Drinkin Thinkin Stinkins of the renegade Continental Recovering Alcoholic Poets (C.R.A.P.) League. According to Shelley Keats-Yeats, the Stinkins’ manager, coach, bus driver and muse:
We took a peek
At Jesse The Leak
And unfortunately found him wanting.
Best take him back
Cause he’s on track
For some ugly merciless taunting.
In front of a puck
He really does suck.
His skills they are so yucky.
Dump him now
He’s lost his wow
And then consider yourselves lucky.
Mr. Leak is expected to start the Strawbs’ next game, conditional upon a written apology to the Strawbs and a note from his psychiatrist.
Dr. Bonehead Butcher Brophey was also unable to make the match. Apparently, the North Bay Parry Sound Health Unit condemned his equipment, minutes before his departure for the game. The Health Unit was particularly appalled by the state of his undergarments (both the ones he was wearing and those he uses for hockey). The official report reported, as official reports are wont to do, that “the Butcher’s undershirt had the aroma, consistency and appearance of a moldy Limburger left to rot for 23 days on the floor of some backwoods Amazonian forest.” The rest of the report was not nearly as complimentary. After the game, the Executive admonished Brophey for being a danger to himself, to his team and to all the communities within a 50 mile radius of his ramshackle home in Corbeil, Ontario. (The town motto: We may not be big, but we’re small.) A disposal team from the Center For Disease Control in Atlanta has confiscated the offending equipment for further analysis and quarantine.
The last absentee,the once proud Warrin Peace, has been a problem all year. He seems impervious to the team’s encouragement and lavish incentice system. Since his marriage/bondage to the mesmerizing Samarra Dessert, he is no longer the same man he was before his misguided foray into matrimonial bliss. And the humiliations just keep piling on. For example,the absentee was, as of last Tuesday, officially installed as the head eunuch at the Garage Of Bad Ideas. Under the terms of his “promotion”, he was allowed to not participate in last night’s match because his boss needed her delicate feet rubbed after an exhausting retail therapy marathon in NYC, with a bevy of her like-minded girlfriends. The team hopes he finds his balls soon.
Warmed by the victory and despite the plethora of unauthorized absences, the Killer Strawberries reconvened at the Terminal Tavern to go over the high points of the game.
Feats were feted
And Yeats requited
For giving the Strawbs back their Leak.
Brophey was slagged
And Warrin’, debagged,
Was ridiculed as worthless and weak.
5 Bud, 3 Blue, 4 Guinness, 7 Steamwhistle, 1 Black and tan and 2 chicken’s balls were consumed.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Digging Deep
Game Report
January 30, 2009
Killer Strawberries 5 Spitfires 0
For the Killer Strawberries who bothered to show up for the match against the well-abhored Spitfires, the pre-game sentiment in the dressing was not unlike that customarily experienced by a first time patient about to undergo a three fingered prostate exam administered by Hulk Hogan’s bigger brother. In the previous 2 matchups between these two teams, there was not an ounce of goodwill left by the time the final buzzer clanged. To say that these 2 squads dislike each other would be like saying the Strawbs have a mild dislike for referee Napoleon Fizzlercracker and his Travelling Incompetence Road Show..
By the Zamboni’s last lap of surface polishing, there were 8 intrepid Strawbs laced up, including Jesse The Leak, who would go on to shine this evening. Seven skaters, with an average age of 50, is usually a recipe for exhaustion by minute 5 of the first period in the cleanest of games. This matchup did not portend much hockey cleanliness.
And where were the 5 pusillanimous pudds who callously left their team in this vile predicament. Well, I’ll tell you. Dr. Thug, claiming to be suffering from his nth hundredth self-administered concussion, was in Las Vegas filming a celebrity wrestling match with the Victoria’s Secret models. Sure. And Butcher Brophey is a vegetarian. Shiny Sean claimed he had to take one of his kids to a hospital in Barrie. Everybody knows there are no hospitals in Barrie or anywhere within 50 miles of that den of constantly snarled traffic. Methinks he was at Casino Rama to play a little poker and to catch the Al Martino concert.
Archilles Perron could not make it because he had a little blister on his thumb from doing the dishes. This is a Strawb’s first….an injury from doing housework. Poor baby. The pain must be excrutiating.
And where was Pyjama Man, the once reliable point getter who has fallen on hard times in the scoring department. Well, he hired a babysitter for his girls and proceeded to spend the night babysitting the babysitter. Who was the babysitter? Why, it turned out to be his main squeeze, Loans Jones, whom he hadn’t seen since their salacious afternoon tryst which ended at 3pm in stall #4 of the women’s washroom at their City Hall workplace. While the Strawbs are unamused by his absence from the Spitfire game, they do heartily congratulate him upon the creative use of his 5 minute afternoon coffee break. Just don’t let it happen again, you priapetic toad.
The absence roster was completed by Warrin’ Peace, the team’s secret captain and official waterboy. His excuse…he had to stay home to clean up the mess left behind by his wife’s co-workers, unruly nurses, who, earlier in the day, had engaged in a clothes optional wild bacchanalian fling involving copious quantities of wine and much acrimony towards the management at their place of employ. Warrin’ predicts all the drywall damage will be repaired by next game, Great Gitchigoomi willing.
On the ice, the Spitfires had personnel problems of their own. They eked a squad as equally depleted as the aging Strawbs. Unfortunately, the skaters who showed up were their biggest meatheads, drooling like mangy rabied dogs at the chance to chop, hack and slice. Didn’t matter. The Strawberries took it to their much detested foe. They scored early. They defended their territory like Homer’s ancient Trojans. Unlike the valiant Trojans, however, the Strawberries defences were not breached. Jesse The Leak was impenetrable, using his speed, youthful guile and the width of the goalposts to his advantage. On one play, he stacked his pads to his left and blew up his chest to the right as he careened flawlessly across the crease, thus robbing an astonished Spitter of a sure goal. His play was ably assisted by some stalwarts on defence: the lovely orange-socked, recently fiftied Sir Gawdawful Gumby: by the team’s able surgeon, Butcher Brophey and by the wily, calorie-gulping Vice. These men kept the puck almost exclusively on the perimeter all night. It is difficult to recall a game so well played in the defensive zone.
At forward, Freight Train Laronde was spectacular. In the dressing room, he predicted he would score, and, like the Babe, was true to his prognostication. Likea tsunami of rogue waves assaulting the shore, he bombarded the opposition’s net with strike after lightning strike. He did not score again but he certainly deserved to.
Slickery Mac was also a constant offensive threat. He notched three tallies on the 800 shots he propelled at the hapless Spits’goaler. On one shot, he managed to perform a bloodless tracheotomy on the poor fellow, leaving him gasping for air late in the first period. MagBoy was his customary burr under the saddle and managed to piss off every Spit, both referees and one of the two timekeepers. “Sorry I didn’t get around the second timekeeper” he stated ruefully after the match. “ fully expected to return to the Sin Bin before game’s end and I would have finished the job properly. Just didn’t get the chance.” He did, however, atone for his shortfall, by placing an expletive filled anonymous phone call to the poor girl’s dormroom just after midnight.
The Ice Marshal, the last of the forwards to be mentioned herein, was voted 8th star of the game by his buddy, the blind-to-his-own-faults, P. Gumbington Pettigrew. “I thought he played like a big fat slug on Demerol” asserted P. Gumbington. “Nothing the loss of 25 pounds and a little effort can’t cure.” This from a man who spent the previous seven days drinking 4 litres of Scotch per diem as he scoffed down salted peanuts and No Name potato chips by the vatful while never leaving his couch, all in the name of his 50th birthday week celebrations. At the presser following the game, the Ice Marshal defended himself from Gumby’s callous calumny by averring that he never uses Demerol, preferring to suck it up like a real man.
Final score…Killer Strawberries 5 Spitters 0. Take that you gravy sucking pigs.
Following the game, the happy Strawbs convened at the Terminal Tavren to relish their latest victory on the road to the Championship. They were joined by the numerous adorers and hangers-on who had witnessed the earlier immolation of their opponents. Backs were slapped, bums pinched and the absentees toasted to hell.
5 Bud, 7 Guinness, 2 Blue, 3 Stella, 1 Black and Tan, 3 pounds of chicken wings, a vat of perogies and memories of the other Trojan War were consumed.
January 30, 2009
Killer Strawberries 5 Spitfires 0
For the Killer Strawberries who bothered to show up for the match against the well-abhored Spitfires, the pre-game sentiment in the dressing was not unlike that customarily experienced by a first time patient about to undergo a three fingered prostate exam administered by Hulk Hogan’s bigger brother. In the previous 2 matchups between these two teams, there was not an ounce of goodwill left by the time the final buzzer clanged. To say that these 2 squads dislike each other would be like saying the Strawbs have a mild dislike for referee Napoleon Fizzlercracker and his Travelling Incompetence Road Show..
By the Zamboni’s last lap of surface polishing, there were 8 intrepid Strawbs laced up, including Jesse The Leak, who would go on to shine this evening. Seven skaters, with an average age of 50, is usually a recipe for exhaustion by minute 5 of the first period in the cleanest of games. This matchup did not portend much hockey cleanliness.
And where were the 5 pusillanimous pudds who callously left their team in this vile predicament. Well, I’ll tell you. Dr. Thug, claiming to be suffering from his nth hundredth self-administered concussion, was in Las Vegas filming a celebrity wrestling match with the Victoria’s Secret models. Sure. And Butcher Brophey is a vegetarian. Shiny Sean claimed he had to take one of his kids to a hospital in Barrie. Everybody knows there are no hospitals in Barrie or anywhere within 50 miles of that den of constantly snarled traffic. Methinks he was at Casino Rama to play a little poker and to catch the Al Martino concert.
Archilles Perron could not make it because he had a little blister on his thumb from doing the dishes. This is a Strawb’s first….an injury from doing housework. Poor baby. The pain must be excrutiating.
And where was Pyjama Man, the once reliable point getter who has fallen on hard times in the scoring department. Well, he hired a babysitter for his girls and proceeded to spend the night babysitting the babysitter. Who was the babysitter? Why, it turned out to be his main squeeze, Loans Jones, whom he hadn’t seen since their salacious afternoon tryst which ended at 3pm in stall #4 of the women’s washroom at their City Hall workplace. While the Strawbs are unamused by his absence from the Spitfire game, they do heartily congratulate him upon the creative use of his 5 minute afternoon coffee break. Just don’t let it happen again, you priapetic toad.
The absence roster was completed by Warrin’ Peace, the team’s secret captain and official waterboy. His excuse…he had to stay home to clean up the mess left behind by his wife’s co-workers, unruly nurses, who, earlier in the day, had engaged in a clothes optional wild bacchanalian fling involving copious quantities of wine and much acrimony towards the management at their place of employ. Warrin’ predicts all the drywall damage will be repaired by next game, Great Gitchigoomi willing.
On the ice, the Spitfires had personnel problems of their own. They eked a squad as equally depleted as the aging Strawbs. Unfortunately, the skaters who showed up were their biggest meatheads, drooling like mangy rabied dogs at the chance to chop, hack and slice. Didn’t matter. The Strawberries took it to their much detested foe. They scored early. They defended their territory like Homer’s ancient Trojans. Unlike the valiant Trojans, however, the Strawberries defences were not breached. Jesse The Leak was impenetrable, using his speed, youthful guile and the width of the goalposts to his advantage. On one play, he stacked his pads to his left and blew up his chest to the right as he careened flawlessly across the crease, thus robbing an astonished Spitter of a sure goal. His play was ably assisted by some stalwarts on defence: the lovely orange-socked, recently fiftied Sir Gawdawful Gumby: by the team’s able surgeon, Butcher Brophey and by the wily, calorie-gulping Vice. These men kept the puck almost exclusively on the perimeter all night. It is difficult to recall a game so well played in the defensive zone.
At forward, Freight Train Laronde was spectacular. In the dressing room, he predicted he would score, and, like the Babe, was true to his prognostication. Likea tsunami of rogue waves assaulting the shore, he bombarded the opposition’s net with strike after lightning strike. He did not score again but he certainly deserved to.
Slickery Mac was also a constant offensive threat. He notched three tallies on the 800 shots he propelled at the hapless Spits’goaler. On one shot, he managed to perform a bloodless tracheotomy on the poor fellow, leaving him gasping for air late in the first period. MagBoy was his customary burr under the saddle and managed to piss off every Spit, both referees and one of the two timekeepers. “Sorry I didn’t get around the second timekeeper” he stated ruefully after the match. “ fully expected to return to the Sin Bin before game’s end and I would have finished the job properly. Just didn’t get the chance.” He did, however, atone for his shortfall, by placing an expletive filled anonymous phone call to the poor girl’s dormroom just after midnight.
The Ice Marshal, the last of the forwards to be mentioned herein, was voted 8th star of the game by his buddy, the blind-to-his-own-faults, P. Gumbington Pettigrew. “I thought he played like a big fat slug on Demerol” asserted P. Gumbington. “Nothing the loss of 25 pounds and a little effort can’t cure.” This from a man who spent the previous seven days drinking 4 litres of Scotch per diem as he scoffed down salted peanuts and No Name potato chips by the vatful while never leaving his couch, all in the name of his 50th birthday week celebrations. At the presser following the game, the Ice Marshal defended himself from Gumby’s callous calumny by averring that he never uses Demerol, preferring to suck it up like a real man.
Final score…Killer Strawberries 5 Spitters 0. Take that you gravy sucking pigs.
Following the game, the happy Strawbs convened at the Terminal Tavren to relish their latest victory on the road to the Championship. They were joined by the numerous adorers and hangers-on who had witnessed the earlier immolation of their opponents. Backs were slapped, bums pinched and the absentees toasted to hell.
5 Bud, 7 Guinness, 2 Blue, 3 Stella, 1 Black and Tan, 3 pounds of chicken wings, a vat of perogies and memories of the other Trojan War were consumed.
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