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Killer Strawberries 11 ALU Warriors Quite A Bit Fewer
Game Report
November 25, 2010
As November 25 dully dragged its way through its final hour of tedium, the Killer Strawberries mercilessly pounded an understaffed ALU team with all the enthusiasm of a bored Emperor at a routine slaughter of Christians and other unfortunates. As a contagion of stifled yawns infected the Strawbs’ bench in waves of unbridled ennui, the seconds langourously erased themselves from the arena clock, in the vain hope of never ever being reset again. The Zamboni driver went home early, leaving well before the game ended and asking that the last person kindly locks the doors on his way out. The pinball machines in the lobby pulled their own plugs from the sockets. The ice started to melt just so that it wouldn’t have to support one more half-hearted effort at aimless propulsion.
Mayor Maynot broke out of his torpor long enough to pot 6 goals so meaningless that the scorekeeper refused to add them to the scoreboard. Sir Gawdawful Gumby was lost in his land of warm milk and cookies, soft blankets and naps as he serenaded himself to sleep with the whisper of his blades against the dying ice. The Marquis DeSave couldn’t be bothered to take a warmup, preferring to remain supine in the dressing room until the last possible moment. During the whole of the match, his catching glove did not rise above his waist, nor did his knees bend in any perceptible fashion: MagBoy could have done better, but just couldn’t bring himself to try.
Newton theorized that every action results in an equal and opposite reaction. In last night’s game, the Laws of Entropy were temporarily suspended for lack of sufficient action to cause a reaction. Even the Laws of the Universe were anesthetized. All in all the game was so dull, that……….zzzzzzzzzzzz.
A open message to the Strawbs from the late Fred Shero: Take the shortest route to the puck and arrive in ill humour!
Killer Strawberries 3 Turbo Beavers 1
Game report
November 22, 2010
With Dr. Phelonius Thug incapacitated by a terrible, terrible case of the sniffles, with Warrin’ Peace grounded for not properly vacuuming his man cave, and with Pyjama Man unable to play because of some sudden syphilitic recrudescence, the Killer Strawberries still managed to defeat a determined Turbo Beaver squad by a score of 3-1.
Once again, Freight Train 444, still recuperating from his latest grueling 10 week vacation, joined the team, and, despite the extra 34 pounds of winter insulation stretching the skin of his midriff to the point of bursting, played a fine game on defence. He was called upon frequently to cover up the aggressive play of his D mates, the Packer-besotted Shiny Shone Brightly, the penalty-addicted Butcher and the senescent Vice.
Up front, the forwards almost achieved hockey respectability, except for Slickery Mac, who, while the Butcher rested his sorry ass in the Sin Bib, scored 2 shorthanded markers in a span of 57.232 seconds (approx.). Of course, the Butcher attributed it all to the motivation he gifted to the team by selflessly taking a penalty with the score 1-0 in the opposition’s favour.
Mr. Mayor Maynot, who ,without consulting the Monicker Committee , changed his nickname to Yo-Yo, completed the scoring late in the last period, the recipient of a brilliant 2 on 1 saucer pass from the IMW, a saucer pass so sublime in its execution that a small bronze statue will be erected in the arena lobby next week in the wily veteran’s honour. “ I really don’t need another statue” commented the humble team leader. “I wish the erections would stop.”
In goal, the Marquis DeSave put in another stellar outing. On one occasion, the Vice delivered a perfect no-look pass onto the waiting stick of a streaking opponent. The Marquis coolly followed the 405 attempted feints and dekes, and finally stopped the clearly frustrated attacker by jamming his pad neatly against the far post….just another great play in a typical Strawbs’ victory.
After the game, the New Terminal Tavren was invaded by the victors. Good plays were recounted in terms which made the originals seem ordinary and glaring mistakes were sloughed off as bad luck. Backs were slapped and the tight-jeaned torsos of the service staff were admired.
5 Keiths, 7 Steamwhisltles, 4 Buds, 13 pounds of chicken wings and some stories of glorious shorthanded goals past were consumed.
While The Cat Was Away
Killer Strawberries 1 Those Guys 40
Game report
November 18, 2010
On Thursday last, the Executive had to make an unexpected trip to the Moon Cafe at the Playboy Mansion in Los Angeles to receive, along with Valdy, several important humanitarian awards from Hugh and his bevy of beautiful babelicious babes. The party lasted for 4 days and the Executive returned to North Bay exhausted but happy. Happy until they learned that in their absence, the Strawbs were utterly hopeless in the game against Those Guys on the very night they were being feted. Despite being bolstered by the return of Gawdawful Gumby, who had been vacationing high in the Rockies and by Freight Train 444, who had just completed his 3rd circumnavigation of the world in this last year alone, the squad stunk. The goalie stunk. The defence stunk and the forwards stunk. The fans also stunk. Even their stinkiness stunk.
Why is it that when the leadership is away, the team takes a vacation to Stinkidom? Just asking.
Nothing was consumed but odiferous olfaction.
The Ice Marshal and The Vice entertain Valdy at the Aloha Baby Compound Moon Cafe.
Game Report
November 11, 2010
CCCP 8 Killer Strawberries 2
The Strawbs knew before the game that they would get spanked by CCCP, most of whose players toil for the Canadore Varsity team. Sometimes, you need a good spanking, although not quite as often MagBoy likes one.
The CCCP players are young, swift, talented and mild mannered…oh, yeah, did I mention young? Nevertheless, the Strawbs held in for the first period, with the score 2-1 in favour of the speedsters. The poor Marquis DeSave must have felt like a burger at a Rottweiler convention, what with the relentless biting attacks upon him. Eventually, the assaults took their toll and CCCP put a further 6 markers behind him before the final buzzed was mercifully buzzed. Shiny thought that one period would have been enough for us to mount a comeback..but realistically I don’t think any of the Strawbs could have mounted anything, let alone a comeback.
At the other end of the ice, the Strawbs produced quite a few excellent scoring opportunities, with Pyjama Man and the Ice Marshal assuring the team was not shutout. TheIMW l played like Teeter Kennedy, or rather, played like Teeter Kennedy would have played had he been alive today at the ripe old age of 105. To say that his skills have deteriorated would be like saying Mama Cass has put on a little weight…. a small understatement.
It did not help the team’s cause that Warrin’ Peace, Pyjama Man and the recently lauded Butcher showed up late for the game. Warrin’ had an excuse…he can’t tell time. Pyjama Man had to tuck in his daughters (and girlfriend, the lovely Loans Jones) before screeching to the rink. But the Butcher? His excuse: impaired cognitive judgment caused for overheated brain circuits. Mind you, that’s his normal state. He should have stayed home and flossed. Observant readers will recall that His Bropheyness was recently demoted to Buttface and returned from the ordeal on Monday last. His Monday performance was publicly lauded. Seems he doesn’t do too well when praised. Well, he won’t be praised again, the puerile wad of tardy Sheitzhiemerwurst.
Despite the beating, the Strawbs were jovial after the match and several of them (and the lovely Loans Jones) met up for some post game imbibing at the New Terminal Tavren, home of Fat Boy chicken wings, named after an unnamed Strawb who is less than lean and wears #3.
2 jugs of Keith’s Dark (yuk!), 2 jugs of Stella, 2 Bud Light, 2.5 hubs of chicken wings and some bawdy tales of memorable spankings were consumed.
Game Report
November 8, 2010
Strawbs 8 Longshafts 5
Sometimes as a Killer Strawberry all you’ve got left is handsome. And sometimes that handsome is simply not enough. Just ask the Butcher who spent the past weekend laundering other mens’ intimates. Perhaps it was a little harsh of the Executive to send him to Alaska for rehabilitation. Fortunately, the Executive, while cruel when necessary, is always fair. And the Butcher certainly benefited from the cruel/fair treatment recently meted out to him.
In last night’s tussle with the very speedy Longshafts, the good Doctor was on top of his game. He performed a series of unforgettable, fully legal muggings on every corner of the ice. He was ornery. He was belligerent. He was motivated. He was so sneaky and effective that, by game’s end, he had an amazing secret collection of Longshaft organs tucked away inside his equipment, organs the Longshafters did not even know they were missing. Welcome back Butcher…we missed ya.
The match started out well for the opposition. By the end of the first period they were ahead 2-0. It took a full team defence to keep the score so low. Special kudos to the D and to the Marquis, all of whom struggled valiantly to keep the rubber outside the cage. Despite the slim margin, the Longshafts were so confident they were about to crush the Strawbs that they kept hooting constantly, and when they did score, their celebratory rituals were overdone, bordering on taunts.
Alas, their ejaculations were premature. Dr. Thug quickly popped in 2 goals early in the second period, lovely markers he continued to describe in terms which became more unbelievable which each quaff of Guinness at the post game soiree. The Stawbs then took a 3-2 lead, as Slickery, Warrin’ Peace and Mayor Maynot combined to shove a stiletto up the Longshafts’ (insert missing body part here)…… From then on, the game seesawed back and forth, as Slickery exacted revenge on his opposition on four more occasions, for an incredible total of 5 goals in the game. Pyjama man added the coup de grace with 16 seconds left. Final score Strawbs 8 Longshafts 5.
In the dressing room at the end of the game, the Butcher was officially welcomed back with a gift of Gentleman Jack, a fine Tennessee Bourbon presented to him in a makeshift suitcase on the occasion of his 56th birthday. Although no gentleman on the ice this glorious evening, the Butcher’s sharing of the loot was a welcome magnanimous gesture.
After the match, most Strawbs slogged home exhausted. The others, thumbing their noses at the lateness of the hour, reassembled at the New Terminal Tavren to celebrate a well earned victory and to toast the return of the dirtiest SOB in the league.
2 Grasshoppers, 3 Guinness, 3 Keiths, 2 pounds of chicken wings and the warm inner glow of some illegally ingested Gentleman Jack were consumed.
Butcher Bombs Badly. Buttface Beckons
Killer Strawberries 7 Free Agents 2
Game Report
November 4, 2010
It was something the Executive had been worried about for more than a year. As aficionados of all Things Killer Strawberry know, Dr. Butcher Brophey took a sabbatical from his beloved team in 2009-2010, in order to spread to the world his vast knowledge of the topic “Innovating Innovationary Innovation Techniques Innovatively: An Innovator’s Perspective” . His educational victims included some of the unwashed masses of Europe and a few fascinated Bedouins seeking to expand their markets for camel dung.
The good Doctor lectured to great acclaim at The Milan Academy of Blind Donkey Raisers, held open air brainstorming session with the self-flagellating Sisters of Perpetual Suffering and Bleeding in Padua, and, in an unprecedented audience with the Pope, instructed His Most Holy Bigness on the idea of using Catholic confession as a source of Church revenue. He even met up in Giza with his buddy, the also-sabbaticalled Freight Train 444, who, together, turned 3 of the pyramids into to thriving Tim Horton’s Falafel franchises.
But let’s get back to the worrisome part. For any true hockey player, a year spent away from the frozen pond is an awful lot like diving naked into a humming beehive. It’s eventually gonna hurt a lot and for a long time afterward. For a player of the Butcher’s caliber and mental capacity, the result was sure to be especially bad. Turns out the Executive had much to fear.
At the start of the season, the Butcher was eased back into the lineup by placing him on the wing opposite the Ice Marshal. It was much like Edmonton’s experiment of placing the stone-handed Dave Semenko on a line with Gretzky… a gift really. But noooooooo!. The move was a disaster. Brophey was not only underwhelming, he was below sub-underwhelming. His performance, combined with a sullenness so infantile that his sulky lower lip had to be popped with a safety pin, forced the Executive to retreat from its strategy of slow integration and to put the said sulky sulker back among the blueline pigeons for game 2 of the season.
In his defence, it must be noted that the Butcher was less awful at his old position than anticipated. For the next couple of matches, he struggled mightily to bring his game up to its previous level of mediocrity. Unfortunately, hecould not even hurdle that low bar.
In last night’s game, a fresh nadir of Bropheyesque ineptitude was reached. While his teammates performed magnificently in the 7-2 victory over the Turbo squad, the Butcher was abysmal. The breaking point was reached when, in the early moments of the final period, he carelessly tossed a fat, lazy, ill-timed pass right up the middle onto the surprised stick of Turbo’s best player. As the Strawbs’ bench gasped in disbelief, that best player moved in alone on the Marquis, mesmerized him with dazzling feats of legerdemain and casually popped the biscuit into the net.
Mercifully, the game came to an end, and, after the customary shaking of hands, the Killer Strawberries retired to their dressing room for the first round of ribbing and witty repartee. None of the gentlemen on the team mentioned the gaffe for what seemed to be an eternity. The elephant in the room remained unacknowledged until the moment a meek Butcher asked “Ice Marshal, I feel really bad about tonight. What do you recommend?” “A suitcase oughta come in handy” he tersely volunteered.
For the upcoming weekend, Dr. Bonehead Butcher Brophey will be hand laundering jock straps for the Strawbs’ farm team, the Nasty Cupcakes, as well as getting some valuable ice time with farm team’s farm team, the Buttface Bottom Feeders, a team so awful, that Miss White Go Go Boots, whose concept of morality defies imitation, still refuses to entertain any member of that sorry organization.
Post game, most of the boys and Cuddles McMillan resurfaced at the New Terminal Tavren to quaff some wet stuff and to wish the Butcher well on his short rehabilitation stint.
A free 120 ounce pitcher of Bud, 2 not-so-free Grasshoppers, 10 Steamwhisltles, 3 Keiths Dark, 4 Bud Light, 1 Stella , 17 pounds of chicken wings a little Louis Vuitton Whine were consumed.
Strawbs 7 Turbo Powered 2
Game report
November 1, 2010
If one were to somehow quantify the remarkableness of a single dog fart as it contributed to the overall air quality at a canine chilifest, then divided that number by the number of times Sir Gumby has been on time for any outing, ever, you would exceed the remarkableness of last night’s game by a factor of 7 factorial plus 5 to the power of a googleplex.
Not only did nothing happen in the first matchup since last year’s final game between the Strawbs and their erstwhile arch-enemies the Turbo Powered Sphincters (known then as the Aviation Aholes), nothing happened anywhere else in the universe for the 2 days following. The game was a black hole of black holes.
Perhaps, the above description is a little hyperbolic. The Marquis DeSave did put his face in front of some rubber. The Butcher was less of a threat on defence than he would have been on offence. Pyjama Man did utter a couple of vituperative epithets at the bozo who butt-ended him on a faceoff. Archilles Perron continued to patrol the blueline with all the enthusiasm of Lindsay Lohan at an AA reunion. Shiny may have scored a goal or perhaps thought he had. The IMW should have continued his pre-game nap elsewhere. The Vice skated like a 90 year old over-concussed Dr. Thug on Prozak spritzers. Slickery was absent by his very presence. Mayor Maynot, the team’s newest rookie and Astroglide provisioner, was so underwhelming that the referees asked that his name be removed from the scoresheet at game’s end.
The one bright moment (assuming we round up the moment to the nearest scintilla of brightness) came a the end of the match, when MagBoy, in full Guy Lafleur-like flight, descended alone upon the opposing goaltender intent on ramming the puck through the poor fellow with all the momentum he could muster at his top speed of 13 knots per hour. As he was readying to unleash his shot/bodycheck, a stick was thrown from the stands by his mistress, the unalloyed MagGirl. A penalty shot was called. MagBoy doffed his helmet, adjusted his boys, slicked back his hair and once more attacked the Turbo’s goaler. CRRRRACK! The puck found its way to the back of the net and thus was MagBoy assured some physical comfort later in the evening.
Post game, the lads headed off to their new watering hole, the New terminal Tavren, with a very excited MagGirl in tow. Black holes and tailspins of both varieties were discussed, created, admired and imagined.
Cheap beer (totaling more than 36 litres), several gross of chicken wings and a cup of aphrodisiacal cocoa (for MagGirl) were consumed.
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