Powered By The Fumes Of A Glorious Past

Killer Strawberries 6 Longshafts 2

Game Report

March 14, 2011

Wildly cheered on by its most devoted fan, Miss Loans Jones resplendent in furs and jewels from head to toe, the Killer Strawberries rammed their way to a hard fought Bronze Medal in the Canadore Intramural Hockey league.
It was a subdued but very serious dressing room before the game as the Strawbs discussed game strategy and helped each other get attired for the match. Shanky VI, the team’s newest good luck amulet, stood erect in the centre floor garbage pail, radiating good vibes and greetings from the unknown ether of cosmic fortune. The Grip of Shame cowered in the corner and seemed to know full well that nobody was about to lay claim to it by putting in anything less than a total effort.

The match started out with some pretty bad omens. On to the ice sauntered North Bay’s finest referees, both of whom appeared to be laboring under the triple threat of myopia, dyspepsia and simmering rage. They promptly called the Strawbs for some marginal obstruction in which Butcher Brophey, fresh from his stint with the 7th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital in Kandahar, bloodlessly removed an appendix from an opposing player. The Strawbs killed off the penalty. The zebras countered with 2 more calls of the dubious variety. The Strawbs weathered the storm.

Then, they went into hyperdrive. MagBoy buzzed about like a raging toro who had spent the afternoon quaffing uppers, speed and RockStar by the gallon. Slickery used his laser to net 3 beauties, shredding the mesh in the process. Pyjama Man spit off the funk which has dogged him like a bad smell for too long and tallied an important marker at a crucial part of the game, sending Loans Jones into flights of barely controlled hysteria. Shifty Drouin notched up his game to SuperStrawb™ level and may even have scored. Mayor Maynot hurtled himself full tilt into every fray and he may have scored. The Ice Marshal, suffering from arthritis, melanoma and halitosis, metaphorically polished off the metal plate in his skull and played better than Gumby had predicted. Gumby gumbied. The Vice obstructed with the finesse of a player half his age and IQ. Achilles cast off the lingering lethargy of his pre-game nap to perform steadily at his defensive position. The Butcher butchered bloodlessly and compassionately, even though his eyes said “kill”.

In net, the Marquis DeSave showed why he was awarded a life time contract (or as long as he remains at the pleasure of the large foreheads on the Executive, whichever comes first). He looked 3 times his normal size, zipping from one side of the net to another, a spaced out butterfly crazed on testosterone. Snap went his glove, crack went his stick, boom went his brain. What a performance!

In the dressing room post game, Shanky VI was smothered in wet kisses, champagne was quaffed like it was New Year’s Eve in Pissuptown, butts were fondled with towel whips and MagBoy threw up in the garbage can. The Grip of Shame was beaten into moccasins with Shanky VI and everyone took home a new pair of slippers.

After the game, the team sped off to the Galaxy Theatre to catch the last 5 minutes of the cult classic Shaving Ryan’s Privates, the war movie the Executive has used in the past to rally the troops. Then it was off to Terminal Tavren to bask in the fumes of the Glorious Present and to once again harangue, in absentia, Shiny Shone Brightly and Dr. Thug, Mr. and Mrs. No Contribution.

45 Guinness, 74 Steamwhistle, 32 Lake of Bays, 43 Bloodthisty, 1 Appletini, and the never-old pleasure of a playoff medal were consumed.