Freight Train 444 Lets His Stick Do The Talkin’

Strawbs 7 Traumatized Titans 3

Game Report
October 22, 2007

The normally taciturn and enigmatic Freight Train 444 finally got his act together on the ice, scoring the first hat trick of his sputtering 49 year old hockey career. Video tape of two of his goals were sent by the Executive to the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu for review by the team’s Compensation Committee chaired by the asset-rich and underexposed Pamela Anderson of Baywatch fame. Miss Anderson was an off-season acquisition negotiated by the Ice Marshall to replace the non-recovering Olsen twin. Miss Anderson, an expert in rewarding men for doing the things she likes, is reportedly recommending a 72.76% increase in Freight Train’s base compensation package. “He has a nice package now, but I’m a believer in fostering bigger packages” she said.

Dr. Thug was also a big contributor on the night. He shook off the effects on 5 weeks of self-administered reality-relief medication and set up 4 goals. “I could have scored as many as Freight Train” he confided, “but I could not really see the net through the haze of my new health regimen. I just slapped at the puck all night and it ended up on the right sticks. Karma I guess.” More like horseshit luck.

Jesse The Leak, currently flunking a Diplomacy For Dummies course at his new alma mater, Degrees To Go U., continued his strong work between the pipes, making several key saves down low in the early going. “I’m seeing the puck better now that the Butcher has slimmed down to a svelte 380 kilos. Now if only Gumby’s head were not so inflated by his delusions of adequacy, I’d be stopping even more shots”. Well, having dissed the irascible Gumby with his less than diplomatic musings, he should expect a lot more shots next game, maybe even one from the barrel of a shotgun.

And things got worse for Gumby from there. As he was leaving the ice surface after the match and making his mumbling way down the stairs to the dressing room, one of the team’s newest fans, the Impudent Insolent Impertinent Lip, middle spawn of the Ice Marshall himself, baited the poor pumpkin-socked picaroon with words of derision. “You’re worse than my dad said you were” blurted the badly behaved bezonian, thus crushing any dignity which may have been left in the barely beating bosom of our bedraggled bustard. One hopes he will recover.

After the game, Freight Train invited all his teammates to join him at the Terminal Tavren (yes, tavren) to congratulate him on his outstanding performance. Those who cared, showed up and heaped adulation upon him. He has set a new bar for himself, one the Executive hopes he can continue to clear.

Liquid tar-like substances and various other libations were consumed between frequent pats to the back of the evening’s hero.

Strawbs Kick Off Birthday Week in Grand Style

Strawberries 5 Mighty Piglets 1

Game Report
October 18, 2007

The annual self-administered and self-promoted “Rob the Torch’s Birthday Week” celebrations began with great fanfare last Thursday night at the beautiful Pete Palangio Arenas. To mark the kickoff, the Strawbs donned, for the first time ever, a full set of matching team socks, save for Gawdawful Gumby who, in his usual truculent style, refused to include himself in another “juvenile, conformist and frankly quite communistic undertaking”. Just imagine this kind of behaviour from a man who soils his own bed because it helps him to get up in the morning.

The new socks were not your mundane, run of the mill, plain Jane and vanilla socks. No sirree. The new hosiery was, by Executive Fiat, specially made by a local haberdashery, Socks to Be You, to honour those breathtaking red fishnet stockings favoured by the team’s most demanding fan, the wistful Miss White Go Go Boots. It is not often a professional sporting team honours inanimate objects (the stockings, not Miss WGGB) but, given the surreal motivating effect of Miss White Go Go Boots’ clothing choices upon the hormonal outputs of those fortunate enough to bask occasionally in her reflected glory, the honouring is fully understandable.

And honour the socks they did. Pyjama Man, in his first game of the season, single-handedly emasculated the Mighty Piglets, turning them into a million freeze dried bacon bits with four unanswered goals of a quality befitting both his new socks and the Birthday Week celebrations. Dr. Thug sprung himself from the clutches of his own moving phlegm pile to complete the team’s scoring…well almost. There was another goal scored. Shiny Shone McCabe, disoriented by the lights and intoxicated with the thrill of playing with his first real hockey team in 34 years, took it upon himself to ruin a fabulous outing by the rejuvenated Jesse The Leak, by brazenly depositing the puck into his own net. At his post-game debriefing in the Zamboni Room, Shiny Shone admitted he had always found that goaltenders are prone to become complacent when they record shutouts. All he was trying to do was ensure that that The Leak’s burgeoning ego did not impede his future performance. The Executive promptly excoriated the new boy for thinking thoughts not approved by management. The Executive also believes that the threat of a prolonged rehabilitation stint with the Bottom Feeding Blowfish (or worse, the bumbling Nasty Cupcakes) has cured Shiny of any further unauthorized actions.

There was one other disappointment, normally overlooked. On the basis of his rigorous summer training regimen, Archilles Perron, long suffering betrothed of Ms.Glasgow Glamour, was elevated to the first line alongside the team’s leaders in all departments which count. Buffed to a svelte 168 pounds by a diet of non-alcoholic beverages, tofu, seaweed and sugar-free gum, Archilles ought to have shone. He did not. In fact, he was a black hole of shininess, a dim shadow of amorphous inefficiency lost in a sea of ineptitude. One hopes he gets better soon.

Fortunately, nothing could take the shine off the end result. A big win is a big win, even more so when accomplished with the sartorial splendour afforded by new socks.

The celebrations surrounding Rob the Torch’s Birthday Week continued to the wee hours of the morning, with massive quantities of subsidized beverages being quaffed at Leo’s, Freight Train 444’s frequent pre-class imbibery. The festivities will end around next Wednesday when the Torch’s frail liver finally screams surrender.

21 jugs of liquid swill, most of it strained through a pair of red fishnet stockings found discarded on the floor of the Zamboni Room, were consumed.

Strawbs Wing Aviators

Strawberries 3 Aviators 2

Game Report
October 15, 2007

The tension in the dressing room before the first game of the new season was palpable yet subdued. From among the reserved susurrations, there could be detected an aura of high expectation for the coming season, tinged with an unspoken concern surrounding the level of play to be expected from a team, which quite frankly, had let itself go to seed in the off-season.

Seated against the far wall, while casually dusting the dead moths and desiccated mouse droppings from his disheveled equipment, Whoahorny Richardson calmly applied a light layer of nitro to his ailing chest in the hope that tonight would not be the night he croaked at his own blue line as a swarm of testosterone infused jackanapes descended upon his donkless goaltender. Butcher Brophey, recently elevated to that rare air of academia known to us lesser mortals as the “Doctorate”, a Doctorate conferred upon him by the Laxative Institute of Higher Business Studies of Bath-and-Spa, England, nervously tugged at a hockey undergarment best described as “beyond recognition”. The smell which emanated from said undergarment was causing much nausea all around until the proud Doctor acted upon the unanimous suggestion that he dispose of the offending article by using one the trash cans located in the arena parking lot. “I’ve had the best sex of my life in this thing” he protested. “Well you shoulda wiped yourself off on the curtains instead” growled unsympathetic Gumby, no stranger himself to the benefits of a handy set of drapes.

The new kid (aged 30 something), Shiny Shone Brightly did not know what to make of the pre-game proceedings but did show the Executive that he was worthy of his promotion to the big team by keeping his thoughts unuttered until he had actually made some kind of useful contribution to his new team.

With the determination of Dick Cheney on a duck hunt and with a Championship to defend, the Strawbs ascended the long stairway from the dressing room to the ice surface, encouraged by the screams of delight and admiration emanating from its solid fan base. Mag Girl, atwitter with lust at the sight of her man and men in uniform, and Samara Desert, lost in a gossamer reverie recounting her recent honeymoon with Warrin’ Peace, stomped their feet in appreciation, hopeful that their support might lead to victory on the ice and later at home. Both fans were resplendent in their blue-rinsed squirrel coats, gifts from the Executive last year at the end of season celebration.

The game started off at a very high pace. Mag Boy scrolled about the ice like a piece of overstretched barbed wire finally released from its imprisonment between the cedar posts of an ancient field fence. While there was much to admire in his enthusiasm, his direction and purpose left something to be desired. In his defence, he did score 2 of the team’s 3 goals, one of which certainly looked intended.

Jesse The Leak, recent graduate of the College and unfortunate student of the newly minted Doctor Butcher, turned in a first period performance worthy of Bambi’s mother after she took the bullet to the skull. The two first shots he faced, with a combined velocity of point 2 metres per day, found the back of the net with ease. Fresh from a dressing down between periods, he regained the form expected of him, blanking the pesky Aviators over the final 22 minutes.

Gumby gumbied gumbyesquely and was plus 4 on the night according to his own suspect calculations. He termed his performance “a granular one” and was quickly correctly by the ever sharp Freight Train 444 who noted that the performance was more glandular than granular, the gland in question being located at the end of his lower colon. “What’s grammar gotta do with it?” cried an exasperated Gumby, clearly hurt by the remark.

Although they chose not to score on this occasion, the versatile Vice Marshall and the laconic Ice Marshall ensured that the grit necessary for a repeat championship was present in spades. “By going to the box so frequently, we were trying to accomplish 2 things” announced the Ice Marshall at game’s end. "Firstly, by sitting in the box, we made it highly unlikely that we would take another penalty for at least the next 3 minutes. And secondly, this group of chronic underachievers and humility deficient aficionados of women’s fine lingerie needs to feel a little adversity to get their games to the level needed for success." As the sagacity of the proffered tactics slowly seeped into the barely conscious recesses of the team’s collective psyche, a suggestion was made that there existed a location where the beer was cold and the chicks even colder. “We’re not going to your place again, Brophey,” screamed all in unison, warmed by the prospect of free booze but even more frightened of running into a Miss White Go Go Boots not known for welcoming any male attention which she herself had not initiated.

The victors and their fans congregated post-tussle at the Bull. The game was duly reviewed and aspersions cast upon those pusillanimous Strawbs who failed to show for the match (Archilles, Pyjama Man and the self-concussed Dr. Thug).

8 Guinness, 3 Stella Artois, 2 Bud Light, 2 Red Keiths, one Sissy Singapore Sling and some parsimonious praise were consumed.

Howdy horrendiferous hackers.

It is time to sign up for the Strawbs. The cost is $160 this year, up from $140. The executive has launched a formal protest and fully expects that nothing will happen.

For those of you fortunate enough to work in the executive’s shadow at the Education Centre, go see Laura in Athletics (C250) to sign up and pay asap. Apparently there is a late fee of $20 which applies as of tomorrow. I think they might give us a couple of days grace (max), as defending OHL Chumps.

For those less fortunate and less skilled, come to my house at 905 Pinewood Rd. (just off Jane St.) tonight after 7:30 or, at the latest, tomorrow after supper, with your cheques payable to Canadore College. If I should be temporarily away at the time of your visit, check my mailbox at the end of my driveway for sign up sheets. Fill in the sheet and leave your cheque. Bring beer and munchies.

Love,

IMW

Golf 2007 photos

Golf 2007 photos

Golf 2007 photos

Strawbs Golf

The golfing Strawbs after the final round.

Temper tantrum Fails To Put Damper on Inaugural Strawberries Golf Tourney

Despite the petty growling of one rather irascible Strawbette invitee, the first annual Killer Strawberries’ Serenity Now! Golf Classic could only be termed, in the words of the team’s Poet Laureate, Miss White Go Go Boots herself, “a marvelous congeries of bonhomie, sportsmanship and karmic connection with universe”.

The day started off luminously with a beneficent sun beaming down magnanimously on the assembled throng, caressing them with the warmth they so miss in their own homes. Fourteen intrepid souls hacked and slashed their ways into Strawberry history at the beautiful Osprey Links Golf and Country Club located in Callander, Ontario, home to the world’s most extensive used suppository exhibit. Among the throng, one could easily collect autographs from such current Strawbs’ greats as the dictatorial Vice Marshall (AKA Rob the Torch), godless Gawdawful Gumby, the recently lei’d Butcher Brophey (PhD, LMNOP), next year’s team captain Warrin’ Peace, the outfoxed Magnesium Boy, the relentlessly browbeaten Archilles Perron and the incredibly handsome Ice Marshall Walpole. Strawb’s alumnium, the category filled with those forced out to hockey pasture in recent years, was almost adequately represented by the aging Moses McLean (alum 1898) and the peerless raconteur, Snowtop O’Farrell who last toiled for the Strawberries wearing the toque he inherited from Aurel Joliette, his younger half-brother.

To demonstrate the team’s commitment to sensitivity, gender equality and other such pinko communist, tree hugging, granola eating, hemp wearin’, Birkinstockian drivel, the lesser sex was invited to join in the festivities, provided they remain quiet and walk at least fifteen yards behind the magnificent men in their rich and vibrant lives. Participating under these generous terms of engagement were the winsome Siren of Brockville, the only woman silly enough to be married to Moses Mclean, Miss White Go Go Boots, resplendent in her squirrel-skin golf shoes and matching red micro-mini designed for maximum titillation on short putts, the hard hitting, hard drinkin’, buffed to a tee, Postmistress Lori the Luscious, sporting the first Guinness Book recognized haido, done completely by self-administered WhipperSnipper TM, and last and least, the earlier referred-to irascible Strawbette, Glasgow Glamour, a virago of vicious vulturine vituperation.

On this august occasion, all golfers played below par, ensuring the course was properly fed with scores of errant balls, missed opportunities and well- considered epithets of the unrepeatable variety. Gawdawful Gumby probably summed it up best, when in a rare moment of poignant introspection, he declared “My game is really hard on this course.” Not only was the game hard on the course, it was hard on the players too. On at least four separate occasions, the pressure bubbled over to such a degree that Warrin’ Peace saw himself cruelly afflicted with sphincter seizures so great that his playing partner, MagBoy, had to perform the emergency de-sphincter-seizuring manoeuvres he reluctantly learned on an ill-advised 1991 camping trip sponsored by the former Bishop of the Diocese of Boston. Moses McLean had to quit on the sixteenth hole after he ran out of balls. While he did not finish the round, he did still manage to record a score of 102, good for 7th place overall, by retrogression. The Siren of Brockville found the water so often, it appeared she was carrying around her own wet spot. Snowtop O’Farrell replaced so many disturbingly deep divots, he was offered an apprenticeship position with Burrow’s Country Store and Landscaping Emporium. The Vice was so brutal, so dictatorial and so disruptive to wildlife that the management of Osprey gave him a 5 year membership to Highview G & CC, complete with unlimited bar tab. Osprey ought to be out of business by this time next year.

Glamour Glasgow, who, despite her relative newness to the game, still managed to provide a boat load of useless advice to her hangdog husband, the badly hectored Archilles, a man marked for sainthood in the “marital-hell endured” category. The Postmistress was almost flawless over her nine hole stint, shooting a highly commendable 51 from the men’s tees. If she learns to control her potty mouth, she is destined for golfing greatness. Whatever she may be called in the Strawb’s dressing room, Miss White Go Go Boots lived up to her new reputation as a dazzling dresser from tee to green. Women of the world take note: this lady knows how to deport herself in any venue, from Buckinham palace to the Zamboni Room at Palangio Arenas. A true professional in every sense.

At the end of the ordeal, the revelers congregated at the closest terminal tavren (yes, tavren), the nattily appointed Callander Tavren and Shuffleboard Shootery. Lies were recounted with relish, scores tabulated but not audited, accusations of cheating were wantonly wielded like spare change in a sailor bar, and complaints fell upon deaf ears. Glasgow Glamour lost her fetching moniker by demanding that the “Lesser Sex Award” be renamed to something she ludicrously termed “less offensive to women”. Despite the foolishness of her unrequested and pre-mature ejaculation, the award has been renamed the “Miss Temper Tantrum Trophy” to honour her brilliant diplomacy-infused contribution to male-female relations worldwide. In a secret vote after her long anticipated departure from the tavren, it was decided that the trophy shall be hers in perpetuity, to be displayed proudly atop her home karaoke system.

The sartorially sagacious Miss White Go Go Boots was rewarded with the conferring upon her dignified self of the highly sought after “Poesie” Award, given to “the tournament participant most encouraged to take up another sport”. Upon winning the coveted award, Miss White Go Go Boots cried like a baby, comforted by the fact that she could finally, with dignity, end the soul-sucking charade that she had been hoping beyond hope would save her tattered marriage. Good luck with that one.

While frivolity has its place, all was not frivolous at the awards ceremony. The first “Big Dick” Trophy, emblematic of Strawberry golfing supremacy, was brought out with tremendous fanfare and to raucous acclaim. The Ice Marshall, acting as Master of Ceremonies and Temper Tantrum Controller, announced the individual scores in descending order of incompentence. As a fevered hush engulfed the room, it all came down to the last 2 names on the list. The runner up was announced; his score a scintillating 86 on a course bent on humiliating even the most seasoned sportsman. Archilles Perron, by finishing second, had beaten his nemesis, the rotund third place Butcher Brophey. Archilles was jubilant in his runnerupship and vowed to return a better golfer, husband and friend at the next Annual. The Ice Marshall, after waiting for Archilles’ well-earned congratulatory backslaps to subside, then got around to announcing the tournament victor. As he shook his own hand in victory, the crowd rushed to the restrooms to throw up. Whispers of “anyone but him” could be deciphered between whelps of regurgitation. With the help of the wisdom and Zen-like tranquility which has marked his storied career, the Ice Marshall hosted his Big Dick, secure in his own manhood and at one with life's meaning, in a universe known for its warped sense of humour. After his head became a little less swelled, he donned the gorgeous Green Plaid Jacket which seemed to fit him perfectly. Peace reigned in the Cosmos and the Gods of Golf smiled upon all.

18 pitchers of draft, 2 glasses of whine, a thousand chicken wings, 1 low-cal chicken wrap with double poutine, a few fries and the satiating glow of requited comraderie were consumed.

Killer Strawberries Golf Tournament 2007

The Killer Strawberries will be having their first golf tournament this Thursday, July 26 at Osprey Links in Callandar, ON. Tee off times for 18 holes start at 3pm and 9 holes at 5:15pm. Refreshments and bragging begins in the Callandar Tavern at 8pm. Notable Strawbs and ex-Strawbs golfing include: the Ice Marshall, the Vice Marshall, War 'N Peace, Gawdawful Gumby, Moses McLean and Mrs. Moses, SloMo O'Farrell and better half, Dr. Butcher Brophey and Miss GoGo Boots, Mag Boy, Archilles Perron and Joan, and Freight Train Laronde and his "caboose."
Any former and current Strawbs are encouraged to come out and play.

Dubious Achievement Night

Last night was Dubious Awards Night at the Aloha Baby East Compound. The real Dubious players were noticeable by their absence.

Dubious Awards

The Leak - Was I Suppossed to Stop That?

The Butcher - Miss White Go Go Boots Service Award

Gawdawful Gumby - Pokey Pumpkin-socked Picaroon

Whoahorny - A535, Smells Like Casselholme

Archilles - What's That Meshy Thing Behind the Goalie?

Ice Marshall - Suffering Fools Patiently

Magnesium Boy - When I Skate Fast, I Don't Have to Think

Pajama Man - My Crackberry Stole My Scoring Touch

The Torch - Creaky, Leaky, But Still Sneaky

Freight Train 444 - Scoring With a Velocity Challenged Shot

Dr. Thug - C'mon Boys, We Can Still Score Another 10 Goals Easy

Wanderin' Warren Peace - Yes Dear, No Dear, If You Say So Dear

DUBIOUS ACHIEVEMENT AWARDS NIGHT

The 2006-2007 Killer Strawberries' Dubious Achievement Awards Night is scheduled for Thursday, April 19, at the Aloha Baby East Compound. Bring your party hats.

Fly In The Ointment Still Tastes Sweet

Killer Strawberries Win Championship


Game Report
March 1 2007

Strawbs 1 Blades of Steel 0

It was a bittersweet ending to a Cinderella year.

The early scouting reports published in September had pegged the Strawbs to a 4th place finish, based mostly on adulterated photos obtained surreptitiously over the summer by the team’s unauthorized papparazzi. One particularily damning photo, allegedly taken in August, showed the unflattering aftermath of the team’s annual summer Bacchanalian Babefest and Shoe Shine at its retreat at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu. The photos were obviously Photoshopped by devious minds bent on sullying the immaculate character of this august squad of almost-canonized hockey saints.

In September, the whole team, save for an ovoid-shaped Butcher Brophey, showed up to training camp in better shape than ever. The Butcher blamed his faux pregnancy condition on a summer diet of potato chips, high-cal fatty tissue poppers made from the preserved spleens of his previous on-ice conquests and beer by the keg. Pyjama Man Gibbons lost over 65 pounds since his last game in February 2006 and he could not stop repeating the fact that, for the first time since 1965, he could actually see his own feet without the help of a well-placed mirror. Dr. Thug, fresh from picking unwitting mosquitos out of the malarial swamps of Nicaragua, was limiting himself to one 10,000 word treatise per hour on the subject of Non-EuclidianVariants In The Airborne Dispersal of Anopheles Vectors of Toxicity. Freight Train Laronde reported to camp armed with a new wristshot capable of exceeding 35 miles per hour at sea level (yeah, the Sea of Tranquility maybe). The Vice Ice, who hadn’t set a significant fire in over 2 years, boasted of a new liver donated to him by the estate of Dean Martin. “It may not be top quality, but it’s a lot better than my old one” quipped this newest hunk of hepatic handicraft.

Gumby Pettigrew, although 3 days late to camp due to a mixup in his self-prescribed medications, did show up sporting a new, less irascible attitude. While in the past, his Orneriness would ostentatiously ignore any questions related to his summer whereabouts, the current genesis of this Pumpkin-socked Picaroon was a lot more forthcoming by informing all questioners that perhaps they might like to ask their wives/girlfriends about what he was doing when they (the questioners) weren’t home.

Archilles Perron came prepared for a gruelling training session. Every muscle in his body was athletically taut. He attributed his stellar condition to the fact that his wife had walked all over him for the previous 6 months. Whether the “walking over” was metaphorical or not has yet to be determined but Archilles did let it be known to management that he was to be home by 3:30pm everyday during camp and that he had better not be late or else.

The team’s goaltending situation looked slightly less bleak than it had in the past. Jesse The Leak had spent the summer practising his coverage of loose rebounds and fishing the puck out of his own net. He also boasted to the whole squad that he was a changed netminder. That did not stop management from continuing to seek someone else for the position until it finally gave up on its search on October 25, 6 minutes before the team roster deadline.

Magnesium Boy, who self-concusses for fun, spent the off-season kissing his enamorata’s butt, in the vain hope that he would be let out twice a week during the season to hone his game with Strawbs. He must have done a half-assed job because it became quickly apparent that his bachelor days were vanishing quicker than his recent erections (he builds and sells ice huts). Strawbs’ management arranged an intervention on his behalf and was able to charm Magnesium Girl into letting her personal slave play twice a week, providing he buy her a new squirrel fur coat with matching boots so that she could fish comfortably in the warm side of the ice hut. The coat and boots were picked out for her specifically by that arbiter of good taste and beacon of sartorial splendour, Miss White Go Go Boots herself.

The Ice Marshall showed up with his own good news in tow. He had been scouting all summer for players who would fit the Strawberries’ mold without breaking it. While sojourning with The Paducca School For Wayward Babes Cheerleading Squad at his personal retreat on Lake Mindemoya near Wiky, the astute hockey man spotted Wanderin’ Warrin’ Peace practising his peerless stickhandling manoeuvres on a hockey rink made entirely of ice cubes purloined from Rusty Erickson’s trailer camped on the shores of said lake. The Ice Marshall immediately signed the Manitoulin Magic Man to a one way, 2 year, three clause contract to join the illustrious Strawberries starting in the 2006-2007 season. On hearing the news of his new contract, his second main squeeze at the time, Miss Samara Desert, joyously advised the rookie that they were now engaged and would be getting married after the season ended, preferably at a venue with indoor plumbing. The ever alert Ice Marshall, having noticed the desperation accompanying both the betrothal announcement and its reluctant acceptance, parked himself the next day at the only bus station on the island, caught the frightened rookie by the arm as he attempted to board the outbound bus for Sudbury and reminded him of his contractual obligations. After a brief paroxysm of tears, Warrin’ finally caught his breath and accepted his fate. He spent the rest of the summer picking out wedding stationery.

The team’s missing link was found by the Ice Marshall at a little known but well attended event put on by The Nuns For Nookie in beautiful Pembroke. Whoahorney Richardson was operating an A535 kiosk at the event’s small trade show, surrounded by itinerant hawkers and pedlars selling wares unknown to even Larry Flynt and his ilk. “A535 is a cure-all” Whoahorney told the IM. “I’ve used it for all my ailments since peewee. It even cured my onanism.” On the strength of his vocabulary alone, Whoahorney was signed to a day to day contract extending through November 2006 and extendable at the option of Strawbs’ management.

With this motley crew of chronic underachievers, the Strawberries entered the current season in hopeful fashion. Performance in the pre-January part of the schedule was tepid with wins equalling losses. But something happened over Christmas. Maybe it was the bonhomie of the season. Perhaps it was the strength of overblown New Year’s resolutions. Or the A535. Whatever it was, it worked. The Strawbs stormed out of the gate like stallions on Cialis. They lost but one game from then on, and a close one at that. With every on-ice battle, the squad became stronger, more tight-knit and more determined to prove those pusillanimous, pre-season pundits wrong. They entered the playoffs seeded #1 and did not disappoint. In a double elimination format, the Killer Strawberries’ juggernaut rolled over every opponent who dared get in its way. The team was firing on all cylinders, a well tuned machine of 12 moving parts focussed on the Cup. Undefeated. Defiant. Delirious with the anticipation of Cup glory.

But the fickle Gods of Hockey, ensconced on the icy side of Mount Olympus, are known for their love of irony. In what turned out to be the last game of the season, the Strawbs were to face the Blades of Steel, a team which was but one game from elimination. To claim the Cup, they would have had to beat the Strawbs twice in row. It was an unlikely scenario; so unlikely that the Gods decided the Blades should forfeit the encounter to which the Strawberries so looked forward: a case of hockey interruptus at its worst. There was joy in Hockeyville but it was a bittersweet joy.

In the past, the Killer Strawberries have tasted the acrid bitterness of victory stolen away by lesser mortals. Indeed, the Gods have pulled the rug out from under the Strawbs on numerous occasions. Hopes have been dashed and dreams trampled under the hooves of Olympian whim. Well screw you, Gods. The fly you put into our ointment this time is still oh so sweet.

4 Bud, 5 jugs of Keith’s, 1 jug of bad Kilkenny, 2 Bud Light, 3 Guinnesses, 1 Bass, 2 Blue, 1 glass of white wine (spilled onto her squirrel coat), 4 pounds of wings and a sweet tasting fly were consumed. For an instant, harmony reigned in an inscrutable universe and the Killer Strawberries proclaimed CHAMPIONS.

Killer Strawberries 2006-2007 Champions

Champs at Last!!

Pink Sink at Rink

Strawb Juggernaut Rolls On


Game Report
February 22, 2007

Strawbs 7 Rec’n Crew Flamingoes 5


The brash and aimlessly cocky pink Flamingoes came out flying, hellbent on showing an older team that its place in the sun had expired long ago with Tutenkhamen and Herotodus of Alexandria. Boy, were they wrong. The Strawbs, facing unprecedented adversity when its pre-game stash of Geritol and A535 failed to materialize, dug deep and produced a gem of a game, to thwart a hubris taunting throng of pink jerseyed youths, drunk on visions of playoff grandeur.

The Strawbs bent but did not break. They led the whole way, trading goals frequently with a determined Rec’n Crew, whose total bench age (175 years) was dwarfed by that of that of their creaky yet treacherous adversary (516 years). As Aristidis so bodly formulated in 312 BC, “It is not the age of youth which triumpheth in the end but, since time immemorial, it is the youth in age which prevaileth.” Aristidis, despite the unfortunate speech impediment, is still, of course, immaculate in his accuracy.

Pyjama Man, recovering from his recent addadictomy, led the Killer Strawberries’ charge with four goals whose beauty has been unmatched since Helen of Troy was scoring for Trojans. He hit every open spot in the opponent’s net, including one from which the hapless netminder finally retrieved his jockstrap. The VIM and IMW teamed up like they used to do on the frozen surfaces of Lahr and Soest and Zwiebrucken. While shorthanded, the VIM, scrambling for the puck in his own end, spotted the IMW cruising the Flamingoes’ blueline disguised as a faceoff circle, and drilled a beautifully banked pass off the far end boards. The ever alert pseudo faceoff circle remorphed into a scoring threat, scooped the rebounding biscuit and promptly deposited it behind a baffled and less than jovial goaltender.

Butcher Brophey, whose feisty approach to the game had been left at home on a basement shelf for the last 5 matches, finally returned ugly and ornery and was quickly tossed from the tussle for repeated illegal use of a non-surgical instrument in a surgical manner. Rumour has it that Miss White Go Go Boots had been seen stretching in the Zamboni room during the first intermission and that the Butcher, as mooneyed as a lovestruck puppy feeling his first oats, began to deliberately remove the vital organs of several Flamingoes so that he could get tossed and thus personally verify the rumour. This is not what anyone would call “taking one for the team.” It was a selfish move by selfish man for selfish reasons.

The true grit of the unselfish Strawbs was evidenced quite clearly in the last 4 minutes of the game. The Flamingoes were pressing hard. The zebras seemed to want to help the misguided youth by penalizing the Strawbs for infractions which only existed in their febrile little referee minds. For what seemed like an eternity, the penalty box was jammed with a concoction of ripe Strawberries. Some were forced to sit on teammates’ laps or to hang from the rafters, given the limited space available. At one time there was over 250 years of hard earned experience in the Sin Bin. But in the end, it did not matter. The unpenalized Strawbs swirled and swung and dove and roved like whirling dervishes at an ADD revival. Jesse The Leak was magnificent all evening and especially so in the last 4 minutes, stopping shots with his dangling appendix and other assorted misplaced organs. “I wasn’t letting anything get by me,” he declared. “I thrive on adversity and amphetamines. Besides, Buttface, Alaska is the last place I want to be these days, what with the dreaded syphilis on the wax.”

Freight Train was pure hockey locomotion on the left side, Dr. Thug looked at least 4 years younger than his reputed yet unverified 58 years, Archilles made some lovely, unintercepted passes (at the fans), Whoahorney laid in a few jaw-rattlin’ shoulders and Gumby was at his taunting best when the game was on the line. It is believed that his caustic line, “Don’t turn pink on us now,” so confused the opposition that they were still trying to decode the cryptic message well after midnight. Because they are unschooled in offensive Zen, it is not likely this famous koan will ever make sense to them.

Certainly, part of last night’s victory had to be attributable to the tremendous turnout for Fan Appreciation Night. Once again, the Strawbs were cheered on by a standing room only crowd of 2 adoring and vocal fans (the turtle-skirt wearing Samara Desert, current main squeeze of the incomparable Warrin’ Peace and the shy, retiring Mag Girl, the brains and boss behind the emerging MagGirlBoy Empire). We do not count Miss White Go Go Boots as a fan for the purposes of this game only. She did not emerge from the Zamboni Room until the team and its fans had reassembled at the Terminal Tavren. All we know is that Palangio Arenas has the only Zamboni with a back seat and that Miss WGGB likes to drive from the back seat. She arrived late, without explanation or remorse, to the team’s watering hole by way of a black stretch limousine, clutching a dozen white roses, a near empty flask of Johnny Walker Red and grin that would make the Cheshire Cat blush.

Upon her arrival, Fan Appreciation Night got into full swing. The team’s 3 fans were feted with rare blood-red tulips and a box of limited edition, thigh slimming Cherry Blossoms. A poem, written in their honour by squad’s Poet Laureate For Life, Rhymin’ Simon Hymen, was read by the IMW. Sometime soon it will be published, but suffice it to say that, upon the reading’s conclusion, there was not a dry eye or piece of unsullied lingerie to be found within hearing distance.

2 Kilkenny, 10 Steamwhistle, 4 Guinness, 6 Bud, 2 Bud Light, 1.5 Stella Artois, a glass ofwhite wine, 3 pounds of chicken wings and some dregs of Johnny Walker Red were consumed.

Team Photo

Here are your 2006-2007 Killer Strawberries resplendent in their white victory jerseys. Once again - Almost Undefeated in 2007!

Steamroller Steams On

Game Report
February 19, 2007


Strawbs 9 Team Up 1


After spotting a dogged Team Up a single goal in the first five minutes, the indomitable Killer Strawberries went on to strangle their opposition with a defence so stingy that many fans fled the arena for fear of being squeezed senseless themselves. Jesse The Leak was not busy on the evening but came up big on a couple of occasions. In one memorable situation, Gawdawful Gumby, mistaking himself for a rushing defenceman, deftly moved the puck out of his own corner, spun toward the front of his own net and promptly performed a flawless nosedive about 3 feet in the slot. The puck, finding itself temporarily uncaressed, veered smoothly to a stunned but happy opponent who, in turn, drilled a shot at a flabbergasted Leak. Fortunately, the save was made and Gumby was left with but a small trace of humble pie upon his baffled countenance. He did not endeavour to repeat the move again during the game.

The Vice Ice was less subtle in his only bonehead move of the evening, sliding a perfect pass onto the stick of hungry Team Upper who was cruising the high slot, his bright orange jersey ablaze in anticipation. Again the Leak was equal to the faux pas and saved the VIM’s butt once more.

At the other end of the rink, Gumby, the VIM, Whoahorny and the Butcher were peerless in their offensiveness. It was virtually impossible to sneak the puck past these intrepid blueliners. They used every part of their battered bodies, stick shafts of both kinds, skate blades, and decorative sock tassels to keep the biscuit bouncing inside the enemy’s zone. Combined with the relentless forechecking and hockey legerdemain of the rabid forwards, poor Team Up just could not keep up. The opposition netminder saw more rubber than Xaviera Hollander on a Dutch holiday weekend and managed to stop quite a few sure goals. To his credit, he never gave up in the face of the never-ending onslaught and managed somehow to hold the Strawbs to a mere 9 goals on the evening. As is wont on a team imbued with a steely resolve to win at all costs, the Strawbs’scoring was evenly distributed. Both lines were humming, a veritable Swiss clockwork of precision and reliability.

The fan base continued its strong showing of support, with Mag Girl and Samara Desert swooning post-game, deliriously in love with their men in white, all 12 of them. They had to be escorted home following the team picture, their knees too weak to support the burden of their requited admiration. Notable by her absence was Miss White Go-Go Boots. Rumour has it that she is miffed by the sudden swelling of the team’s fan base. She is reluctant to share any of the swelling but management expects she will come around. Once smitten, twice bitten.

At the Terminal Tavren, most Strawberries assembled for a post-game jam. The compliments flowed freely and a heartfelt bonhomie pervaded the proceedings. The defensive faux pas (2) were magnanimously forgiven and magically turned into strengths by an observant Dr. Thug who noted that the faux pas were like inoculations. They sting for a short time but they make you stronger in the end, unless, of course, they kill you. The Ice Marshall was a little more sanguine. “ I love these guys, even if they sometimes play like crap.”

2 Coronas, 6 Guinness, 2 Kilkenny, 3 Steamwhistle, 1 Harp, 6 unidentified libations, 12 chicken wings, a plate of fat-free perogies and some liberal forgiveness were consumed.

Steamroller

Game Report
February 12, 2007

Strawbs 13 Aviators 0


In front of a standing room only crowd of 2 rabid fans, the Strawb juggernaut continued its winning ways last evening, stomping all over a demoralized squadron of whiplashed Aviators. Jesse The Leak set the tone early with a superb glove save in the first minute, once again showing why he is the team’s number one netminder. For the rest of the evening, he stymied the opposition with timely stoppages, some of them spectacular.Rumours were rampant that he will be signed to a long term contract, good through February, 2007.

The Strawberries squad was rewarded frequently for its recent adoption of blitzkrieg hockey, rolling over its lines and defence pairings in rapid fire fashion. Freight Train 444 potted 3 on the evening, 2 of them deliberately. Pyjama Man, feeling that his team scoring crown could be at risk, also elevated his game and netted 3 himself. It was lovely to see him return to form, after too long a hiatus attempting to imitate his hero, Tie Domi.

Magnesium Boy, under the watchful eye of his leash controller, the incomparable and unopinionated Magnesium Girl, found the twine once or twice, thus completing his Valentine’s gift to his enamorata. We hear his reward will come on March 21, 2007, which is S & BJ Day, the male equivalent of Valentine’s Day.

Warrin’ Peace claimed to have added two markers of his own until it was pointed out to him that goals scored during warmup only count as half. It did not seem to matter much to his personal fan, Samara Desert, who missed all his goals while embroiled in a heated discussion with Magnesium Girl on the thigh slimming merits of low fat yogurt.

Others also contributed to the goal total directly. Still others were content to play a disciplined game of strong forechecking, backchecking, tape to tape passing, front of the net clearing and tie ups, and highly effective defensive rushing, as exemplified by that new found scoring machine, Whoahorny Richardson. Whaohorny attributes his resurgence to the healing powers of prune juice and A535, a balm he splatters upon his ravaged body so liberally, he has been asked to change in another dressing room. “It smells like Cassellholme in here!” ejaculated one unidentified wit.

Many of the players and both fans repaired to the Terminal Tavren to discuss the parallels between Schopenhauer’s theory of Will To Power and the team’s recent return to barn burner hockey. Somewhere along the line, the discussion got sidetracked and Warrin’ Peace was abruptly notified by his leash administrator that he was to be married on June 30th of this year. The ever helpful Gumby inquired of the stunned Warrin’ whether he was aware of the upcoming event. The diplomatic Warrin’ mumbled something about “the tyranny of a dictatorship”, pecked his fan on the cheek and excused himself with haste. We are not sure where he went for the following 10 minutes, but we suspect it may have been to change his underwear.

4 Guinness, 3 Corona with lime, 1 glass of white wine from the Bonfield region, 1 Blue, 3 Bud, 2.5 Stella, 2 Steam Whistle, 5.5 Kilkenny, 3 lbs of chicken wings, 1 supersized bowl of lowcal perogies with bacon and sour cream and some unexpected, bowel-disturbin’ bonding-for-life news were consumed.

Pond Hockey

A few Strawbs were on the outdoor rink on the weekend sharpening their skills prior to the last regular season game of the year.

Thursday Night Practice

Since only 1/4 of the Killer Strawberries heeded the call to practice on the lake on Thursday night, a quorum not being achieved, the few participating Strawbs were left with but one alternative: do some perfunctory rink inspection and then settle for a spa night which included a steam bath and hot tub. Unfortunately the Olson twins weren't available for post-spa massages.

Hockey As It Was Meant To Be Played

Game Report
February 5, 2007


Strawbs 2 Blades of Steel 2


Some games should never have been played. Other games can be so good, the euphoric afterglow remains long after a winning last second goal has been called off. Last Monday’s game, most assuredly, fell within the latter category.

While the Strawbs have put forward some decent efforts over the course of this season, Monday’s tilt was by far the embodiment of the team’s best effort all year. The lesser line of Dr. Thug, Magnesium Boy and Pyjama Man, fearing demotion along with Jesse The Leak to the Nasty Cupcakes, the team’s farm team’s farm team, ramped up its game to Gargantuan Level II. On one memorable play, Pyjama Man, clad only in one shinpad and a loose athletic support, after scrapping his way through four defenders hellbent on getting him ready for his upcoming conversion to Judaism, swooped down the right side and spooned the loveliest pass to a charging Dr. Thug so hyped up on the scent of an imminent goal that 3 foot icicles of pure spittle desire hung from his lopsided cage. He looked and smelled like a demented Sasquatch. Following a small feint to the left, Dr. Thug dealt a deft backhand pass to a patient and well positioned Magnesium Boy, who, digging deep into his subconcious, managed to marshall all the forces of his primaeval nature and drilled a shot splendidly into the bossom of the waiting net. It was a goal so beautiful that the gods of hockey, firmly esconced in their perches high above Doublerink Arenas, were heard to weep in quiet appreciation.

The top line of handsome Archilles Perron, Wanderin’ Warrin’ Peace and the dastardly Ice Marshall, having set the game’s tone earlier with meta-Herculean play, was not to be outdone. The top line did not score on the evening. That job was selflessly left to others. But the centre and his wingers were not without their chances, hard won chances, close chances, where one on one battles for the puck were the equivalent of trench warfare. It was a night, when not only was a worthy opponent to be met head-on, but where the Fates themselves conspired to test the mettle of our dauntless heroes to see if they had the brass they so often claimed. With fierce determination and perspicacious tenacity, Archilles and Co. swirled and darted, poke-checked with finesse, dove for loose pucks and put their bodies at risk to create artful, unforeseen opportunities and to thwart an equally determined opposition. And their perseverance was mirrored in the play of a defence which came to play and to play hard. Freight Train controlled his territory with the precision of Rommel, Whoahorny alternated seamlessly between offence and defence: so much so, that he was almost penalized for being too many men on the ice, all of his own. The Vice Ice continued to use professional level treachery and cunning to compensate for a body and mind wracked with injury and suffering. Gawdawful Gumby will never be called Gawdawful again after turning in a peformance only his adoring mother could have imagined.

Between the pipes, the Leak was stellar as he imitated Stretch Armstrong, Roger Crozier and Mr. Rogers, all rolled into one. It was a beautiful day in his neighbourhood, where only hockey-god-assisted goals could ever hope to find the twine. One goal only escaped The Leak’s certain grasp, the other having been awarded by a zebra blind to the rules of hockey.

Many of the players did not attend the post game festivities because they had left their souls on the ice. Too exhausted to rejoice, they repaired humbly to their abodes, warmed by the fires of their manifested desires.

No reliable post game consumption report is available. The attendees were too tired to count.

This just in - Three trooper Strawbs did feel the need to continue the post game deliberations at the usual terminal tavren. 2 Stellas and 2 Keiths were consumed and 4 chickens were spared.

After playing to a contested 2-2 tie last night, many of the Strawbs were comparing themselves to the Leafs' Tomas Kaberle.

Full Moon Fulmination

Game Report
February 1, 2007

Strawbs 6 Team Up 0


The Moon was in the Seventh House and Jupiter aligned with Mars or something like that. And that Moon had to be a full one, cause strange occurrences occurred last night at the Strawbs’ downing of Team Up.

With game time set for 9pm and the clock ticking 8:45, Butcher Brophey was already roosting and preening on his perch near Dr. Thug, complaining about the frozen state of his equipment. He found it incomprehensible that there was ice on his jock after having left it out in -24 degree weather for 3 days. This man teaches our kids and is soon to be conferred a PHD from some backwater in England. We despair.

Also in attendance was WhoaHorney Richardson who was making his third appearance of the year. The only reason the team knew who he was, was because he still had on his WhoaHorney Richardson, Management Trainee, Passionate Kisses badge, securely fastened to his wife beater.

The team left the dressing room, 12 strong and actually warmed up before the match. After a slow start, the Strawbs started to turn it up a few notches. Mag Boy scored then disappeared for the rest of the night. Archilles Perron, who had drunk a quart of bat blood at supper to boost his energy and libido, was a force to be reckoned with, scoring 2 or 3 goals, thus upping his year’s total to 2 or 3. “It’s amazing what you can do when you’re on a line with veterans like the Ice Marshall and Pyjama Man. And hitting the net seems to work too. I’m re-energized for the rest of the season” said Archilles in a post game interview with the bathroom mirror.

The Vice Ice, friend of orphans everywhere, launched another amazing shot toward the opponent’s net. The shot travelled 4.65metres in less than 6 seconds, reached a height of 4.65 metres, reversed course and fell precipitously to whack the shot taker in the nuts. As the Vice Ice lay writhing in unexpected self-inflicted pain, the rest of the squad scooted over to watch the shot on video replay. The team has been contacted by Hockey Night in Canada which plans to highlight the amazing feat on Coach’s Corner this Saturday night during the Leafs/Senators game. As luck would have it, the Vice Ice will be at the game and will attempt a re-enactment at centre ice in the first intermission. We can only hope that the mike does not pick up what is expected to be an inappropriate choice of swear words.

Another sign the moon was in full bloom was the demeanor of Gumby Pettigrew. As all loyal fans know, Gumby’s life philosophy is one of “in your face laissez faire, whatever, kiss my butt I’m Irish.” Well, last evening, he played contra-philosophically , hustling left and right, rushing, retreating, swooping, soaring and slapshotting with precision. And that was just in the warmup. He continued his “eat my shorts,you gravy sucking pigs” play well into the first 3 minutes of the game. Then, like a spectacular evanescence, he reverted to type, called the referee a “stupid dumb orphan hating idiot” and was summarily dismissed from the game.

Freight Train 444 surprised the team by his unexpected appearance: unexpected because it was his mother’s 80th birthday. “It was only her 80th, for gawd’s sakes. It’s not like it was an important birthday, like my 50th which is coming up. She’ll get over it. She wasn’t crying that hard when I called her just before the game.” This is the kind of grit that makes the Strawbs the redoubtable team it is. We’d rather eat our young than listen to their whining. We’re so tough we take shots at our own nuts, just for fun. Well, some of us do.

Jesse The Leak recorded a rare shutout, after playing most the game with his eyes closed. With 30 seconds left in the game, it was lucky he wasn’t looking, because those defensive stalwarts, WhoaHorney and Freight Train 444 were pinching inside Team Up’s blue line, looking for glory, while 3 opposition players, positioned strategically at the Strawbs’ blue line, screamed helplessly for the puck. The puck never arrived and the shutout was preserved.

Post game celebrations started early, as Gumby’s birthday Scotch was popped open and passed around. Gumby gave a short, tear jerking speech about the value of team mates and good Scotch and his health was toasted. Most of the squad, including Wanderin’ Warren Peace, whose leash has been extended ½ hour by his personal trainer, the irresistible Samara Desert, re-convened at the Terminal Tavren, where Dr. Thug, enthralled said Warren for over 2 hours with the history of zygotes and inter-species copulation. “All I did was ask him what he did for a living” said the Wanderer. “ My head hurts now. Can I go home?”

6 Kilkenny, 2 Bud, 23 Steam Whistle and a lot of scientific hot air were consumed.

Plucky Pink Provides Scare

Game Report

January 29, 2007

Strawbs 7 Rec’n Crew 6


A narrow victory but a victory nevertheless. Dr. Thug shot and scored. Gumby gumbied. The Torch poke checked. Warren Peace sped swiftly. Pyjama Man hit the net. Archilles played left wing. The Ice Marshall did not go offside. Freight Train 444 lumbered. Butcher Brophey performed unseen surgery. Magnesium Boy smelled nice. Jesse The Leak leaked. The Terminal Tavren was visited. The evening could not have been more exciting.

The Real Scoreboard

I guess the "old man", Mag Boy, still has a thing or two to learn. Here is the COMPLETE 70+ goal scoring records in the NHL.

92 Wayne Gretzky 1982
87 Wayne Gretzky 1984
86 Brett Hull 1991
85 Mario Lemieux 1989
76 Phil Esposito 1971
76 Alex Mogilny 1993
76 Teemu Selanne 1993
73 Wayne Gretzky 1985
72 Brett Hull 1990
71 Jari Kurri 1985
71 Wayne Gretzky 1983
70 Brett Hull 1992
70 Bernie Nicholls 1989
70 Mario Lemieux 1988

Plus 70 Club

92 Wayne Gretzky 1982
86 Brett Hull 1991
85 Mario Lemieux 1989
76 Phil Esposito 1971
76 Alex Mogilny 1993
76 Teemu Selanne 1993
70 Bernie Nicholls 1989

Team Up Goes Down

Game Report January 25, 2007

Strawberries 7 Team Up 1


Powered by a full squad of buzzing dynamos and one hobbling Whoahorney, and further bolstered by the absence of Gumby Pettigrew, the Strawberries muscled their way to a convincing 7 to 1 victory over a bedazzled and bedraggled Team Up. Congratulations to the mystery Strawb who pitched in with a hat trick. Whoever it was, it was about time. And since this is a team game, you couldn’t have done it without the rest of us. In a way, we all scored those 3 goals, so put away your ego and suck up this lack of recognition for your efforts. An anonymous pat on the back is all you’re getting.

While management’s stated goal for this year is “to take home the Cup”, and while the Strawbs took another step in that direction last night, the team still remains troubled by a few nagging issues that must be addressed before they fester into intractabilities. Firstly, Management is troubled by the short leash afforded its most improved played, the incomparable Warren Peace. Just as his game is blossoming, there seems to be a disturbing trend developing around his post game obligations. After last night’s game, he was seen being led by the ear through the front doors of Doublerink Arenas by his most recent fiancée, that infamous heartbreaker, Samara Desert. Does Ms. Desert not realize that the true education of a hockey player occurs after the game in the company of team mates ever eager to expand his heretowith limited horizons? These outings are crucial to a young player’s development. They have consistently strengthened marriages and fianceeships worldwide and have been noted to improve the good looks and mental acuity of offspring by over 620%. Toilets get cleaned more frequently at home and table manners reach levels only imagined by Emily Post. It is no accident that every married Strawberry has been elected at least once to the Exemplary Husband Hall of Fame.

He was once the Shootout Poster Boy of the Canadore Hockey Leagues but lately he has been exhibiting the attention span of a gnat. Ever since he got his new Crackberry, Pyjama Man has been a vacant shell of his former self. He intentionally gets himself kicked out of the face off circle to check to see whether any new text messages have arrived since he last checked it 15 seconds before. At the Terminal Tavren, his secretive obsession with the little electronic hooker makes it look like he is playing with himself under the table. Pathetic. Get your head back into the game buddy and leave your Crackberry at work where it belongs.

Thirdly, is it creeping senescence or is Dr. Thug developing a close personal friendship with Vicodin? He repeatedly and impressively dips and ducks and doodles and flups in front of the opposition’s net, oblivious to his linemates shouts of “Shoot! Shoot! Shoot the friggin’ puck!”. Billy, you can’t score if you don’t shoot. Shake off the counterproductive fascination with the puck being caressed by your stick and start burying a few before mandatory retirement is staring you in the face.

Fourthly, Gumby’s commitment to his team is being questioned as far west as The Aloha Baby Compound. The fatter Olsen twin, the team’s strength coach and head nutritionist, has been heard to openly wonder, between nibbles of low cal water wafers, whether Gumby is more concerned about making a contract renewal statement than contributing to the team’s success. “He has missed 2 of the last 3 Strawb’s games, both of which the team has won. If he thinks his newest ploy will give him renegotiating leverage, he’s been spending too much time in my sister’s purse.”

On a positive note, it would appear that Butcher Brophey’s romance with the Strawb’s number 1 fan, the incomparable Miss Go Go Boots, is blossoming. The Butcher has forgiven her recent alleged Zamboni Room indiscretions with the team’s most handsome player and Miss Go Go Boots has been limiting her goo goo eyes to her man only, or so she claims. The Butcher and his main squeeze were seen leaving the Terminal Tavren last evening, hand in hand, with plans to go shopping for new matching hockey sweaters. If that ain’t love, what is? Are you taking notes, Samara Desert?

At the post game debriefing, the Strawbs engaged in various team building exercises and thoroughly exhausted the burning hockey topic of “White Tape vs. Black Tape As A Post Darwinian Argument For Unilateral Disarmament.” The Strawbs disassembled at 12:06am, glowing in the knowledge that, once again, they had contributed ever so slightly to the world being a better place to live.

2 Guinness, 2 Bud, 1 Stella, 2 single malts, 1 Bass, 1 Canadian, 2 Kilkenny and 2 yummy yet thoroughly debilitating hot rum toddies were consumed.

FALLEN STRAWBS

Butcher Brophey demonstrates, yet again, another in his voluminous repertoire of "ya gotta be kidding, Ref" moves.

FALLEN STRAWBS

Freight Train Laronde loses the battle with, according to him, an obvious case of a movable object.

FALLEN STRAWBS

The Ice Marshall demonstrates "the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike" as he attempts to fill himself completely up.

Time Takes A Holiday

Game Report
January 18, 2007


Strawbs 3 Aviation 3


It didn’t start out as a pretty game. With a few of the Strawbs still nursing self-inflicted injuries from the excesses of the night before, a short bench of 8 stalwarts and the nagging worry of all Strawbs present whether the fleet of foot Magnesium Boy would arrive safely from his psychotherapy session in St. Catharines, an inauspicious start was almost guaranteed. After the first 5 minutes, our intrepid squad was looking at the business end of a 2-0 score. But something magical happened. Magnesium Boy suddenly appeared at the rink door, dressed for hockey success. His arrival buoyed the Strawbs’ flagging spirits and, faster than you can say “turn this listing ship around”, the score became 3-2 in our favour. On this evening, it must be said that Wanderin’ Warren Peace played his finest game of the season, dazzling his team mates, the opposition and the uncounted fans with his speed, deft touch and general hockey wizardry. At game’s end, Wanderin’ attributed his performance to ESB, a non-medical term for the postponement of priapetic pleasure.

Jesse The Leak, whose first 5 minutes looked like his head had recently been caught under the wheels of careening 18 wheeler, suudenly became the tender his is paid to be. It is probable that the change in his performance had been due to the encouraging words of the ever diplomatic Gumby who advised The Leak that he was playing like crap and that, if he didn’t want to find certain sensitive portions of his anatomy hanging from the rafters, he had better sharpen up and have his game improve beyond the pre-tyke, d….d embarrassing, cro-magnon, disturbingly “intellectualless” level he had been exhibiting to that point. The Leak read between the lines of Gumby’s subtle exhortation and was solid to game’s end.

Pyjama Man fired a beautiful marker, but management is still very concerned about his frequent misses on breakaways. He has been temporarily reassigned to the Ray Charles Net Recognition Remediation School, an establishment he was sent to last October. He should be back in time for next Thursday’s game, unless the School’s management feels that he has not yet perfected his lessons. He has also been ordered to review Jon John Jean’s excellent video “How To Score With A Really Crappy Shot”.

In a surprise occurrence, the Vice Ice tallied for the second game in a row to raise his lifetime scoring total to 6, using his patented gravity and time defying Flutterball Deluxe. While the VIM is reluctant to reveal the full set of secrets surrounding his shot, he did let out that the goal was actually the result of a surreptitious shot he took in warmup on the Monday previous and that the puck reached the net at the appropriate time last night. We knew he dabbled in magic, but this scares all of us.

The evening did end on 2 rather sad notes. Management learned that earlier in the week Miss White Go-Go Boots, the team’s most fickle fan, had ordered the Butcher to “wash and scrub your flea-infested, bacteria sewer pipe of an equipment collection or you won’t be allowed to keep it anywhere in my house.” Other things were also said but cannot be reported.

Now, all of us know(s) that the said equipment, although vintage and lovely to look at, does commonly carry some rather nasty odours and still to be discovered carcinogens. It has not been unusual to see the Butcher remove from his cup holder or inner shin pad a former adversary’s stray spleen, superfluous foreskin, spare eyelid or useless prostate gland. And while the Butcher does occasionally shake out his equipment to lighten the load of items which inevitably remain glued or hooked to straps or pocket edges, those pieces which are not shaken out tend to putrefact in situ. The smell is something rank enough to seriously injure the pulmonary systems of both terrestrial and aquatic wildlife, here and on other planets. As such, we can understand where Miss White Go-Go Boots is coming from. Yet, as all gentle folk know, it’s not always what you say but how you say it that can turn honest criticism into a self-esteem sucking rant. Miss White Go-Go Boots certainly crossed the line on this one, prompting a sobbing and clearly shattered Butcher to blubber, in the presence of too many team mates. “It was like time took a holiday and I was 4 years old again. I love her dearly but I have been wounded to the core.” As if this humiliating tongue lashing were not enough, Miss White Go-Go Boots was spotted after last night’s game canoodling in the Zamboni Room with the Strawb’s most handsome player. We all know who he is and pray that too-timing vixen does not get hurt when inevitably she gets dumped… although it would serve her right for dissin’ her man.

The last sad note is being reported with a very heavy heart. There was no post game debriefing at the Terminal Tavren. In the long, illustrious history of the proud Strawb’s, the only time this kind od debacle happened was in 1986, when Banana Splits, the team’s backup’s backup, lost his wife in a tragic accident. Apparently, Splits got home early (he did not get to dress for the game) only to find his wife in bed with the paperboy. The paperboy panicked and somehow choked Mrs. Splits. Splits called the rink to seek guidance from his team and everyone, to a man, showed up Splits’ place to help him grieve and console the poor paperboy. Perhaps there is a lesson in this for Miss White Go-Go Boots.

0 was consumed post-game, a tragedy of Brobdignagian proportions.

Cows on Banjoes

Game Report
January 15, 2007

Blades of Steel 5 Strawberries 2


It was a well played game….full of superb passing, selfless backchecking and deft goal scoring….by the other team. According to Gawdawful Gumby, “We were terrible. I was terrible. I haven’t played this badly since yesterday. I think we need to dig down deep and refind the game which got us here. Anyone seen my jock?”

A better question would have been “Has anyone seen Butcher Brophey?” The Butcher was inexplicably absent from game. Has he got something going on with the team’s #1 fan, Miss White Go Go Boots? Stay tuned to this space for some startling revelations over the next couple of weeks.

Freight Train Laronde was even more blunt than his defencemate Gumby. “The Strawbs played as ineptly as cows on banjoes, bees on guitars, and jam on unbuttered toast.” The rest of the squad agreed with the first two metaphors but are still scratching their heads over the reference to jam. It was duly noted by Dr. Thug that Freight Train is still recovering for his post Christmas gonad replacement and that he is not entirely responsible for his faulty analogies.

The Vice Ice lamented having personally adopted the Consolidated Rushing And Playmaking system he had seen on Hockey Day in Canada last Saturday. “When Don Cherry talked about the system, it sounded good. I t didn’t realize it was a joke...on me. The CRAP system really is crap and I will return to what I used to do before…hook, trip, impede, goad and pray.”

Wanderin Warren Peace, a Tolstoy devotee and former Mr. Wikwemikong South, too, was philosophical about the evening’s setback. “When things didn’t go right for Anna Karenina, what did she do? She didn’t quit. Oh ya, she did. She threw herself under a train. But her funeral was nice. We can all learn from that.”

On the bright side, the hockey humiliation occurred while the Strawbs were wearing their home green uniforms. This means of course that they remain undefeated in their fetching new white and red away sweaters. As the Ice Marshall so sagely noted, “There is always a silver lining and it is always darkest just before dawn when the cows on banjoes come home to roost at Aloha Baby Compound.” With these encouraging words, the team engaged in warm team hug (metaphorically of course) and those who were not wimps assembled later at the Terminal Tavren for a good natured round of bonhomie and jovial jousting. The Universe was again at one with itself and peace reigned supreme.

5 Kilkenny, 1 Guinness, 2 unmanly light beer and something called Pepsi were consumed. An unsound post game trend seems to be developing and needs to be nipped in the buds.

Strawbs Pound Pink

Game Report
Strawbs 6, Rec'n Crew 2

January 11, 2007

The Strawbs started off the 2007 campaign with a resounding beating of a team disguised as flamingos. Their pink jerseys, an excellent colour choice for silky lingerie and stomach relief products, clashed badly with the Strawbs’ new red on white away sweaters, designed by our own Vice Ice over the Christmas holidays. Apparently the new colour scheme was inspired by too long a look in the mirror the morning after one of his Gumby-assisted forays into the well-stocked liquor cabinet at 105 Viceroy Road. Whatever the inspiration, the Strawberries looked fetching.

Archilles Perron, formerly known as Achilles Perron, returned triumphant after recuperating from some frivilous, self-induced ailment, scoring one beauty and assisting on 2 others. His linemates, Magnesium Boy and the Ice Marshall, were duly impressed with the rejuvenated Archilles and are hopeful that all their hard work in making Archilles look good will pay off in future.

The lesser line, centered by Pyjama Man who was flanked by Dr. Thug and Wanderin’ Warren, contributed nicely to the victory and may some day reach the level of expertise and grace demonstrated by line #1. All it would take is for Pyjama Man to hit the net more than 11% of the time, for Dr. Thug to crush more girls face-first into the end boards and for Wanderin’ Warren to spend less time “quality time”with his fiancee just prior to game time. Lovey dovey is fine and has its place, but the Strawbs need full manly strength at every game on every shift.

Speaking of full manly strength, the Vice Ice had all of his, as he scored his second goal since October. He unleashed a blistering drive (by his standards, of course) which somehow snuck under the hapless tender’s pads and actually “slammed” into the metal at the back of the net. “Slammed” may be a slight overstatement, but some Strawbs on the bench at the time of the goal did report a faint metallic sound emanating from the far end of the rink contemporaneously with the goal. The sound could also have been attributable to the tinkling of Freight Train's new brass gonads, a Christmas present from his wife who claims they help attract pickerel . Speaking of Freight train…he recovered nicely from the blueline undressing he took in the first minute of the game to make a solid contribution on defence. It would have been nice to say the same about Butcher Brophey who was once again late for the match. Apparently, he had to retreat to his car 2 minutes before game time to put in his contacts and freshen up his mascara. As if he couldn’t have done this at home.

Jesse The Leak was excellent between the pipes and seems to have benefited enormously from his short stint with the Nasty Cupcakes over the holidays. He will be allowed to start the next game on Monday at 9pm against the Blades of Steel.


Buoyed by the victory, the Strawberries retreated to the Terminal Tavren for some post game braggin’. The event was well attended except for Jesse The Leak, who still believes that alcohol is evil, Archilles, who claimed he had to get to bed early, and for Freight Train Laronde, who told the club he is frightened of the new metal detectors recently installed at the Bull & Quench.

6 Guinness, 4 Bud, 2 Kilkenny, 1 Coke and ½ a friggin Pepsi were consumed. This cola phenomenon is not something of which we are proud.

Aloha Baby Compound

The Ice Marshal pauses for a breath behind the Aloha Baby Compound bus while it refuels for another tour around the "camp."