Game Report
Strawbs 10 ALU Warriors 3
February 9, 2009
It is fortunate that the smarter Strawbs have stopped watching the Habs play in recent weeks, as Gumby’s team of underachieving Russsians, Finns, Yanks and Canadian Canadiens continues to spiral toward an ignominious 9th place finish in the Campbell Conference: fortunate because the Strawbs have not picked up the same bad habits which have plagued Les Glorieux since mid-January. Certainly, the Killer Strawberries are proud of the other bad habits they have picked up but thank Gitchigoomi they refuse to emulate the tanking Canadiens.
Last night’s matchup, a 10-2 victory over a stunned ALU squad, brought the Strawbs’ record to 5-1-2 since the new 2009 season began. Much of the consistent good results can be parked at Slickery Mac’s doorstep as he continues the same type of torrid scoring pace he once set in an obscure men’s league in San Francisco in the early 90’s. He has even become a post game regular at the Terminal Tavren, where the wait staff have fondly nicknamed him Handsome or Piss Tank or something or other.
Dr. Thug, his dementia in partial remission, played an excellent game, scoring a beauty on a one man wrecking crew play. After having niftily tucked the puck behind the startled goaltender on a partial breakaway, his inertia propelled him, face first, into the equally startled end boards. He was "with it" enough after his close encounter with concusssion number (n+1)x100 to look back to see what had happened to the puck he left behind. He screamed “Hallelujah” when he noticed the exasperated goaltender fishing out the good Dr.'s deposit from the back of the cage. Another notch for his bedposts or whatever else he notches.
Jesse The Leak made a solid, tail-between-his-legs return to the Strawberries after his disastrous try-out with the Thinkin’ Drinkin’ Stinkins of the now defunct C.R.A.P. hockey league. He made numerous good saves on the evening. He did however forget to carry the Ice Marshal’s equipment to his car after the match, pursuant to the terms of his new(post-Stinkins) contract with his beloved squad.
Butcher Brophey showed up to the arena with a new set of gently used equipment after his old equipment was put into emergency quarantine by the Centre For Disease Control. He picked up the almost spotless equipment at a mid-week yard sale lorded over by the Dictator By The Lake at the Compound For Minor Vice. Apparently, the Vice (aka The Dictator, Rob The Torch etc.) had won a minor lottery somewhere and had used the proceeds to update his old equipment. The equipment was about 5 years old on average but it had nary a scratch, material pull,drop of blood or sweat mark upon it: gently used indeed. And, who knew The Butcher and The Vice had fat asses of the same size and droop.
It was good to see Pyjama Man enter the dressing room 5 seconds before the puck was dropped. He said he would have stayed home but couldn’t get his babysitter to come over. “I knew the Strawbs would need me tonight, and since I hadn’t anything better to do, I brought my girls with me so I could play. I left the car running and they seem to be having fun playing with the lighter.”
Archilles was finally recovered from the horrible blister he has been stoically enduring since the terrible accident he had while drying the dishes at his home. He played poorly on the night but it was good to see him out of his house where unspeakable accidents seem to befall him almost weekly.
The team is struggling to find the right position for Shiny Sean who fancies himself a goal scorer. While he starts all his shifts at defence, he rarely finishes them there. He is forever darting at the opposition’s net, screaming for the puck to be put on his stick. When this inevitably does not occur, he pouts for while, regroups and tries the same stunt again. He is as habitually persistent/hard-headed as Gumby is habitually tardy/soft-headed. Unlike Gumby, however, he does have a goal this year.
And what’s with MagBoy? Again, last night, he slammed himself into the boards, even harder than Dr. Thug had done earlier in the game. It is obvious his skating lessons are not taking. Is he forgetting to take his medication? Are things okay at home? Is his medulla oblongata in a state of disrepair?
And what’s with Freight Train Laronde. There are rumours that he actually has soft hands and some very high tech moves which he uses in the training wheels league he skates in on Wednesdays According to a lowly placed source with new gently used equipment, Laronde can snap the puck into the top corner, through his legs while reciting Byronesque verse. Where is that talent when he plays for the Killer Strawberries? Come on Freight train, show us your stuff. After all, the team’s motto is “Show us your finesse or you get to play defence.”
And what’s with Warrin’ Peace. He continues to rack up his frequent absentee points at an alarming rate. Pretty soon he will be demoted from waterboy to waterwussy.
And finally, what’s with the poetry that has been seeping, like a mangy fox creeping, into an unguarded henhouse on the hill? Well, according to sports psychologist, Ozzie Andharriet, poetry can, if deftly applied, increase performance levels by .08% over the long run ( Note 1). So there.
All in all, the game was an excellent Strawbs outing and helped solidy the team’s grip on first place. To further solidy their grips, most of the players (save for the Vice who had to go home to iron out the wrinkles in his new equipment) ventured out to the Terminal Tavren. Old lies were recounted, new lies freshly minted, and a little Robbie Burns quoted for good measure.
8 Stella, 2 Black and Tan, 3 Guinness, 2 Sterling (huh?), 5 Steamwhistle, one “Hello, Handsome” and some iambic pentameter were consumed.
(1) Dr. Highly Selassie, The Book Of Useful Stats, Dubious Press, 2008
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Solid Effort Assures Victory
Game Report
February 5, 2009
Killer Strawberries 4 Jet Rangers 2
Last night’s matchup was a workmanlike affair for the Strawbs as they systematically dismantled the Jet Rangers offence and defence on their way to a 4-2 victory.
The Strawberries’ pipes were ably defended by fill-in, Cat Thomas, a shy philately enthusiast and small gauge train aficionado who was picked up to replace the mysteriously absent Jesse The Leak. Based on his performance, Mr. Cat was invited to be the team’s backup for the rest of the season. He diplomatically declined, citing his aversion to something he termed “low standards”. We presume he was speaking of the opposition.
The incredible rubber man, Dr. Thelonius Thug, returned from his nth hundredth head smacking to lead the team in cheerleading and on-ice fancy footwork. Although advised against suiting up by his online support group, the Dizzy Dinosaur Greats of Hockey, he did play well. Unfortunately, there were disturbing signs of his advanced dementia different from the old signs of his advanced dementia to which the team has become accustomed. Among the signs: Dr.Thug dressed and undressed 3 times before the game actually started because he was confused whether the Strawbs were the home team, the visiting team or the home team. On the plus side, The Vice extracted $50 bucks from the notorious tight wad by convincing him that he had not yet paid his entry fee to the team. The money will be put to a good cause at the Terminal Tavren or other such fine charitable organizations.
Freight Train 444 continued his inspired play as he was moved back and forth between centre and defence as the situation required. “I felt like a yo-yo out there” he reported after the game. “I don’t usually swing from both sides of the plate like that but it sure was fun.”
Slickery Mac was the game’s biggest offensive threat, scoring 2 beauties and constantly setting up the Ice Marshall, to no avail. (In his defence, the Ice Marshal was playing in a full body cast and was still reeling from his starter wife’s declaration that their 50 year old kitchen was going to be redone come hell or high water.) One of Slickery’s goals was an absolute beauty. He struck the puck with such force that it snapped the net’s back bar, ripped through the boards and struck a surprised Zamboni driver busily engaged in some kind of lurid ménage with a siren in white go go boots and her niece/aunt from a previous marriage.
Once again, the Strawbs were afflicted with an ugly case of absenteeism. The Leak, poor student by day, hot and cold goaltender by night, took it upon himself to attempt an unauthorized try-out with the Drinkin Thinkin Stinkins of the renegade Continental Recovering Alcoholic Poets (C.R.A.P.) League. According to Shelley Keats-Yeats, the Stinkins’ manager, coach, bus driver and muse:
We took a peek
At Jesse The Leak
And unfortunately found him wanting.
Best take him back
Cause he’s on track
For some ugly merciless taunting.
In front of a puck
He really does suck.
His skills they are so yucky.
Dump him now
He’s lost his wow
And then consider yourselves lucky.
Mr. Leak is expected to start the Strawbs’ next game, conditional upon a written apology to the Strawbs and a note from his psychiatrist.
Dr. Bonehead Butcher Brophey was also unable to make the match. Apparently, the North Bay Parry Sound Health Unit condemned his equipment, minutes before his departure for the game. The Health Unit was particularly appalled by the state of his undergarments (both the ones he was wearing and those he uses for hockey). The official report reported, as official reports are wont to do, that “the Butcher’s undershirt had the aroma, consistency and appearance of a moldy Limburger left to rot for 23 days on the floor of some backwoods Amazonian forest.” The rest of the report was not nearly as complimentary. After the game, the Executive admonished Brophey for being a danger to himself, to his team and to all the communities within a 50 mile radius of his ramshackle home in Corbeil, Ontario. (The town motto: We may not be big, but we’re small.) A disposal team from the Center For Disease Control in Atlanta has confiscated the offending equipment for further analysis and quarantine.
The last absentee,the once proud Warrin Peace, has been a problem all year. He seems impervious to the team’s encouragement and lavish incentice system. Since his marriage/bondage to the mesmerizing Samarra Dessert, he is no longer the same man he was before his misguided foray into matrimonial bliss. And the humiliations just keep piling on. For example,the absentee was, as of last Tuesday, officially installed as the head eunuch at the Garage Of Bad Ideas. Under the terms of his “promotion”, he was allowed to not participate in last night’s match because his boss needed her delicate feet rubbed after an exhausting retail therapy marathon in NYC, with a bevy of her like-minded girlfriends. The team hopes he finds his balls soon.
Warmed by the victory and despite the plethora of unauthorized absences, the Killer Strawberries reconvened at the Terminal Tavern to go over the high points of the game.
Feats were feted
And Yeats requited
For giving the Strawbs back their Leak.
Brophey was slagged
And Warrin’, debagged,
Was ridiculed as worthless and weak.
5 Bud, 3 Blue, 4 Guinness, 7 Steamwhistle, 1 Black and tan and 2 chicken’s balls were consumed.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Digging Deep
Game Report
January 30, 2009
Killer Strawberries 5 Spitfires 0
For the Killer Strawberries who bothered to show up for the match against the well-abhored Spitfires, the pre-game sentiment in the dressing was not unlike that customarily experienced by a first time patient about to undergo a three fingered prostate exam administered by Hulk Hogan’s bigger brother. In the previous 2 matchups between these two teams, there was not an ounce of goodwill left by the time the final buzzer clanged. To say that these 2 squads dislike each other would be like saying the Strawbs have a mild dislike for referee Napoleon Fizzlercracker and his Travelling Incompetence Road Show..
By the Zamboni’s last lap of surface polishing, there were 8 intrepid Strawbs laced up, including Jesse The Leak, who would go on to shine this evening. Seven skaters, with an average age of 50, is usually a recipe for exhaustion by minute 5 of the first period in the cleanest of games. This matchup did not portend much hockey cleanliness.
And where were the 5 pusillanimous pudds who callously left their team in this vile predicament. Well, I’ll tell you. Dr. Thug, claiming to be suffering from his nth hundredth self-administered concussion, was in Las Vegas filming a celebrity wrestling match with the Victoria’s Secret models. Sure. And Butcher Brophey is a vegetarian. Shiny Sean claimed he had to take one of his kids to a hospital in Barrie. Everybody knows there are no hospitals in Barrie or anywhere within 50 miles of that den of constantly snarled traffic. Methinks he was at Casino Rama to play a little poker and to catch the Al Martino concert.
Archilles Perron could not make it because he had a little blister on his thumb from doing the dishes. This is a Strawb’s first….an injury from doing housework. Poor baby. The pain must be excrutiating.
And where was Pyjama Man, the once reliable point getter who has fallen on hard times in the scoring department. Well, he hired a babysitter for his girls and proceeded to spend the night babysitting the babysitter. Who was the babysitter? Why, it turned out to be his main squeeze, Loans Jones, whom he hadn’t seen since their salacious afternoon tryst which ended at 3pm in stall #4 of the women’s washroom at their City Hall workplace. While the Strawbs are unamused by his absence from the Spitfire game, they do heartily congratulate him upon the creative use of his 5 minute afternoon coffee break. Just don’t let it happen again, you priapetic toad.
The absence roster was completed by Warrin’ Peace, the team’s secret captain and official waterboy. His excuse…he had to stay home to clean up the mess left behind by his wife’s co-workers, unruly nurses, who, earlier in the day, had engaged in a clothes optional wild bacchanalian fling involving copious quantities of wine and much acrimony towards the management at their place of employ. Warrin’ predicts all the drywall damage will be repaired by next game, Great Gitchigoomi willing.
On the ice, the Spitfires had personnel problems of their own. They eked a squad as equally depleted as the aging Strawbs. Unfortunately, the skaters who showed up were their biggest meatheads, drooling like mangy rabied dogs at the chance to chop, hack and slice. Didn’t matter. The Strawberries took it to their much detested foe. They scored early. They defended their territory like Homer’s ancient Trojans. Unlike the valiant Trojans, however, the Strawberries defences were not breached. Jesse The Leak was impenetrable, using his speed, youthful guile and the width of the goalposts to his advantage. On one play, he stacked his pads to his left and blew up his chest to the right as he careened flawlessly across the crease, thus robbing an astonished Spitter of a sure goal. His play was ably assisted by some stalwarts on defence: the lovely orange-socked, recently fiftied Sir Gawdawful Gumby: by the team’s able surgeon, Butcher Brophey and by the wily, calorie-gulping Vice. These men kept the puck almost exclusively on the perimeter all night. It is difficult to recall a game so well played in the defensive zone.
At forward, Freight Train Laronde was spectacular. In the dressing room, he predicted he would score, and, like the Babe, was true to his prognostication. Likea tsunami of rogue waves assaulting the shore, he bombarded the opposition’s net with strike after lightning strike. He did not score again but he certainly deserved to.
Slickery Mac was also a constant offensive threat. He notched three tallies on the 800 shots he propelled at the hapless Spits’goaler. On one shot, he managed to perform a bloodless tracheotomy on the poor fellow, leaving him gasping for air late in the first period. MagBoy was his customary burr under the saddle and managed to piss off every Spit, both referees and one of the two timekeepers. “Sorry I didn’t get around the second timekeeper” he stated ruefully after the match. “ fully expected to return to the Sin Bin before game’s end and I would have finished the job properly. Just didn’t get the chance.” He did, however, atone for his shortfall, by placing an expletive filled anonymous phone call to the poor girl’s dormroom just after midnight.
The Ice Marshal, the last of the forwards to be mentioned herein, was voted 8th star of the game by his buddy, the blind-to-his-own-faults, P. Gumbington Pettigrew. “I thought he played like a big fat slug on Demerol” asserted P. Gumbington. “Nothing the loss of 25 pounds and a little effort can’t cure.” This from a man who spent the previous seven days drinking 4 litres of Scotch per diem as he scoffed down salted peanuts and No Name potato chips by the vatful while never leaving his couch, all in the name of his 50th birthday week celebrations. At the presser following the game, the Ice Marshal defended himself from Gumby’s callous calumny by averring that he never uses Demerol, preferring to suck it up like a real man.
Final score…Killer Strawberries 5 Spitters 0. Take that you gravy sucking pigs.
Following the game, the happy Strawbs convened at the Terminal Tavren to relish their latest victory on the road to the Championship. They were joined by the numerous adorers and hangers-on who had witnessed the earlier immolation of their opponents. Backs were slapped, bums pinched and the absentees toasted to hell.
5 Bud, 7 Guinness, 2 Blue, 3 Stella, 1 Black and Tan, 3 pounds of chicken wings, a vat of perogies and memories of the other Trojan War were consumed.
January 30, 2009
Killer Strawberries 5 Spitfires 0
For the Killer Strawberries who bothered to show up for the match against the well-abhored Spitfires, the pre-game sentiment in the dressing was not unlike that customarily experienced by a first time patient about to undergo a three fingered prostate exam administered by Hulk Hogan’s bigger brother. In the previous 2 matchups between these two teams, there was not an ounce of goodwill left by the time the final buzzer clanged. To say that these 2 squads dislike each other would be like saying the Strawbs have a mild dislike for referee Napoleon Fizzlercracker and his Travelling Incompetence Road Show..
By the Zamboni’s last lap of surface polishing, there were 8 intrepid Strawbs laced up, including Jesse The Leak, who would go on to shine this evening. Seven skaters, with an average age of 50, is usually a recipe for exhaustion by minute 5 of the first period in the cleanest of games. This matchup did not portend much hockey cleanliness.
And where were the 5 pusillanimous pudds who callously left their team in this vile predicament. Well, I’ll tell you. Dr. Thug, claiming to be suffering from his nth hundredth self-administered concussion, was in Las Vegas filming a celebrity wrestling match with the Victoria’s Secret models. Sure. And Butcher Brophey is a vegetarian. Shiny Sean claimed he had to take one of his kids to a hospital in Barrie. Everybody knows there are no hospitals in Barrie or anywhere within 50 miles of that den of constantly snarled traffic. Methinks he was at Casino Rama to play a little poker and to catch the Al Martino concert.
Archilles Perron could not make it because he had a little blister on his thumb from doing the dishes. This is a Strawb’s first….an injury from doing housework. Poor baby. The pain must be excrutiating.
And where was Pyjama Man, the once reliable point getter who has fallen on hard times in the scoring department. Well, he hired a babysitter for his girls and proceeded to spend the night babysitting the babysitter. Who was the babysitter? Why, it turned out to be his main squeeze, Loans Jones, whom he hadn’t seen since their salacious afternoon tryst which ended at 3pm in stall #4 of the women’s washroom at their City Hall workplace. While the Strawbs are unamused by his absence from the Spitfire game, they do heartily congratulate him upon the creative use of his 5 minute afternoon coffee break. Just don’t let it happen again, you priapetic toad.
The absence roster was completed by Warrin’ Peace, the team’s secret captain and official waterboy. His excuse…he had to stay home to clean up the mess left behind by his wife’s co-workers, unruly nurses, who, earlier in the day, had engaged in a clothes optional wild bacchanalian fling involving copious quantities of wine and much acrimony towards the management at their place of employ. Warrin’ predicts all the drywall damage will be repaired by next game, Great Gitchigoomi willing.
On the ice, the Spitfires had personnel problems of their own. They eked a squad as equally depleted as the aging Strawbs. Unfortunately, the skaters who showed up were their biggest meatheads, drooling like mangy rabied dogs at the chance to chop, hack and slice. Didn’t matter. The Strawberries took it to their much detested foe. They scored early. They defended their territory like Homer’s ancient Trojans. Unlike the valiant Trojans, however, the Strawberries defences were not breached. Jesse The Leak was impenetrable, using his speed, youthful guile and the width of the goalposts to his advantage. On one play, he stacked his pads to his left and blew up his chest to the right as he careened flawlessly across the crease, thus robbing an astonished Spitter of a sure goal. His play was ably assisted by some stalwarts on defence: the lovely orange-socked, recently fiftied Sir Gawdawful Gumby: by the team’s able surgeon, Butcher Brophey and by the wily, calorie-gulping Vice. These men kept the puck almost exclusively on the perimeter all night. It is difficult to recall a game so well played in the defensive zone.
At forward, Freight Train Laronde was spectacular. In the dressing room, he predicted he would score, and, like the Babe, was true to his prognostication. Likea tsunami of rogue waves assaulting the shore, he bombarded the opposition’s net with strike after lightning strike. He did not score again but he certainly deserved to.
Slickery Mac was also a constant offensive threat. He notched three tallies on the 800 shots he propelled at the hapless Spits’goaler. On one shot, he managed to perform a bloodless tracheotomy on the poor fellow, leaving him gasping for air late in the first period. MagBoy was his customary burr under the saddle and managed to piss off every Spit, both referees and one of the two timekeepers. “Sorry I didn’t get around the second timekeeper” he stated ruefully after the match. “ fully expected to return to the Sin Bin before game’s end and I would have finished the job properly. Just didn’t get the chance.” He did, however, atone for his shortfall, by placing an expletive filled anonymous phone call to the poor girl’s dormroom just after midnight.
The Ice Marshal, the last of the forwards to be mentioned herein, was voted 8th star of the game by his buddy, the blind-to-his-own-faults, P. Gumbington Pettigrew. “I thought he played like a big fat slug on Demerol” asserted P. Gumbington. “Nothing the loss of 25 pounds and a little effort can’t cure.” This from a man who spent the previous seven days drinking 4 litres of Scotch per diem as he scoffed down salted peanuts and No Name potato chips by the vatful while never leaving his couch, all in the name of his 50th birthday week celebrations. At the presser following the game, the Ice Marshal defended himself from Gumby’s callous calumny by averring that he never uses Demerol, preferring to suck it up like a real man.
Final score…Killer Strawberries 5 Spitters 0. Take that you gravy sucking pigs.
Following the game, the happy Strawbs convened at the Terminal Tavren to relish their latest victory on the road to the Championship. They were joined by the numerous adorers and hangers-on who had witnessed the earlier immolation of their opponents. Backs were slapped, bums pinched and the absentees toasted to hell.
5 Bud, 7 Guinness, 2 Blue, 3 Stella, 1 Black and Tan, 3 pounds of chicken wings, a vat of perogies and memories of the other Trojan War were consumed.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Gumby Crests The Hill..Doesn’t Like What He Sees
Killer Strawberries 7 Free Agents 3
Game Report
January 22, 2009
The inimitable P. Gumbington Pettigrew the Third kicked off his 50th Birthday Week Celebration by playing a whale of a game against a determined, but ultimately outgunned, Free Agent team. More like a beached whale of a game.
It is rumoured that, to initiate himself properly into his sixth decade, he awoke promptly at 10:30am on game day and phoned in to work citing “wellness issues” as the most likely cause of his tardiness and highly probable non-appearance later in the day. He then quickly poured himself his favourite libation, toasted the universe’s good luck in still having him around, dropped 1200milligrams of Ibuprofen and called it a day. The day slid by blissfully as he lolligagged about, alone, in his bed, floating in and out of daydreamy consciousness. Only the sharp dig into his side by the corner of his January Playboy magazine disturbed his heavenly slumber.
At 6pm, he dragged himself from his narcoleptic inertia, prepared himself a wholesome dinner of rye and coke, gulped it down and returned to his salacious dreams. At 9pm, he was awakened by the buzzer to his apartment. He had forgotten his promise to the Ice Marshal to be ready at 9 so that he could be chauffered to the game against the Free Agents. Stung by his oversight, he unhurriedly moped about his apartment, got dressed as leisurely as he thought he could get away with, brushed his teeth, gathered his equipment and lumbered nonchalantly out of his lair, descended a few steps, and tossed his equipment into the waiting chariot. With not even a hello, he bellowed “Hurry up, we’ll be late.”
Things went downhill from there. He was 10 minutes late for the start of the game, slurred useless instructions to his teammates throughtout the match, incessantly bombed the bench with gaseous emanations heavily scented with sulfur, threw up twice and generally played like crap. Fortunately, the rest of the Strawbs were firing on all cylinders. Dr. Thug potted two goals and screamed beautifully when 3 others were scored by his line. He screamed so loud, he gave himself another concussion. Freight Train, ever one to let a scoring opportunity go by, missed scoring a sure goal on at least 7 occasions. The Vice played like a much younger man…say 4 years old. The Butcher continued his love affair with the female time keeper by keeping her company as many times as he could without getting kicked out of the game for incurring too many penalties. Archilles Perron turned his nose up at 2 open nets and MagBoy continued to use the end boards as stopping devices. Pyjama Man could have stayed home and been more effective. Slickery was slicker than usual and Shiny shinier than usual. The Leak was uncharacteristically stingy. Warrin’ Peace showed up for his second game in a row. He claims he is finally recovered from the home health test he gave himself with his new vaccuum cleaner, the Turbo Sucker and Prostate Examiner IV.
In the dressing room after the match, Gumbyfest continued. Little was said about his flaccid on-ice performance as he shared the 12 year old Scotch and the 10 year Scotch given to him by the team in honour of his having survived the first 50 years of a wasted existence. Fine words of praise flowed effusively, congratulating him on the fine state of his digestive system, the resilience of his liver, his excellent choice of livery and personal hygiene products, and his amazing way with referees and women who don’t know him.
Later, the team assembled at the Terminal Tavren to top up alcohol levels to just below legal limits. Miss White Go Go Boots was there and presented Gumby with the finest French kiss since the morning Louis The 16th was beheaded. The Field Marsha was there too and allowed our intrepid hockeyman to touch the hem of her regal garment, the bathrobe she wears as she presides magisterially over the Compound For Minor Vice. Present also was Samarra Dessert, long suffering spouse of Warrin’ Peace. From her, Gumby received an open invitation to visit the garage of Bad Ideas on any Monday the 13th which should occur in the next calendar year, February and December excepted.
Ever gracious, Gumby thanked the adoring throng, claimed he was cautiously pessimistic about his future, toasted his own self and promptly fell asleep in his chair. How he got home is still a mystery.
10 Blue, 4 Bud, 2 Appletinis, 8 Guinness, 3 Stella, 5 pounds of chicken wings some fine recollections of a life well wasted were consumed.
Game Report
January 22, 2009
The inimitable P. Gumbington Pettigrew the Third kicked off his 50th Birthday Week Celebration by playing a whale of a game against a determined, but ultimately outgunned, Free Agent team. More like a beached whale of a game.
It is rumoured that, to initiate himself properly into his sixth decade, he awoke promptly at 10:30am on game day and phoned in to work citing “wellness issues” as the most likely cause of his tardiness and highly probable non-appearance later in the day. He then quickly poured himself his favourite libation, toasted the universe’s good luck in still having him around, dropped 1200milligrams of Ibuprofen and called it a day. The day slid by blissfully as he lolligagged about, alone, in his bed, floating in and out of daydreamy consciousness. Only the sharp dig into his side by the corner of his January Playboy magazine disturbed his heavenly slumber.
At 6pm, he dragged himself from his narcoleptic inertia, prepared himself a wholesome dinner of rye and coke, gulped it down and returned to his salacious dreams. At 9pm, he was awakened by the buzzer to his apartment. He had forgotten his promise to the Ice Marshal to be ready at 9 so that he could be chauffered to the game against the Free Agents. Stung by his oversight, he unhurriedly moped about his apartment, got dressed as leisurely as he thought he could get away with, brushed his teeth, gathered his equipment and lumbered nonchalantly out of his lair, descended a few steps, and tossed his equipment into the waiting chariot. With not even a hello, he bellowed “Hurry up, we’ll be late.”
Things went downhill from there. He was 10 minutes late for the start of the game, slurred useless instructions to his teammates throughtout the match, incessantly bombed the bench with gaseous emanations heavily scented with sulfur, threw up twice and generally played like crap. Fortunately, the rest of the Strawbs were firing on all cylinders. Dr. Thug potted two goals and screamed beautifully when 3 others were scored by his line. He screamed so loud, he gave himself another concussion. Freight Train, ever one to let a scoring opportunity go by, missed scoring a sure goal on at least 7 occasions. The Vice played like a much younger man…say 4 years old. The Butcher continued his love affair with the female time keeper by keeping her company as many times as he could without getting kicked out of the game for incurring too many penalties. Archilles Perron turned his nose up at 2 open nets and MagBoy continued to use the end boards as stopping devices. Pyjama Man could have stayed home and been more effective. Slickery was slicker than usual and Shiny shinier than usual. The Leak was uncharacteristically stingy. Warrin’ Peace showed up for his second game in a row. He claims he is finally recovered from the home health test he gave himself with his new vaccuum cleaner, the Turbo Sucker and Prostate Examiner IV.
In the dressing room after the match, Gumbyfest continued. Little was said about his flaccid on-ice performance as he shared the 12 year old Scotch and the 10 year Scotch given to him by the team in honour of his having survived the first 50 years of a wasted existence. Fine words of praise flowed effusively, congratulating him on the fine state of his digestive system, the resilience of his liver, his excellent choice of livery and personal hygiene products, and his amazing way with referees and women who don’t know him.
Later, the team assembled at the Terminal Tavren to top up alcohol levels to just below legal limits. Miss White Go Go Boots was there and presented Gumby with the finest French kiss since the morning Louis The 16th was beheaded. The Field Marsha was there too and allowed our intrepid hockeyman to touch the hem of her regal garment, the bathrobe she wears as she presides magisterially over the Compound For Minor Vice. Present also was Samarra Dessert, long suffering spouse of Warrin’ Peace. From her, Gumby received an open invitation to visit the garage of Bad Ideas on any Monday the 13th which should occur in the next calendar year, February and December excepted.
Ever gracious, Gumby thanked the adoring throng, claimed he was cautiously pessimistic about his future, toasted his own self and promptly fell asleep in his chair. How he got home is still a mystery.
10 Blue, 4 Bud, 2 Appletinis, 8 Guinness, 3 Stella, 5 pounds of chicken wings some fine recollections of a life well wasted were consumed.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Gumby throw his own 50th birthday bash.
Some notable Strawbs were in attendance last night for Gumby's 50th birthday bash at the Elk's Lodge. I'll leave the captions to the viewers.Friday, January 23, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Fun Takes A Holiday
Game Report
January 19, 2009
Killer Strawberries 3 Red Stripes 3
What a letdown. In the Strawbs’ game previous to last night’s tussle with the Red Stripes, all the qualities of a great matchup were present: good play, fair play, excellent play, and laughable errors of execution and judgement. In short, the previous game was a celebration of hockey.
Last night was almost as far from the apotheosis of enjoyable hockey as you could imagine. It started out badly. The 2 worst referees in the universe, south, east and west of Alpha Centauri, showed up to weave their inimitable magic. One has been the bane of Strawbs’ existence since the days when dirt was still a rock. Referee (and I use the term “referee” loosely) Napoleon Fizzlecracker has been banned from officiating in more leagues than George Bush has had bad ideas. Typically, he does his best to be incompetent, loves to taunt those who can’t talk back without receiving a misconduct, and succeeds in ruining every game he touches. His counterpart, referee Blithely Useless, is always content to let things go for a while and then to pounce upon the most marginal of infractions and to make the most incomprehensible of calls. A collective shudder went through the team when they saw who had been assigned to officiate the game. It was clear signal to the team to forego buying any lottery tickets after the match.
As everyone knows, the Strawbs are not what is normally termed a “dirty team”. Yes, we have our own butcher, but he is a benevolent butcher who loves kittens. Yes, we have the aggressive MagBoy, but he is a controlled aggressive MagBoy who is still learning how to stop just before he reaches the end boards. The rest of us are not angels…just naughty enough to be very very attractive to women. We normally don’t start any hostilities but we’ll be damned if anyone will transgress the bounds of fair play with impunity. Slash us and we’ll slash you back. High stick us and we’ll take your girlfriend out on date to prove to her your uselessness/inadequacy to the cosmos and to her personal needs. We are nice guys till we get crossed or crosschecked.
Last night’s match, as was described earlier, did not look auspicious from the outset. Despite the enormous potential for crappy refereeing, the Strawberries put their best skates forward. They took a 3-0 lead which lasted till the last minute of the first period. The Red Stripes were not pleased. Their lack of sportsmanship showed and increased with their frustration. Nevertheless, they made the score 3-1 by period’s end.
The second period was ugly…uglier than Dr. Thug in a purple thong. It was chippy, vindictive, and joyless with refereeing to match. The final score was 3-3 and the game did not end soon enough.
It may all sound like sour grapes. Perhaps it is, somewhat. We did blow a 3-0 lead. But I think we all know, that in the big scheme of things, victories come and victories go. Losses come and losses go. The true joy in hockey comes from playing the game well without having to worry whether you will be able to get out of bed the next day still in good health. You know it’s been a great game when, at the end of the match, you have earned the respect of your opponent and your opponent has been elevated in your esteem. You want to shake hands and thank each other for a game well and respectfully played, no matter the numbers on the scoreboard when the final whistle goes. Unfortunately, last evening, this did not happen.
The Strawbs did not assemble, post-game, at the Terminal Tavren.
January 19, 2009
Killer Strawberries 3 Red Stripes 3
What a letdown. In the Strawbs’ game previous to last night’s tussle with the Red Stripes, all the qualities of a great matchup were present: good play, fair play, excellent play, and laughable errors of execution and judgement. In short, the previous game was a celebration of hockey.
Last night was almost as far from the apotheosis of enjoyable hockey as you could imagine. It started out badly. The 2 worst referees in the universe, south, east and west of Alpha Centauri, showed up to weave their inimitable magic. One has been the bane of Strawbs’ existence since the days when dirt was still a rock. Referee (and I use the term “referee” loosely) Napoleon Fizzlecracker has been banned from officiating in more leagues than George Bush has had bad ideas. Typically, he does his best to be incompetent, loves to taunt those who can’t talk back without receiving a misconduct, and succeeds in ruining every game he touches. His counterpart, referee Blithely Useless, is always content to let things go for a while and then to pounce upon the most marginal of infractions and to make the most incomprehensible of calls. A collective shudder went through the team when they saw who had been assigned to officiate the game. It was clear signal to the team to forego buying any lottery tickets after the match.
As everyone knows, the Strawbs are not what is normally termed a “dirty team”. Yes, we have our own butcher, but he is a benevolent butcher who loves kittens. Yes, we have the aggressive MagBoy, but he is a controlled aggressive MagBoy who is still learning how to stop just before he reaches the end boards. The rest of us are not angels…just naughty enough to be very very attractive to women. We normally don’t start any hostilities but we’ll be damned if anyone will transgress the bounds of fair play with impunity. Slash us and we’ll slash you back. High stick us and we’ll take your girlfriend out on date to prove to her your uselessness/inadequacy to the cosmos and to her personal needs. We are nice guys till we get crossed or crosschecked.
Last night’s match, as was described earlier, did not look auspicious from the outset. Despite the enormous potential for crappy refereeing, the Strawberries put their best skates forward. They took a 3-0 lead which lasted till the last minute of the first period. The Red Stripes were not pleased. Their lack of sportsmanship showed and increased with their frustration. Nevertheless, they made the score 3-1 by period’s end.
The second period was ugly…uglier than Dr. Thug in a purple thong. It was chippy, vindictive, and joyless with refereeing to match. The final score was 3-3 and the game did not end soon enough.
It may all sound like sour grapes. Perhaps it is, somewhat. We did blow a 3-0 lead. But I think we all know, that in the big scheme of things, victories come and victories go. Losses come and losses go. The true joy in hockey comes from playing the game well without having to worry whether you will be able to get out of bed the next day still in good health. You know it’s been a great game when, at the end of the match, you have earned the respect of your opponent and your opponent has been elevated in your esteem. You want to shake hands and thank each other for a game well and respectfully played, no matter the numbers on the scoreboard when the final whistle goes. Unfortunately, last evening, this did not happen.
The Strawbs did not assemble, post-game, at the Terminal Tavren.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Quintessence
Strawberries 3 ALU Warriors 3
Game Report
January 15, 2009
It’s minus 32 degrees celsius as the Vice, always the second to arrive before a game, trudges half-awake, half-pumped, half-assed across the frozen tundra which serves as the arena parking lot. Tonight, he is the first to show up. Dr. Thug, the team’s perennial early bird, will not make it to the game on this evening, having once again self-administered a concussion by foolishly trying to stop a puck with his face in a match the day earlier. His physician, whom the Strawbs have on speed-dial, has informed the Executive that the aging veteran could be out for another 2 games or so. Precautionary.
A few moments after the Vice esconces himself on his customary perch on the bench by the toilet, the Ice Marshall and his invariably tardy passenger, the almost 50 year old Gawdawful Gumby, darken the dressing room door. The Vice has sat in this seat so often, one can easily make out the butt imprint he has been grinding into the wood since the days when he weighed 155 pounds. As with his liver, the imprint increases in size, year by year.
The Ice Marshall sits down beside his buddy’s perch and compliments him on …well it wasn’t exactly a compliment. Gumby shuffles to his favourite spot beside the hot air exchanger. The irony is lost on no one. Next Shiny Sean comes in, still miffed the Packers won’t be playing on Sunday next. Gumby, ever the diplomat, reminds Shiny of the 3 unforced errors Shiny committed in the previous game. He even has advice on what to do in similar situations in future. Always thinking.
The Leak arrives at precisely 15 minutes to game time. He is a stickler to routine. One of his routines is to let in a soft goal in the first minute of every match. Predictably, he informs the perched Executive, pre-game, that tonight will be different. The game tape will show otherwise.
Five minutes later, a tsunami of bedraggled pours through the door, led by Archilles Perron, exhausted from all the housework he has had to perform while his wife idles on a cruise ship somewhere off the coast of Spain. A vacuum cleaner attachment falls from his bag onto the floor. He is too tired to pick it up. Right behind him, MagBoy picks up the fallen attachment and informs the assembled that it is a 1999, Model T4a Kenmore Dirt Sucker attachment which can also used, in a pinch, as an exhaust manifold for any Yamaha dirt bike built in the late 1980s. A large quantity of the word “bullshit” is sucked out of the room through the hot air exchanger.
Freight Train Laronde comes lumbering in, weighted down by a doctoral thesis that won’t go away. He is chipper though. Hockey is in his blood, having exited his mother’s womb, wearing a pair of skates, an ancient melon-protector and a rather large jock for one so young. Slickery Mac soon sits down beside him. Doesn’t talk much. Can’t get a word in edgewise as Gumby continues his critiques and positive reinforcements…although ones wonders if the statement “Shiny, you’re pretty nimble for a fat guy” qualifies as positive reinforcement.
As the Zamboni completes its last sweep on the ice surface, Bonehead Butcher Brophey and Pyjama Man try to squeeze through the door, side by side. Paris Hilton has a better chance of revirginization. Brophey’s equipment is still frozen. Funny how leaving said equipment in an unheated garage for a week in winter does that. “Never happens in the summer” he states authoritatively. Sad thing is, he teaches some of our kids. Pyjama Man dresses fast, fast like a teenager about to be caught pantless in the back seat of his girlfriend’s girlfriend’s parents’ car. If only he were this fast on the rink.
The only other missing tonight is Warrin’ Peace. Got stuck in his Garage of Bad Ideas last Friday and hasn’t been able to get out since. Can’t climb the mountain of empties accumulating by the only door out.
It’s 30 seconds to game time. The Strawbs grunt their way up the stairs to the ice surface. Shiny takes the elevator. As the Leak comes into view, the fan goes wild. Whoops. No it wasn’t a fan…just some little kid who got his fingers caught in a door. No matter. The Strawbs are now pumped.
The game starts. The Warriors score an early goal. They score again. The Strawbs fight back 2-1, 2-2, 3-2 Strawbs. The match is a beauty. The quintessence of Canadian hockey. Back and forth. Forth and back. The two teams push themselves. Gasping on the bench. Herculean efforts in the corners. Every ounce of energy expended. The warriors score. 3-3. The last 5 minutes are furious. Dash. Feint. Shot. Shot. Save. Dash Shot. Save Shot Save. And the buzzer goes.
The 2 teams line up to shake hands. Everyone is smiling. Both sides know the tanks are empty. And they are happy. Happy because they have played well and will play well again.
The Strawbs reassembled post game to keep alive the glow of a game well-fought. Team mates were toasted and the opposition highly praised. Another hockey night in Canada.
4 Blue, 4 Guinness, 2 Bud, 1 Stella, 2 Rickards, 3 pounds of seasoned wings and a fondly welcomed tiredness were consumed.
Game Report
January 15, 2009
It’s minus 32 degrees celsius as the Vice, always the second to arrive before a game, trudges half-awake, half-pumped, half-assed across the frozen tundra which serves as the arena parking lot. Tonight, he is the first to show up. Dr. Thug, the team’s perennial early bird, will not make it to the game on this evening, having once again self-administered a concussion by foolishly trying to stop a puck with his face in a match the day earlier. His physician, whom the Strawbs have on speed-dial, has informed the Executive that the aging veteran could be out for another 2 games or so. Precautionary.
A few moments after the Vice esconces himself on his customary perch on the bench by the toilet, the Ice Marshall and his invariably tardy passenger, the almost 50 year old Gawdawful Gumby, darken the dressing room door. The Vice has sat in this seat so often, one can easily make out the butt imprint he has been grinding into the wood since the days when he weighed 155 pounds. As with his liver, the imprint increases in size, year by year.
The Ice Marshall sits down beside his buddy’s perch and compliments him on …well it wasn’t exactly a compliment. Gumby shuffles to his favourite spot beside the hot air exchanger. The irony is lost on no one. Next Shiny Sean comes in, still miffed the Packers won’t be playing on Sunday next. Gumby, ever the diplomat, reminds Shiny of the 3 unforced errors Shiny committed in the previous game. He even has advice on what to do in similar situations in future. Always thinking.
The Leak arrives at precisely 15 minutes to game time. He is a stickler to routine. One of his routines is to let in a soft goal in the first minute of every match. Predictably, he informs the perched Executive, pre-game, that tonight will be different. The game tape will show otherwise.
Five minutes later, a tsunami of bedraggled pours through the door, led by Archilles Perron, exhausted from all the housework he has had to perform while his wife idles on a cruise ship somewhere off the coast of Spain. A vacuum cleaner attachment falls from his bag onto the floor. He is too tired to pick it up. Right behind him, MagBoy picks up the fallen attachment and informs the assembled that it is a 1999, Model T4a Kenmore Dirt Sucker attachment which can also used, in a pinch, as an exhaust manifold for any Yamaha dirt bike built in the late 1980s. A large quantity of the word “bullshit” is sucked out of the room through the hot air exchanger.
Freight Train Laronde comes lumbering in, weighted down by a doctoral thesis that won’t go away. He is chipper though. Hockey is in his blood, having exited his mother’s womb, wearing a pair of skates, an ancient melon-protector and a rather large jock for one so young. Slickery Mac soon sits down beside him. Doesn’t talk much. Can’t get a word in edgewise as Gumby continues his critiques and positive reinforcements…although ones wonders if the statement “Shiny, you’re pretty nimble for a fat guy” qualifies as positive reinforcement.
As the Zamboni completes its last sweep on the ice surface, Bonehead Butcher Brophey and Pyjama Man try to squeeze through the door, side by side. Paris Hilton has a better chance of revirginization. Brophey’s equipment is still frozen. Funny how leaving said equipment in an unheated garage for a week in winter does that. “Never happens in the summer” he states authoritatively. Sad thing is, he teaches some of our kids. Pyjama Man dresses fast, fast like a teenager about to be caught pantless in the back seat of his girlfriend’s girlfriend’s parents’ car. If only he were this fast on the rink.
The only other missing tonight is Warrin’ Peace. Got stuck in his Garage of Bad Ideas last Friday and hasn’t been able to get out since. Can’t climb the mountain of empties accumulating by the only door out.
It’s 30 seconds to game time. The Strawbs grunt their way up the stairs to the ice surface. Shiny takes the elevator. As the Leak comes into view, the fan goes wild. Whoops. No it wasn’t a fan…just some little kid who got his fingers caught in a door. No matter. The Strawbs are now pumped.
The game starts. The Warriors score an early goal. They score again. The Strawbs fight back 2-1, 2-2, 3-2 Strawbs. The match is a beauty. The quintessence of Canadian hockey. Back and forth. Forth and back. The two teams push themselves. Gasping on the bench. Herculean efforts in the corners. Every ounce of energy expended. The warriors score. 3-3. The last 5 minutes are furious. Dash. Feint. Shot. Shot. Save. Dash Shot. Save Shot Save. And the buzzer goes.
The 2 teams line up to shake hands. Everyone is smiling. Both sides know the tanks are empty. And they are happy. Happy because they have played well and will play well again.
The Strawbs reassembled post game to keep alive the glow of a game well-fought. Team mates were toasted and the opposition highly praised. Another hockey night in Canada.
4 Blue, 4 Guinness, 2 Bud, 1 Stella, 2 Rickards, 3 pounds of seasoned wings and a fondly welcomed tiredness were consumed.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Dally, Rally, Lose in Finale
Game Report
January 12, 2009
Spitfires 4 Killer Strawberries 3
It was a ragged performance for the first 35 minutes of play, as the Killer Strawberries, still carrying an average of 25 pounds of extra body putty per person put on over the Christmas break, struggled to find their inner Crosbies. Apparently, the Crosbies were on vacation because the despised Spitfires were up 4-1 with 5 minutes to play.
Sensing the embarrassment of the score, the Strawbs ramped her up into second gear, scored a couple of quick goals and almost pulled off the tie, shorthanded and frustrated, as time cruelly expired.
It was much like the situation every teenage boy has faced since time immemorial: girlfriend’s parents out for the evening, no one else home, teenage boy sneaks in through the basement window 3 minutes after parents’ departure and a blessed 2 hours before parents set to return, the cat shooed off the couch , couch horizontally occupied by two corpi of hormones at the ready, moves attempted and thwarted mercilessly, libidos frustrated as the favoured parts of his anatomy turn blue, time flying, still time to try a few things but time running out, 5 minutes left before parents’ return and only one button undone, desperation sets in, boldness trumps discretion, desperate moves starting to work and, oh no!!! the fucking parents’ car pulls up into the driveway. Blood flows north like the great Orinoco in spring and the teenage boy trudges home, bowlegged, a loser.
Final score: Parents 1, teenage boy 0, Spitfires 4 Strawberries 3.
All was not wasted on the night however. The more manly of the Strawbs convened at the Terminal Tavren to go over the gamus petus interruptus. The soothing balm of malt based elixers soon blurred the painful edges of the disappointing evening. Stories of past victories and conquests were recounted, backs slapped and credulity suspended as tales of long forgotten glory stretched to the land of improbability.
3 Blue, 4 Guinness, 5 Black and Tan, 2 Steamwhistle, 1 Bud, 3 pounds of chicken wings and visions of what might have been were bittersweetly consumed.
January 12, 2009
Spitfires 4 Killer Strawberries 3
It was a ragged performance for the first 35 minutes of play, as the Killer Strawberries, still carrying an average of 25 pounds of extra body putty per person put on over the Christmas break, struggled to find their inner Crosbies. Apparently, the Crosbies were on vacation because the despised Spitfires were up 4-1 with 5 minutes to play.
Sensing the embarrassment of the score, the Strawbs ramped her up into second gear, scored a couple of quick goals and almost pulled off the tie, shorthanded and frustrated, as time cruelly expired.
It was much like the situation every teenage boy has faced since time immemorial: girlfriend’s parents out for the evening, no one else home, teenage boy sneaks in through the basement window 3 minutes after parents’ departure and a blessed 2 hours before parents set to return, the cat shooed off the couch , couch horizontally occupied by two corpi of hormones at the ready, moves attempted and thwarted mercilessly, libidos frustrated as the favoured parts of his anatomy turn blue, time flying, still time to try a few things but time running out, 5 minutes left before parents’ return and only one button undone, desperation sets in, boldness trumps discretion, desperate moves starting to work and, oh no!!! the fucking parents’ car pulls up into the driveway. Blood flows north like the great Orinoco in spring and the teenage boy trudges home, bowlegged, a loser.
Final score: Parents 1, teenage boy 0, Spitfires 4 Strawberries 3.
All was not wasted on the night however. The more manly of the Strawbs convened at the Terminal Tavren to go over the gamus petus interruptus. The soothing balm of malt based elixers soon blurred the painful edges of the disappointing evening. Stories of past victories and conquests were recounted, backs slapped and credulity suspended as tales of long forgotten glory stretched to the land of improbability.
3 Blue, 4 Guinness, 5 Black and Tan, 2 Steamwhistle, 1 Bud, 3 pounds of chicken wings and visions of what might have been were bittersweetly consumed.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Flaccid Free Agents Get Stiffed By Strawbs
Strawberries 6 Free Agents 3
Game Report
January 8, 2009-01-11
Despite a stiff resolve to start the second half of the season with gusto, the Killer Strawberries, last night, came out flaccid and languid, yet managed to stick one to an even flaccider squad of dispirited Free Agents, who were apparently still smarting from seasonal overconsumption of turkey, Nat King Cole and oversized Christmas shooters.
Perhaps it was the overwhelming smell of new Spandex in the Strawbs’ pre-game dressing room which caused some of the poor on ice play. Spandex, which may look good on Britney Spears and Miss White Go Go Boots, is known to throw off noxious fumes and to cause lightheadedness. The olfactory emanations from rubber patching job on Butcher Brophey’s underpants alone could have taken out the Taliban. So disoriented was the Butcher that he played like Dr. Thug as he repeatedly succeeded in battering the only female on the Free Agents’ team, a slip of a girl so small she could easily be squeezed through the mail slot of a Barbie and Ken dollhouse.
Dr. Thug continued his descent into senility, as over and over, he attempted to complete full 10 minute shifts without even pretending to want to come off the ice. Time after time, he feigned deafness as his team mates implored him, with various rude and creative epithets, to get the hell off the ice and give somebody else a chance to work up a sweat. “I felt like a pony out there,” he proudly asserted. Unfortunately, he played like a Hyundai Pony which, as everyone knows, is rust prone and obsolete.
Magboy was a slight cut above his linemate, Dr. Wontcomeoff. He flitted aimlessly about the frozen surface like an exhausted crack-addled ADHD sex addict left, without proper adult supervision, in a boudoir full of brand new un-blownup blowup dolls. The intent was there but the execution sorely lacking.
Sir Gawdawful Gumby suited up for the match with a sense of purpose rarely displayed by this rugged blueliner. Over the holidays he had gone to visit his folks at their marijuana farm, Ganja Gardens, on Salt Spring Island. He came back with a couple of unpaid fines, genital herpes and plenty of bad advice. Among the rostrums handed down to him on his westerly sojourn was the one which went like this:”you need to travel more, son.” Our intrepid Gumby took the advice to heart as he made repeated (and rather unnecessary) trips to the Sin Bin. His poor interpretation of the term "travel" almost cost the Strawbs the game.
Whoahorny Richardson, again, was a non-factor in the outcome, having previously been asked to retire from the Killer Strawberries in September, 2008. His jersey and socks did, however, made it to the game, as a tax-deductible gift from his newly-formed charitable organization, Warnie’s Strategic Writeoffs Inc.. The donated gear was scheduled to be used by Whoahorny 2.0, aka Slickery McMillan, who failed to show up to the match or even to call in with his regrets. What’s with this equipment? Is it destined never to grace a committed Strawb? Is it cursed?
The real bright spot in the game was Archilles Perron, who until this point in the season has been content to ride the coattails of the irrepressible Ice Marshall. In the first period, Archilles screamed down his off-wing, crossed blue line without losing control of the puck or his feet and wired a beauty into the top corner of a net defended by a slip of a girl still reeling from the Butcher’s previous terror tactics. As Archilles unleashed his blast, you could almost hear the simultaneous involuntary glandular retractions of the incredulous Strawbs watching from the bench. Fortunately, the puck did not hit the slip of a girl. Had it done so, she would have dropped like a Kennedy.
All in all, it was a bad game with a great result. So great in fact, that the Strawberries were forced to celebrate their first victory of the year by assembling for post-game libations at the Terminal Tavren. Follies were recounted, Jesse’s excellent goaltending performance over-praised and funds raised to help Gumby pay off his West coast fines.
4 Black and Tan, 2 Bud, 6 Guinness, 4 Harp, 1 Steamwhistle, 6 Blue, 5 pounds of local wings, and some lingering Spandex fumes were consumed.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Rookie Leads Strawbs' White Squad To Year End Victory
Strawberries 1 F-Word 0 (Default)
Game Report
December 1, 2008
Lured to the rink by the false promise of a possible visit by Santa, the Killer Strawberries iced a full squad for its scheduled match against F-Word. Unfortunately, the members of F-Word don't believe in Santa and decided to send only 2 of its team to do battle.
Instead of knocking off early to the Terminal Tavren, the gritty Strawbs convinced the non-believers to join in an intra-squad match won easily by the Whites. The laggard Greens, led(?) by the Vice, Slickery, the Butcher and Sir Gumby were atrocious. They could not even win the added shootout nor the 6 on 6 finale. Perhaps they were dazzled by the fancy footwork of team's newest addition, Miss Knottybehaviour, pictured below.
Miss Knottybehaviour is expected to stay with the team for as long as she escapes the notice of the more puritanical of its followers.
Game Report
December 1, 2008
Lured to the rink by the false promise of a possible visit by Santa, the Killer Strawberries iced a full squad for its scheduled match against F-Word. Unfortunately, the members of F-Word don't believe in Santa and decided to send only 2 of its team to do battle.
Instead of knocking off early to the Terminal Tavren, the gritty Strawbs convinced the non-believers to join in an intra-squad match won easily by the Whites. The laggard Greens, led(?) by the Vice, Slickery, the Butcher and Sir Gumby were atrocious. They could not even win the added shootout nor the 6 on 6 finale. Perhaps they were dazzled by the fancy footwork of team's newest addition, Miss Knottybehaviour, pictured below.
Miss Knottybehaviour is expected to stay with the team for as long as she escapes the notice of the more puritanical of its followers.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Billy Goated
Ramrods 5 Killer Strawberries 3
Game Report
November 27, 2008
It was a close game until the final minute when a small, MagBoy-like brain fart resulted in an unfortunate turnover deep in the Strawberries end. With 57 seconds remaining on the clock, the Ramrods pounced on a poorly propelled puck and promptly deposited it behind a disconsolate Leak, who, until that point, had been stymieing the relentless opposition with superlative goaltending.
With the score now 4-3 in favour of the Ramrods, the Strawbs pulled their goalie and began putting on some good pressure in the opponent’s zone. Somehow the puck escaped the pressure and listlessly floundered back toward the Strawbs’ end of the rink. Dr. Billy The Goat Procunier (aka dr. Thug) sped to corral the biscuit before an icing could be called. Who knows why?
Exhausted from his skate back, he proceeded to launch a perfect pass across the front of his own net….perfect in the sense that it was sublime lunacy from a sublime lunatic. The puck was easily intercepted by a rather surprised Ramrodder who, faced with a yawning cage, deftly deeked out the crease, put a fake on the goal line and wired his gift horse into an astonished mesh: Ramrods 5 Strawberries 3.
At the Presser immediately following the game, a contrite Dr. Thug, his wicket firmly planted between his legs could only say “I’m sorry. I’ve been up late every night this week preparing for King Richard’s (his son’s) December mid-terms. All I can think about is E=MC2, ribonucleic acid, and the new Britney Spears video which I need to study for Rich’s Anatomy exam. I hope I won’t be sent down again to the farm team’s farm team.” The Executive was less forgiving than the good doctor was to himself, fining Billy The Goat a Panjoram (2 hogsheads) of single malt for his faux pas.
Other than the two last minute miscues, the Strawbs played a very strong game. Perhaps they were trying hard to ensure that their newest pickup, Slickery Elbows McMillan, would remain with the squad for the remainder of the season. Slickery had been recruited after a lengthy search by the tireless Executive of all the local frozen ponds, frozen ditches and customary, less-than-reputable, post-game watering holes. Slickery was spotted on November 25, 2008 exiting a rather dubious establishment at 2:22 am, as he drove out of the darkened parking lot with his headlights off, wearing little more than the self-satisfied grin of an incorrigible tomcat escaping a successful back alley encounter. He was pulled over by the alert Vice who promptly signed him to a one way, one year, no trade contract, pending a check of his possible involvement in any three way love triangles which could come back to haunt the team.
Slickery took no time establishing himself as a force to be reckoned with. Prowling the ice like an undercover eel, he slipped in here, dangled there and scored the game’s first goal: a sloppy shot but a goal nevertheless. Preliminary reviews of his play have been favourable. The rest of the team pulled up their red socks in his wake, with excellent efforts being proffered especially by Shiny Sean Brightly, Freight Train Laronde, Archilles and Warrin’ Peace; about time for at least 2 of them.
Butcher Brophey continued to strengthen the team with his prolonged absence. Rumours have been swirling about that the team’s tactical surgeon is undergoing an emergency addadicktomy somewhere near Gotenburg, Sweden. Other reports have him trying unsuccessfully to sanitize his equipment at Atomic Energy of Canada before he returns to wreak havoc on the teams in the Canadore Intramural league, including his own. Another rumour has him nursing Miss White Go Go Boots back to health after a strenuous Legionnaires’ Convention in Las Vegas, Manitoba. (Her convention, not his).
As was inevitable, the Killer Strawberries adjourned to the Terminal Tavren to discuss their performance and to generate new rumours. They were successful on both counts.
4 Stella, 6 Blue, 2 Bud Light, 2 Black and Tan, 1 celery stick, and half a Panjoram of single malt were consumed .
Game Report
November 27, 2008
It was a close game until the final minute when a small, MagBoy-like brain fart resulted in an unfortunate turnover deep in the Strawberries end. With 57 seconds remaining on the clock, the Ramrods pounced on a poorly propelled puck and promptly deposited it behind a disconsolate Leak, who, until that point, had been stymieing the relentless opposition with superlative goaltending.
With the score now 4-3 in favour of the Ramrods, the Strawbs pulled their goalie and began putting on some good pressure in the opponent’s zone. Somehow the puck escaped the pressure and listlessly floundered back toward the Strawbs’ end of the rink. Dr. Billy The Goat Procunier (aka dr. Thug) sped to corral the biscuit before an icing could be called. Who knows why?
Exhausted from his skate back, he proceeded to launch a perfect pass across the front of his own net….perfect in the sense that it was sublime lunacy from a sublime lunatic. The puck was easily intercepted by a rather surprised Ramrodder who, faced with a yawning cage, deftly deeked out the crease, put a fake on the goal line and wired his gift horse into an astonished mesh: Ramrods 5 Strawberries 3.
At the Presser immediately following the game, a contrite Dr. Thug, his wicket firmly planted between his legs could only say “I’m sorry. I’ve been up late every night this week preparing for King Richard’s (his son’s) December mid-terms. All I can think about is E=MC2, ribonucleic acid, and the new Britney Spears video which I need to study for Rich’s Anatomy exam. I hope I won’t be sent down again to the farm team’s farm team.” The Executive was less forgiving than the good doctor was to himself, fining Billy The Goat a Panjoram (2 hogsheads) of single malt for his faux pas.
Other than the two last minute miscues, the Strawbs played a very strong game. Perhaps they were trying hard to ensure that their newest pickup, Slickery Elbows McMillan, would remain with the squad for the remainder of the season. Slickery had been recruited after a lengthy search by the tireless Executive of all the local frozen ponds, frozen ditches and customary, less-than-reputable, post-game watering holes. Slickery was spotted on November 25, 2008 exiting a rather dubious establishment at 2:22 am, as he drove out of the darkened parking lot with his headlights off, wearing little more than the self-satisfied grin of an incorrigible tomcat escaping a successful back alley encounter. He was pulled over by the alert Vice who promptly signed him to a one way, one year, no trade contract, pending a check of his possible involvement in any three way love triangles which could come back to haunt the team.
Slickery took no time establishing himself as a force to be reckoned with. Prowling the ice like an undercover eel, he slipped in here, dangled there and scored the game’s first goal: a sloppy shot but a goal nevertheless. Preliminary reviews of his play have been favourable. The rest of the team pulled up their red socks in his wake, with excellent efforts being proffered especially by Shiny Sean Brightly, Freight Train Laronde, Archilles and Warrin’ Peace; about time for at least 2 of them.
Butcher Brophey continued to strengthen the team with his prolonged absence. Rumours have been swirling about that the team’s tactical surgeon is undergoing an emergency addadicktomy somewhere near Gotenburg, Sweden. Other reports have him trying unsuccessfully to sanitize his equipment at Atomic Energy of Canada before he returns to wreak havoc on the teams in the Canadore Intramural league, including his own. Another rumour has him nursing Miss White Go Go Boots back to health after a strenuous Legionnaires’ Convention in Las Vegas, Manitoba. (Her convention, not his).
As was inevitable, the Killer Strawberries adjourned to the Terminal Tavren to discuss their performance and to generate new rumours. They were successful on both counts.
4 Stella, 6 Blue, 2 Bud Light, 2 Black and Tan, 1 celery stick, and half a Panjoram of single malt were consumed .
Friday, November 21, 2008
Spitfires Find Wrong End of The Stick
Spitfires Find Wrong End of The Stick
Strawberries 5 Spitfires 1
Game Report
November 20, 2008
Strengthened by the absence of Butcher Brophey (hip flexor) and Sir Gumby (ego bruise), the Killer Strawberries shot down a squad of belligerent Spitfires by a score of 5-1, thus avenging an earlier loss earlier in the week.
Shiny Sean Brightly was the star of the game, playing 4 or 5 positions simultaneously, offending and defending insouciantly. As the Vice so diplomatically put it, “For a fatter guy than the Ice Marshal, he sure is nimble”.
Dr. Thug, MagBoy and Pyjama Man played with each other as best they ever have, going so far as to continue their triumph with a celebratory communal shower. After tallying up the claims of each of these stalwarts, the final score should have been 19-1, with each of the trio getting an additional 8 assists on the evening: 43 points on 5 official goals, another case of the new math gone terribly awry.
Warrin’ Peace was finally allowed out the house for more than 5 minutes in the last month, accompanied by his parole officer/wife who looked on begrudgingly from the comfort of the lobby. He promptly made his presence felt, swooping and dashing like a new born colt high on alfalfa. It was a good thing he didn’t come out stale because his name had been paired frequently with the word “trade” in the last 2 weeks. Perhaps he was spurred on by the excellent play of his left winger, Archilles Perron who finally broke free of the hockey doldrums to deliver his best on ice performance of the season. He attributed his improved play to the new Yanni CD he has started to play in his car on the way to the arena.
Freight Train and the Vice were veritable monoliths on defence and we’re not just referring to their imposing physiques in this case. They wisely used their bulks to force Spitfires to take the long way around to get to loose pucks. It is estimated that the feckless Spitfire foes skated an additional 4,324 miles on the evening just to get around the physical roadblocks scattered repeatedly in their way. Big can be beautiful.
While the score may suggest a cakewalk, it was anything but. Jesse The Leak was tested and came out on top on numerous occasions. Moreover, the Spitfires, fresh from their recent pre-frontal lobotomies, attempted to intimidate the Strawbs with their constant hacking and slashing and overall poor sportsmanship. Unfortunately, they found out that the Killer Strawberries cannot be frightened by much beyond their wives/girlfriends/mistresses. Whenever a foul was encountered, it was received with a counter-encounter; this usually took the form of an elbow to the head, blade to the scrotum or a nasty verbal rejoinder. On one occasion, near the end of the game, the Ice marshal was the victim of an attempted slew footing. To advise his opponent of his opposition to such a piece of poor sportsmanship, IMW promptly delivered a well placed two hander to the miscreant’s exposed hip flexor. The miscreant, in turn, took offence and charged the normally staid team leader. And what did the upstart get for his troubles? More troubles, in the form of a broken hand suffered while trying to re-arrange the Ice Marshal’s facial features. Unfortunately for the hapless assailant, his fist ran into the the marble block between his victim’s ears. “That’ll teach the little flibbertigibbit” spat the Ice Marshal in voice tainted with equal measures of scorn and triumph.
When the big scoring trio, mentioned above, finally emerged from the shower in dressing room 10, the team raced to catch final call at the Terminal Tavren. Injuries suffered were compared to injuries inflicted, and, continuing with the new math, it was determined that the Spitfires would probably all be dead or still in emerg. by next Tuesday. We are hopeful they have learned not to mess with the Israel of Canadore Intramural Hockey.
7 bottles of Black and Blue, 5 Stella, 3 Keiths, I Guinness and a can of whoopass were consumed.
Strawberries 5 Spitfires 1
Game Report
November 20, 2008
Strengthened by the absence of Butcher Brophey (hip flexor) and Sir Gumby (ego bruise), the Killer Strawberries shot down a squad of belligerent Spitfires by a score of 5-1, thus avenging an earlier loss earlier in the week.
Shiny Sean Brightly was the star of the game, playing 4 or 5 positions simultaneously, offending and defending insouciantly. As the Vice so diplomatically put it, “For a fatter guy than the Ice Marshal, he sure is nimble”.
Dr. Thug, MagBoy and Pyjama Man played with each other as best they ever have, going so far as to continue their triumph with a celebratory communal shower. After tallying up the claims of each of these stalwarts, the final score should have been 19-1, with each of the trio getting an additional 8 assists on the evening: 43 points on 5 official goals, another case of the new math gone terribly awry.
Warrin’ Peace was finally allowed out the house for more than 5 minutes in the last month, accompanied by his parole officer/wife who looked on begrudgingly from the comfort of the lobby. He promptly made his presence felt, swooping and dashing like a new born colt high on alfalfa. It was a good thing he didn’t come out stale because his name had been paired frequently with the word “trade” in the last 2 weeks. Perhaps he was spurred on by the excellent play of his left winger, Archilles Perron who finally broke free of the hockey doldrums to deliver his best on ice performance of the season. He attributed his improved play to the new Yanni CD he has started to play in his car on the way to the arena.
Freight Train and the Vice were veritable monoliths on defence and we’re not just referring to their imposing physiques in this case. They wisely used their bulks to force Spitfires to take the long way around to get to loose pucks. It is estimated that the feckless Spitfire foes skated an additional 4,324 miles on the evening just to get around the physical roadblocks scattered repeatedly in their way. Big can be beautiful.
While the score may suggest a cakewalk, it was anything but. Jesse The Leak was tested and came out on top on numerous occasions. Moreover, the Spitfires, fresh from their recent pre-frontal lobotomies, attempted to intimidate the Strawbs with their constant hacking and slashing and overall poor sportsmanship. Unfortunately, they found out that the Killer Strawberries cannot be frightened by much beyond their wives/girlfriends/mistresses. Whenever a foul was encountered, it was received with a counter-encounter; this usually took the form of an elbow to the head, blade to the scrotum or a nasty verbal rejoinder. On one occasion, near the end of the game, the Ice marshal was the victim of an attempted slew footing. To advise his opponent of his opposition to such a piece of poor sportsmanship, IMW promptly delivered a well placed two hander to the miscreant’s exposed hip flexor. The miscreant, in turn, took offence and charged the normally staid team leader. And what did the upstart get for his troubles? More troubles, in the form of a broken hand suffered while trying to re-arrange the Ice Marshal’s facial features. Unfortunately for the hapless assailant, his fist ran into the the marble block between his victim’s ears. “That’ll teach the little flibbertigibbit” spat the Ice Marshal in voice tainted with equal measures of scorn and triumph.
When the big scoring trio, mentioned above, finally emerged from the shower in dressing room 10, the team raced to catch final call at the Terminal Tavren. Injuries suffered were compared to injuries inflicted, and, continuing with the new math, it was determined that the Spitfires would probably all be dead or still in emerg. by next Tuesday. We are hopeful they have learned not to mess with the Israel of Canadore Intramural Hockey.
7 bottles of Black and Blue, 5 Stella, 3 Keiths, I Guinness and a can of whoopass were consumed.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Too Few Bodies
Spitfires 4 Killer Strawberries 2
Game Report
November 17, 2008
It has been a problem all season long. Except for one game this year, the Strawbs have been forced to face younger, faster and hungrier teams with a roster depleted by injury, pique, venereal disease and out-of-control wife control. Those who have shown up have played well above their abilities. It is unfortunate that Strawbs’ management couldn’t take all the extra weight put on by the team over the summer and create an additional skater or two for the team. Freight Train alone has put on enough bulk for 3 extra players. This is not a slight…it is just an observation. Freight Train has been carrying his weight night after night, unlike some gumbyesque others, whose name(s) cannot be mentioned in the interests of team harmony.
Last night was no exception to the chronic undermandedness of this august squad. Not only was the team at least one brick short of a load, some of the bricks had to play injured. The Vice was a veritable Timmy Cratchet, flaying about like a blind kitten caught in a bag of molasses. The team psychiatrist believes he is suffering from a loss of power which has accompanied his dethronement as Dictator By The Lake. Power corrupts…but loss of power corrupts absolutely.
Dr. Butcher Brophey played a stellar game despite the myriad of injuries which plagued his tortured torso. Although his ailments were self-reported, there is no reason to disbelieve that he was suffering from a hip flexor contusion, a jugular haematoma, non-athlete's foot, and a mysterious fungal affliction which is resulting in fewer post-game visits to the Zamboni Room. Looking at him in the dressing room, stripped to what is left of his manhood, one could not help but believe his claims. Nevertheless, his performance was exemplary against the Spitfires. In the dying seconds of the game, he hobbled his way into the opposition end and rifled a rocket off the crossbar, which shot, had it gone in, would have tied the game. He was chosen the game’s first star and received a certificate for a free hockey equipment sanitizing from Atomic Energy of Canada.
MagBoy continued his frenzied and feisty play, urged on certainly by a blond haired babe in the stands rumored to be his fiancee/housekeeper/personal banker. It could only have been love that propelled the team’s unofficial wit (he still has half-way to go before the full title is officially conferred upon him) to beat the crap out of the unfortunate Spitfire who:
a) tossed a carelessly lurid glance at his affianced, and,
b) had the temerity to skate across MagBoy's shadow in the dying embers of the game. It was a full evening’s work for our loose cannon and he deserves to be praised in this report.
Warrin’ Peace continued his string of unexplained absences. His latest excuse was that it is still deer season. This would normally be a good excuse but it has been learned that he was hunting deer on his home computer: doesn’t count. He had better show up soon or the team will not hold its next get together in his Garage Of Bad Ideas.
On the bright side, the team’s Executive has been summoned to Chicago by Obama’s presidential transition team. Seems the president-elect wants to ensure that the next round of free trade talks guarantees an unimpeded flow of Canadian hockey players to U.S. based teams. Apparently Obama once attended a charity-based hockey school in Oahu, Hawaii, which hockey school was one of the first eleemosynary ventures set up by the Strawbs’ Executive. Obama, a weak right winger, never forgot the kindness and especially the wisdom of the Strawbs’ organization which taught him the value of teamwork and practiced oratory. Young Barack was the first recipient of a Killer Strawberries Harvard scholarship and he obviously has used this leg-up to his advantage.
It is not expected that the prolonged absences of the Executive, now rooming temporarily at the Playboy Mansion, will affect this year’s drive to the Cup. The Executive plans to do some valuable recruiting while sojourning in Illinois. It is rumored that there will be some excellent talent on site which could boslter the team’s prospects on and off the ice.
As is and will forever be customary, the Strawbs recovened post-game at the Terminal Tavren to salve the wounds of defeat and to compare ailments, injuries and other personal affronts. Absentees were gently admonished and prayers of hope offered to the Great God Guinness.
20 bottles of Black and Blue, a pound of chicken wings, some flaccid fries and the team’s last tube of A535 were consumed.
Game Report
November 17, 2008
It has been a problem all season long. Except for one game this year, the Strawbs have been forced to face younger, faster and hungrier teams with a roster depleted by injury, pique, venereal disease and out-of-control wife control. Those who have shown up have played well above their abilities. It is unfortunate that Strawbs’ management couldn’t take all the extra weight put on by the team over the summer and create an additional skater or two for the team. Freight Train alone has put on enough bulk for 3 extra players. This is not a slight…it is just an observation. Freight Train has been carrying his weight night after night, unlike some gumbyesque others, whose name(s) cannot be mentioned in the interests of team harmony.
Last night was no exception to the chronic undermandedness of this august squad. Not only was the team at least one brick short of a load, some of the bricks had to play injured. The Vice was a veritable Timmy Cratchet, flaying about like a blind kitten caught in a bag of molasses. The team psychiatrist believes he is suffering from a loss of power which has accompanied his dethronement as Dictator By The Lake. Power corrupts…but loss of power corrupts absolutely.
Dr. Butcher Brophey played a stellar game despite the myriad of injuries which plagued his tortured torso. Although his ailments were self-reported, there is no reason to disbelieve that he was suffering from a hip flexor contusion, a jugular haematoma, non-athlete's foot, and a mysterious fungal affliction which is resulting in fewer post-game visits to the Zamboni Room. Looking at him in the dressing room, stripped to what is left of his manhood, one could not help but believe his claims. Nevertheless, his performance was exemplary against the Spitfires. In the dying seconds of the game, he hobbled his way into the opposition end and rifled a rocket off the crossbar, which shot, had it gone in, would have tied the game. He was chosen the game’s first star and received a certificate for a free hockey equipment sanitizing from Atomic Energy of Canada.
MagBoy continued his frenzied and feisty play, urged on certainly by a blond haired babe in the stands rumored to be his fiancee/housekeeper/personal banker. It could only have been love that propelled the team’s unofficial wit (he still has half-way to go before the full title is officially conferred upon him) to beat the crap out of the unfortunate Spitfire who:
a) tossed a carelessly lurid glance at his affianced, and,
b) had the temerity to skate across MagBoy's shadow in the dying embers of the game. It was a full evening’s work for our loose cannon and he deserves to be praised in this report.
Warrin’ Peace continued his string of unexplained absences. His latest excuse was that it is still deer season. This would normally be a good excuse but it has been learned that he was hunting deer on his home computer: doesn’t count. He had better show up soon or the team will not hold its next get together in his Garage Of Bad Ideas.
On the bright side, the team’s Executive has been summoned to Chicago by Obama’s presidential transition team. Seems the president-elect wants to ensure that the next round of free trade talks guarantees an unimpeded flow of Canadian hockey players to U.S. based teams. Apparently Obama once attended a charity-based hockey school in Oahu, Hawaii, which hockey school was one of the first eleemosynary ventures set up by the Strawbs’ Executive. Obama, a weak right winger, never forgot the kindness and especially the wisdom of the Strawbs’ organization which taught him the value of teamwork and practiced oratory. Young Barack was the first recipient of a Killer Strawberries Harvard scholarship and he obviously has used this leg-up to his advantage.
It is not expected that the prolonged absences of the Executive, now rooming temporarily at the Playboy Mansion, will affect this year’s drive to the Cup. The Executive plans to do some valuable recruiting while sojourning in Illinois. It is rumored that there will be some excellent talent on site which could boslter the team’s prospects on and off the ice.
As is and will forever be customary, the Strawbs recovened post-game at the Terminal Tavren to salve the wounds of defeat and to compare ailments, injuries and other personal affronts. Absentees were gently admonished and prayers of hope offered to the Great God Guinness.
20 bottles of Black and Blue, a pound of chicken wings, some flaccid fries and the team’s last tube of A535 were consumed.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
The Joy of Socks
Urban Outlaws 4 Killer Strawberries 2
Game Report
November 14, 2008
Once again, a shorthanded Strawbs squad came up against a benchful of screaming meemies so high on a toxic brew of raging male hormones that the meemies could barely restrain their hockey libidos long enough take a second breath. It was like playing against the hockey equivalent of a relentless and immoral hard-on. The Strawbs got a pretty good idea what it must be like today to be an unsuspecting teenage boy in a cougar bar.
Things were much different in Strawberryland where the team was so tired by the 2 minute mark that distress signals were being sent out in rudimentary sign language for anyone, anyone, to fire up and deliver the emergency defibrillator conveniently located somewhere in the dark recesses of the Zamboni room. The defibrillator never did arrive yet the Strawberries carried on as best they could under the circumstances.
And why were the Strawbs so shorthanded? Because the Vice and Sir Gawdawful, rather than showing up to the game, decided to venture to Sudbury to attend a Bob Dylan mumblefest. Such is the modern face of loyalty.
Despite the handicap, the Strawbs were able to partially subdue the priapetic beast. Pyjama Man was steady but his stick proved, on numerous occasions, to be six inches short of the goal. Freight Train used his hulking size to diplomatically chop down more than a few Outlaws buzzing about his besieged netminder. Archilles Perron got a shot on net. Dr. Thug, unable to find a young lady to mug, sulked briefly and then exploded in an impressive display of geriatric pique, elbowing his way to the game’s third star. Shiny did his best Zamboni impression, sliding to block a charging Outlaw, only to miss his target and wind up causing a small snow blizzard at the far end of the rink.
The real stars of the game were Jesse The Leak and the irrepressible MagBoy, recently affianced. Facing swarm after swarm of relentless Urban Outlaws, our goalie stood tall, making save after impossible save while carefully reminding his opponents (by less than gently applying the business end of his goalie stick to the seats of their sovereignty) to not take any unnecessary liberties with his august personage. MagBoy was magnificent. He played like a nine-armed octopus: left leg kicking, right leg flying, middle left leg jabbing, left handed arm on his right side flaying, tongue wagging, head nodding, both skatelaces undone, the team’s first star.
At game’s end, an exhausted (and did I mention shorthanded) Killer Strawberries squad congratulated its tormentors and repaired, barely breathing, to their sanctuary to lick their wounds and suffer private heart attacks. Unfortunately, it was not only an evening of torment on the ice. The cruelty of the universe reared its ugly head again in the dressing room.
Ice Marshal Walpole, six times voted “Best Undressed Strawb” by the growing Strawberry fan base, swore that he had shown up to the game wearing a matching pair of Brigadoon argyle socks, knitted especially for him by an adoring fan. While dressing for his late night, post game, tomcattery, he discovered that one of the socks had mysteriously disappeared sometime between game start and game finish. After ascertaining that no one had brought a portable clothes dryer to the game ( a known gateway for escaping socks), he scanned about the room for clues. It did not take him long to apprehend the culprit. As everyone should know by now, Dr. Butcher Brophey (no goals, no assists, 24 minutes in the Sin Bin on the evening) never washes his own equipment: says it gives him an edge…yes, that and a constant fungal infection to his nether regions. Never-washed equipment is an unsupervised,
impulsive, delinquent: a modern day Fagin. It is always on the lookout for recruits. And it is an easy recruiting job because equipment, like cats, hates to be washed. Any chance to find asylum in a friendly bag is irresistible to well cared for (but ultimately ungrateful) equipment. Such was the case here. The Ice Marshal was faced with a dilemma: repatriate the wayward Argyle or grant it the freedom it so evidently desired. The choice was rendered simple when the Ice Marshal realized that an emancipated sock is a happy sock. He quickly tossed the unescaped hosiery mate into Brophey’s travelling cesspool of stinky armour, stating ruefully “Be gone and good riddance, feckless Fruit Of The Loom.”
After scrubbing all body parts and culling their own equipment for suitable ejectees, the Strawbs reconvened at the Terminal Tavren to brainstorm ways to get back at the benedict Arnolds who chose the incomprehensible Dylan over a satisfying hockey beating. The only good idea came from MagBoy who suggested that next game, the absent Sudbury-loving reprobates be bound and tossed into Brophey’s hockey bag so that their filthy disloyalty could be mixed happily with the stench of unwashed anarchy.
4 Stella, 7 Guinness, 5 Blue, 3 pounds of chicken wings, 1 basket of dead potatoes and a sickening side dish of betrayal strained through dirty socks were consumed.
Game Report
November 14, 2008
Once again, a shorthanded Strawbs squad came up against a benchful of screaming meemies so high on a toxic brew of raging male hormones that the meemies could barely restrain their hockey libidos long enough take a second breath. It was like playing against the hockey equivalent of a relentless and immoral hard-on. The Strawbs got a pretty good idea what it must be like today to be an unsuspecting teenage boy in a cougar bar.
Things were much different in Strawberryland where the team was so tired by the 2 minute mark that distress signals were being sent out in rudimentary sign language for anyone, anyone, to fire up and deliver the emergency defibrillator conveniently located somewhere in the dark recesses of the Zamboni room. The defibrillator never did arrive yet the Strawberries carried on as best they could under the circumstances.
And why were the Strawbs so shorthanded? Because the Vice and Sir Gawdawful, rather than showing up to the game, decided to venture to Sudbury to attend a Bob Dylan mumblefest. Such is the modern face of loyalty.
Despite the handicap, the Strawbs were able to partially subdue the priapetic beast. Pyjama Man was steady but his stick proved, on numerous occasions, to be six inches short of the goal. Freight Train used his hulking size to diplomatically chop down more than a few Outlaws buzzing about his besieged netminder. Archilles Perron got a shot on net. Dr. Thug, unable to find a young lady to mug, sulked briefly and then exploded in an impressive display of geriatric pique, elbowing his way to the game’s third star. Shiny did his best Zamboni impression, sliding to block a charging Outlaw, only to miss his target and wind up causing a small snow blizzard at the far end of the rink.
The real stars of the game were Jesse The Leak and the irrepressible MagBoy, recently affianced. Facing swarm after swarm of relentless Urban Outlaws, our goalie stood tall, making save after impossible save while carefully reminding his opponents (by less than gently applying the business end of his goalie stick to the seats of their sovereignty) to not take any unnecessary liberties with his august personage. MagBoy was magnificent. He played like a nine-armed octopus: left leg kicking, right leg flying, middle left leg jabbing, left handed arm on his right side flaying, tongue wagging, head nodding, both skatelaces undone, the team’s first star.
At game’s end, an exhausted (and did I mention shorthanded) Killer Strawberries squad congratulated its tormentors and repaired, barely breathing, to their sanctuary to lick their wounds and suffer private heart attacks. Unfortunately, it was not only an evening of torment on the ice. The cruelty of the universe reared its ugly head again in the dressing room.
Ice Marshal Walpole, six times voted “Best Undressed Strawb” by the growing Strawberry fan base, swore that he had shown up to the game wearing a matching pair of Brigadoon argyle socks, knitted especially for him by an adoring fan. While dressing for his late night, post game, tomcattery, he discovered that one of the socks had mysteriously disappeared sometime between game start and game finish. After ascertaining that no one had brought a portable clothes dryer to the game ( a known gateway for escaping socks), he scanned about the room for clues. It did not take him long to apprehend the culprit. As everyone should know by now, Dr. Butcher Brophey (no goals, no assists, 24 minutes in the Sin Bin on the evening) never washes his own equipment: says it gives him an edge…yes, that and a constant fungal infection to his nether regions. Never-washed equipment is an unsupervised,
impulsive, delinquent: a modern day Fagin. It is always on the lookout for recruits. And it is an easy recruiting job because equipment, like cats, hates to be washed. Any chance to find asylum in a friendly bag is irresistible to well cared for (but ultimately ungrateful) equipment. Such was the case here. The Ice Marshal was faced with a dilemma: repatriate the wayward Argyle or grant it the freedom it so evidently desired. The choice was rendered simple when the Ice Marshal realized that an emancipated sock is a happy sock. He quickly tossed the unescaped hosiery mate into Brophey’s travelling cesspool of stinky armour, stating ruefully “Be gone and good riddance, feckless Fruit Of The Loom.”
After scrubbing all body parts and culling their own equipment for suitable ejectees, the Strawbs reconvened at the Terminal Tavren to brainstorm ways to get back at the benedict Arnolds who chose the incomprehensible Dylan over a satisfying hockey beating. The only good idea came from MagBoy who suggested that next game, the absent Sudbury-loving reprobates be bound and tossed into Brophey’s hockey bag so that their filthy disloyalty could be mixed happily with the stench of unwashed anarchy.
4 Stella, 7 Guinness, 5 Blue, 3 pounds of chicken wings, 1 basket of dead potatoes and a sickening side dish of betrayal strained through dirty socks were consumed.
Monday, November 10, 2008
An Historical Night
Killer Strawberries 11 F-Word 1
Game Report
November 6, 2008
Without criminally misexaggerating the quality of last night’s game against a dispirited F-Word squad, it can be safely said that whole affair was a monumental mismatch reminiscent of the day the Vice got married. There were some gems among the dross, however.
The aforementioned Vice scored his first tally in over 2 seasons, a lifter that actuallly made it from the blueline to the back of the net without once touching the intervening ice surface. Jesse The Leak managed to stop half of the shots directed at him, barely missing out on a colossally undeserved shutout. Dr. Thug, scored a beautiful goal to finally put the game out of reach. At the time the score was 10-1 Strawbs with under 45 seconds left on the clock. His Thuggery was so pleased with himself that he collected the puck from the opposition’s net for display on his home hearth. He claimed that it was his 8 millionth goal scored on full-mooned Thursdays in all the Novembers since he started playing organized hockey over 2 centuries ago.
Dr. Butcher Brophey made absolutely no visits to the Sin Bin all evening, not even to chat up the little cutie who was acting as timekeeper. “ I just didn’t feel like my old self” he claimed at a post game news conference, held at Casino Rama where he had gone to ogle Joan Rivers instead of contributing to his team.. “It was like my body was drained of all its testosterone. I hadn’t an ounce of manly fluid left in me after my big week.” Oddly, he refused to elaborate on the alleged “big week”. A big week for him is getting off the couch long enough to refill his pitcher of Scotch and to tell his live-in nanny that her a** is starting to look fat.
The real gem of the evening was not to be found on the ice at all. As everyone knows, Sir Gawdawful Gumby, nee P. Gumbington Pettigrew, has long believed that the modicum of talent he regularly displays on the frozen battlefields of icehockeydom has been the result of his own unwavering commitment to sporting excellence and a diet of controlled, yet tasteful debauchery. He has often bored us all with a recurring lamentation which holds that he has no strong hockey bloodlines coursing through his veins. According to Gumby lore, his mother was a wastrel asked to leave The Mother Of Perpetual Agony Convent at the ripe old age of 12. His father was a moonbeam.
A shocked Gumby shocked the rest of us as the team prepared for its post game journey to the Terminal Tavren. All the good-natured towel snaps to flaccid butts ceased as Gumby revealed for the first time that he had, all these years, been labouring under a dreadful misapprehension. Finally, he could attribute for what passed as his talent to a rich hereditary past.
According to our pumpkin-socked poltroon, his great great uncle, P. Grumblington Pettigrew-Pettigrew, was a star performer in the Stonehenge Intramural Hockey League back in its infancy, at a time when all hockey equipment was still made out of solid rock. Further according to Gumby, he (Gumby) had been searching the tattered archives at his ancestral family home in ButtFace, Alaska and found numerous sporting reports scratched out on rumpled papyrus, gloryfying the tremendous hockey prowess of his hitherto unknown relative. The archives recorded that, after an arranged marriage to his half-sister/aunt twice removed (the randy and mesmerizing P. Hornington Pettigrew), the uncle/half-brother, P. Grumblington, looking to provide properly for his enamoratta, tried out for and was made captain of the ButtFace Bottom Feeders Intramural Hockey Club, a captaincy he kept until his unfortunate death by mob-beating in 1908. The noble ancestor was and always will be the leading scorer of the now defunct Stonehenge League. His career earnings allowed his widowed bride to continue living the high life in Buttface until her untimely death by a short-circuited, coin-operated vibrator in 1912.
“I finally know where I’ve come from and why I am so good at what I do” bragged an obviously giddy Gumby. “Let’s go for a beer!” And for a beer they went.
4 Keiths, 8 Black and Tan, 4 Stella, 2 Blue, 5 Guinness, 4 pounds of chicken wings, 3 platters of low fat fries and some dubious bragging based on a very shallow gene pool were consumed.
Game Report
November 6, 2008
Without criminally misexaggerating the quality of last night’s game against a dispirited F-Word squad, it can be safely said that whole affair was a monumental mismatch reminiscent of the day the Vice got married. There were some gems among the dross, however.
The aforementioned Vice scored his first tally in over 2 seasons, a lifter that actuallly made it from the blueline to the back of the net without once touching the intervening ice surface. Jesse The Leak managed to stop half of the shots directed at him, barely missing out on a colossally undeserved shutout. Dr. Thug, scored a beautiful goal to finally put the game out of reach. At the time the score was 10-1 Strawbs with under 45 seconds left on the clock. His Thuggery was so pleased with himself that he collected the puck from the opposition’s net for display on his home hearth. He claimed that it was his 8 millionth goal scored on full-mooned Thursdays in all the Novembers since he started playing organized hockey over 2 centuries ago.
Dr. Butcher Brophey made absolutely no visits to the Sin Bin all evening, not even to chat up the little cutie who was acting as timekeeper. “ I just didn’t feel like my old self” he claimed at a post game news conference, held at Casino Rama where he had gone to ogle Joan Rivers instead of contributing to his team.. “It was like my body was drained of all its testosterone. I hadn’t an ounce of manly fluid left in me after my big week.” Oddly, he refused to elaborate on the alleged “big week”. A big week for him is getting off the couch long enough to refill his pitcher of Scotch and to tell his live-in nanny that her a** is starting to look fat.
The real gem of the evening was not to be found on the ice at all. As everyone knows, Sir Gawdawful Gumby, nee P. Gumbington Pettigrew, has long believed that the modicum of talent he regularly displays on the frozen battlefields of icehockeydom has been the result of his own unwavering commitment to sporting excellence and a diet of controlled, yet tasteful debauchery. He has often bored us all with a recurring lamentation which holds that he has no strong hockey bloodlines coursing through his veins. According to Gumby lore, his mother was a wastrel asked to leave The Mother Of Perpetual Agony Convent at the ripe old age of 12. His father was a moonbeam.
A shocked Gumby shocked the rest of us as the team prepared for its post game journey to the Terminal Tavren. All the good-natured towel snaps to flaccid butts ceased as Gumby revealed for the first time that he had, all these years, been labouring under a dreadful misapprehension. Finally, he could attribute for what passed as his talent to a rich hereditary past.
According to our pumpkin-socked poltroon, his great great uncle, P. Grumblington Pettigrew-Pettigrew, was a star performer in the Stonehenge Intramural Hockey League back in its infancy, at a time when all hockey equipment was still made out of solid rock. Further according to Gumby, he (Gumby) had been searching the tattered archives at his ancestral family home in ButtFace, Alaska and found numerous sporting reports scratched out on rumpled papyrus, gloryfying the tremendous hockey prowess of his hitherto unknown relative. The archives recorded that, after an arranged marriage to his half-sister/aunt twice removed (the randy and mesmerizing P. Hornington Pettigrew), the uncle/half-brother, P. Grumblington, looking to provide properly for his enamoratta, tried out for and was made captain of the ButtFace Bottom Feeders Intramural Hockey Club, a captaincy he kept until his unfortunate death by mob-beating in 1908. The noble ancestor was and always will be the leading scorer of the now defunct Stonehenge League. His career earnings allowed his widowed bride to continue living the high life in Buttface until her untimely death by a short-circuited, coin-operated vibrator in 1912.
“I finally know where I’ve come from and why I am so good at what I do” bragged an obviously giddy Gumby. “Let’s go for a beer!” And for a beer they went.
4 Keiths, 8 Black and Tan, 4 Stella, 2 Blue, 5 Guinness, 4 pounds of chicken wings, 3 platters of low fat fries and some dubious bragging based on a very shallow gene pool were consumed.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Standing Room Only Crowd Treated To Strawberry Delight
Killer Strawberries 4 Free Agents 2
Game Report
October 27, 2008
As bandwagons around the NHL get abandoned with predictable regularity, just the opposite is happening in our own backyard. The Killer Strawberries bandwagon is becoming crowded indeed, in no small part due to its early season success. Last evening you couldn’t even get a ticket to the return matchup between the Strawbs and their newest rivals, the tenacious and free wheeling Free Agents of Kalamazoo, Deep River, Port Au Prince, County Kerry, Ulan Bator and places beyond.
A Standing Room Only throng of 2 jostled about the arena in an attempt to get the best view of their on- ice heroes. Toes were crushed, hangnails splintered and lacy underthings ripped as the crowd prepared for the evening’s rematch. The VIP section was overflowing. Among the guests could be found the recently retired but not-dead-yet Madame LaChaise Lounge who was, just a month ago, self-appointed to the position of Field Marsha at the Compound For Minor Vice, once the almost exclusive domain of the redoubtable Dictator By The Lake, his grey eminence The Vice himself. Joining the Field Marsha was the delightful MagGirl, resplendent in the black and taupe squirrel coat purchased for her at last week’s Value Village Annual Used Fur Sale by her man, the swift skating/not-so-much-thinking MagBoy. It should be pointed out that the coat is a substitute for the engagement ring MagGirl has been expecting for the last 4 years. Better late than never I suppose.
MagGirl’s presence was certainly instrumental in elevating her beau’s on-ice play. Spurred on by her encouraging coos, MagBoy made love to his ego as he scored 2 highlight reel goals when they were needed the most. Apparently, the Vice was not quite so motivated by the presence of his new/old boss/wife/girlfriend/benefactoress. Having hidden himself away on defence for the better part of this season, he appeared befuddled at the centre’s position. His aging body was tone deaf to the urgings of his will as he fumbled about between the blue lines. At game’s end, he was heard complaining that even his wrinkles hurt. Despite his physical woes, he still managed to irk the auras of his opponents through the masterfully surreptitious use of small hooks, little knee applications and the occasional accidental body slam.
It only took four games into the season for Archilles Perron to display the wares what got him to the big team. After caressing a soft saucer-like pass from an alert Freight Train 444, Archilles barelled in on the frightened goaltender, head faked to his right and deposited the biscuit into a yawningly vacated top left corner. He has not scored a prettier goal in his illustrious career. (His other goal, in a peewee scrimmage, was actually quite ugly.)
The only 2 players who proved detrimental to the team were Warrin’ Peace and Sir Gumby. Warrin’ had a good excuse. His wife had told him he couldn’t play: kept leaving dirty dishes and dirtier pictures all over the house. He had been grounded for the first time since his third date with the gorgeous Samara Dessert. Happens to all of us.
Gumby was excuseless. He showed up to the game tired and surly, claiming physical and mental exhaustion. Forgot his helmet and his sense of humour. The replacement helmet found for him must have been too tight because on at least 2 occasions he had to be retrieved from the Free Agents’net, his tawdry garters caught irretrievably in the mesh. Couldn’t extricate himself from his dilemma on the second occurence and didn’t want to. Just sat there like Buddah on a cosmic bender. He was promptly benched, much to his satisfaction.
Post game, the players and its best looking fan assembled for a debriefing at the Terminal Tavren: everyone except for Archilles and for MagPie and his fiancee, both last seen entering the back seat of a pimped up Acura Vigor in the Pete Palangio parking lot, VIP section. Their health was toasted and their vigour admired.
4 Stella, 6 Black and Tan, 8 Keiths, 2 Blue, 1 Bud, 3 pounds of chicken wings and memories of long forgotten post-game trysts were consumed.
Game Report
October 27, 2008
As bandwagons around the NHL get abandoned with predictable regularity, just the opposite is happening in our own backyard. The Killer Strawberries bandwagon is becoming crowded indeed, in no small part due to its early season success. Last evening you couldn’t even get a ticket to the return matchup between the Strawbs and their newest rivals, the tenacious and free wheeling Free Agents of Kalamazoo, Deep River, Port Au Prince, County Kerry, Ulan Bator and places beyond.
A Standing Room Only throng of 2 jostled about the arena in an attempt to get the best view of their on- ice heroes. Toes were crushed, hangnails splintered and lacy underthings ripped as the crowd prepared for the evening’s rematch. The VIP section was overflowing. Among the guests could be found the recently retired but not-dead-yet Madame LaChaise Lounge who was, just a month ago, self-appointed to the position of Field Marsha at the Compound For Minor Vice, once the almost exclusive domain of the redoubtable Dictator By The Lake, his grey eminence The Vice himself. Joining the Field Marsha was the delightful MagGirl, resplendent in the black and taupe squirrel coat purchased for her at last week’s Value Village Annual Used Fur Sale by her man, the swift skating/not-so-much-thinking MagBoy. It should be pointed out that the coat is a substitute for the engagement ring MagGirl has been expecting for the last 4 years. Better late than never I suppose.
MagGirl’s presence was certainly instrumental in elevating her beau’s on-ice play. Spurred on by her encouraging coos, MagBoy made love to his ego as he scored 2 highlight reel goals when they were needed the most. Apparently, the Vice was not quite so motivated by the presence of his new/old boss/wife/girlfriend/benefactoress. Having hidden himself away on defence for the better part of this season, he appeared befuddled at the centre’s position. His aging body was tone deaf to the urgings of his will as he fumbled about between the blue lines. At game’s end, he was heard complaining that even his wrinkles hurt. Despite his physical woes, he still managed to irk the auras of his opponents through the masterfully surreptitious use of small hooks, little knee applications and the occasional accidental body slam.
It only took four games into the season for Archilles Perron to display the wares what got him to the big team. After caressing a soft saucer-like pass from an alert Freight Train 444, Archilles barelled in on the frightened goaltender, head faked to his right and deposited the biscuit into a yawningly vacated top left corner. He has not scored a prettier goal in his illustrious career. (His other goal, in a peewee scrimmage, was actually quite ugly.)
The only 2 players who proved detrimental to the team were Warrin’ Peace and Sir Gumby. Warrin’ had a good excuse. His wife had told him he couldn’t play: kept leaving dirty dishes and dirtier pictures all over the house. He had been grounded for the first time since his third date with the gorgeous Samara Dessert. Happens to all of us.
Gumby was excuseless. He showed up to the game tired and surly, claiming physical and mental exhaustion. Forgot his helmet and his sense of humour. The replacement helmet found for him must have been too tight because on at least 2 occasions he had to be retrieved from the Free Agents’net, his tawdry garters caught irretrievably in the mesh. Couldn’t extricate himself from his dilemma on the second occurence and didn’t want to. Just sat there like Buddah on a cosmic bender. He was promptly benched, much to his satisfaction.
Post game, the players and its best looking fan assembled for a debriefing at the Terminal Tavren: everyone except for Archilles and for MagPie and his fiancee, both last seen entering the back seat of a pimped up Acura Vigor in the Pete Palangio parking lot, VIP section. Their health was toasted and their vigour admired.
4 Stella, 6 Black and Tan, 8 Keiths, 2 Blue, 1 Bud, 3 pounds of chicken wings and memories of long forgotten post-game trysts were consumed.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Rebound
Strawberries 5 Free Agents 3
Game Report
October 27, 2008
As the gentle reader will recall, the previous Strawberries' game against a smooth skating squadron of Ramrods was callously unattended by His Gawdawfulness, Sir Gumby, and by Butcher Brophey, Dr. Thud and Shiny Sean. The Executive was less than pleased. An unpleased Executive is an unhappy Executive.
Fortunately, the Killer Strawberries are superbly managed. Management has acquired over the years a veritable gallimaufry of cruel yet effective carrots and sticks, each of which can be tailored to the problem at hand. After last week’s virulent case of I-Just-Won’t-Show-Up-Tonightis, something had to be done. After careful consideration, the Executive chose to have tongue lashings administered to its latest miscreants. Strawbs respond well to tongue lashings. Always have. Makes em want to smoke afterwards. So successful was the punishment, that, for last night’s dustup, there was perfect attendance.
The laggards were certainly present last night but, unfortunately, less than effective. Seems it is difficult to skate with one’s tail shriveled between one’s legs. The important thing, however, was that they learned their lessons. As for the rest of the team, most rebounded relentlessy and magnificently. Freight Train Laronde, fresh from cracking the upper side of the 255 pound barrier, skated about like a rutting Tasmanian Devil, complete with nostril flaring, hoof pounding and in your face forechecking: any more testosterone and his gonads would have exploded. He may even have scored a goal.
Archilles Perron was his same old self, yet moreso. He glided gracefully up and down the right wing, a veritable Toller Cranston. Unfortunately, his shooting was about as good as the former Canadian champion’s. What Archilles needs is a little more INTENSITY.
Warrin’ Peace, despite the troubles he is having at home as a result of his new no smoking/under-10-beer-a-day-regime, played very well, even with Archilles as one of his wingers.
Pyjama Man was a force to be reckoned with, until the start of the first period, when, apprently, he just gave up. But in his favour, it must be said that his hair remained perfect through the whole match, unsullied by unwelcome sweat. He may also have scored a goal or two.
MagBoy was a perfect clone of his hockey hero, the aforementioned Freight Train. He too raced about aimfully, causing havoc here and mayhem there. Pucks were turned over, errant passes forced and cringing made to happen in the corners. He may also have scored a goal but that, of course, is highly unlikely.
The Ice Marshal played as expected: competently and with elan. Various reports have him scoring the winning goal but, as usual, he was too humble to take the credit.
The Vice continued his stalwart toil on defence, trying so hard at times to make up for a disastrous 2007-08 campaign, that he twice gave himself whiplash as he spun around to hook the speedy opponent who had just undressed him. You have to admire his pluck.
Jesse The Leak, only last month promoted to Jesse The Drip, in honour of his much improved puck-stopping skills (or was it a cruel joke mascarading as a bad pun?), was steady between the pipes. He allowed only one sloppy goal which, according to him and his Mom, was not his fault.
With this come from behind victory, the Strawberries are now 2 and 1 on the season and well positioned to defend the title they won in 2006…or was it 1996? In any event, it doesn’t matter. They are defending something and that is all that matters.
The team assembled for the customary debriefing at the Terminal Tavren. Tales of pseudo-lascivious tongue lashings were exaggerated and enjoyed by all. Previous absences were forgiven and peace reigned among the stars of this inscrutable universe.
10 Guinness, 4 Stella, 1 Bass, 2 Blue, 3 Black and Tan and 1 liter of Tasmanina Tongue Twister were consumed.
Game Report
October 27, 2008
As the gentle reader will recall, the previous Strawberries' game against a smooth skating squadron of Ramrods was callously unattended by His Gawdawfulness, Sir Gumby, and by Butcher Brophey, Dr. Thud and Shiny Sean. The Executive was less than pleased. An unpleased Executive is an unhappy Executive.
Fortunately, the Killer Strawberries are superbly managed. Management has acquired over the years a veritable gallimaufry of cruel yet effective carrots and sticks, each of which can be tailored to the problem at hand. After last week’s virulent case of I-Just-Won’t-Show-Up-Tonightis, something had to be done. After careful consideration, the Executive chose to have tongue lashings administered to its latest miscreants. Strawbs respond well to tongue lashings. Always have. Makes em want to smoke afterwards. So successful was the punishment, that, for last night’s dustup, there was perfect attendance.
The laggards were certainly present last night but, unfortunately, less than effective. Seems it is difficult to skate with one’s tail shriveled between one’s legs. The important thing, however, was that they learned their lessons. As for the rest of the team, most rebounded relentlessy and magnificently. Freight Train Laronde, fresh from cracking the upper side of the 255 pound barrier, skated about like a rutting Tasmanian Devil, complete with nostril flaring, hoof pounding and in your face forechecking: any more testosterone and his gonads would have exploded. He may even have scored a goal.
Archilles Perron was his same old self, yet moreso. He glided gracefully up and down the right wing, a veritable Toller Cranston. Unfortunately, his shooting was about as good as the former Canadian champion’s. What Archilles needs is a little more INTENSITY.
Warrin’ Peace, despite the troubles he is having at home as a result of his new no smoking/under-10-beer-a-day-regime, played very well, even with Archilles as one of his wingers.
Pyjama Man was a force to be reckoned with, until the start of the first period, when, apprently, he just gave up. But in his favour, it must be said that his hair remained perfect through the whole match, unsullied by unwelcome sweat. He may also have scored a goal or two.
MagBoy was a perfect clone of his hockey hero, the aforementioned Freight Train. He too raced about aimfully, causing havoc here and mayhem there. Pucks were turned over, errant passes forced and cringing made to happen in the corners. He may also have scored a goal but that, of course, is highly unlikely.
The Ice Marshal played as expected: competently and with elan. Various reports have him scoring the winning goal but, as usual, he was too humble to take the credit.
The Vice continued his stalwart toil on defence, trying so hard at times to make up for a disastrous 2007-08 campaign, that he twice gave himself whiplash as he spun around to hook the speedy opponent who had just undressed him. You have to admire his pluck.
Jesse The Leak, only last month promoted to Jesse The Drip, in honour of his much improved puck-stopping skills (or was it a cruel joke mascarading as a bad pun?), was steady between the pipes. He allowed only one sloppy goal which, according to him and his Mom, was not his fault.
With this come from behind victory, the Strawberries are now 2 and 1 on the season and well positioned to defend the title they won in 2006…or was it 1996? In any event, it doesn’t matter. They are defending something and that is all that matters.
The team assembled for the customary debriefing at the Terminal Tavren. Tales of pseudo-lascivious tongue lashings were exaggerated and enjoyed by all. Previous absences were forgiven and peace reigned among the stars of this inscrutable universe.
10 Guinness, 4 Stella, 1 Bass, 2 Blue, 3 Black and Tan and 1 liter of Tasmanina Tongue Twister were consumed.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Survival Mode
Game Report
Ramrod 6 Strawberries 2
October 23, 2008
A heavily depleted Strawbs squad faced a smooth skating bunch of testosterone-infused Luffwaffe recruits in a game where survival was the goal. Why so depleted? Gawdawful Gumby was in Toronto spreading dog manure on government carpets as an act of revenge aimed at a world which daily conspires to underpay and overdemand of him. The Butcher was attending “A Find The Inner Feminine” hands -on seminar at an exclusive spa in the Caledon Hills, accompanied by a mysterious woman believed to bear a striking resemblance to Miss White Go Go Boots' second cousin. Apparently, the Butcher was successful in finding some Inner Feminine…but we only have his uncorroborated word for that.
Dr. Thug skipped the game to drive to Ottawa to help his son, Richard the First, complete a late Physics assignment, which both of them ended up failing anyway. Shiny Sean was also a no show, having been told by the house mistress that he couldn’t go out to play until all the vaccuming was done at home. As everyone knows, Shiny was once frightened as a child by a door to door Kirby vaccuum salesman who attempted to introduce Shiny to a secondary use of this amazing appliance. Consequently, instead of carrying out the domestic order, he hid in his closet at home until his wife left for work the next day. His status for the next game is unknown.
But back to the game. To those intrepid Strawbs who braved the strafing by the erswhile Luftwaffe, the hockey world salutes you. Yes, you were tired. Yes, you were demoralized and yes, you all finished more weak-kneed that a double-duty hooker at a Shriners’ convention. Yet, you persisted to the bitter end.
After the match, the customary trip was taken to the Terminal Tavren, where knees were rubbed and rubber shrapnel removed from bruised egos. We had survived.
4 Guinness, 2 Stella, 4 Bud Light and a little A535 were consumed.
Ramrod 6 Strawberries 2
October 23, 2008
A heavily depleted Strawbs squad faced a smooth skating bunch of testosterone-infused Luffwaffe recruits in a game where survival was the goal. Why so depleted? Gawdawful Gumby was in Toronto spreading dog manure on government carpets as an act of revenge aimed at a world which daily conspires to underpay and overdemand of him. The Butcher was attending “A Find The Inner Feminine” hands -on seminar at an exclusive spa in the Caledon Hills, accompanied by a mysterious woman believed to bear a striking resemblance to Miss White Go Go Boots' second cousin. Apparently, the Butcher was successful in finding some Inner Feminine…but we only have his uncorroborated word for that.
Dr. Thug skipped the game to drive to Ottawa to help his son, Richard the First, complete a late Physics assignment, which both of them ended up failing anyway. Shiny Sean was also a no show, having been told by the house mistress that he couldn’t go out to play until all the vaccuming was done at home. As everyone knows, Shiny was once frightened as a child by a door to door Kirby vaccuum salesman who attempted to introduce Shiny to a secondary use of this amazing appliance. Consequently, instead of carrying out the domestic order, he hid in his closet at home until his wife left for work the next day. His status for the next game is unknown.
But back to the game. To those intrepid Strawbs who braved the strafing by the erswhile Luftwaffe, the hockey world salutes you. Yes, you were tired. Yes, you were demoralized and yes, you all finished more weak-kneed that a double-duty hooker at a Shriners’ convention. Yet, you persisted to the bitter end.
After the match, the customary trip was taken to the Terminal Tavren, where knees were rubbed and rubber shrapnel removed from bruised egos. We had survived.
4 Guinness, 2 Stella, 4 Bud Light and a little A535 were consumed.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Strawbs Shine In Pre-Season Action
Game Report
Killer Strawberries 14 F-Word 3
October 16, 2008
Still smarting from last year’s end-of-season brain cramp, this year’s version of the Killer Strawberries came out swinging. Led by a rejuvenated Dr. Thug (rejuvenated in the sense of “no longer pissed before every game”), the squad laid a beating on its feckless foe reminiscent of the second Ali/Frasier slugfest.
It must be admitted that the team iced on Thursday was probably the strongest it has been in a long time. There was no Whoa!horny Richardson to regularly cough up the puck in his own end, Whoa!horny having retired on the advice of his psychotherapist and current wife. There was no Vice, the Vice claiming some woman, not his wife, advised him not to play until at least this week. It is believed to the be first time since his grade 8 graduation that the Dictator By The Lake has taken advice from anyone except one of his other split personalities. There was no Gawdawful Gumby, His Officiousness having decided that he was needed and/or more wanted elsewhere. One of these and/or’s was true. The other was a gross oversestimation of his desirability. Apparently, Sir Gumby will be a farce to be reckoned with this season.
All other Strawberries performed at or above expectation. They played with aplomb, dedication and panache. To further prove their commitment to a team that only has their best interests at heart, the night’s players assembled dutifully at the Terminal Tavren to recount the evening’s heroics, to officially pad their first game statistics and to gleefully cast aspersions upon those less dedicated than they. The Vice came in for some particularly vicious shots, not so much for his whimping out on ice (he “coached” rather than dressed), but moreso for his pusillanimous high-tailing it home immediately following his dubious coaching debut. Expressions like “Scotch swillin’ nambypamby” and “fraidy cat’ were bandied with great gusto and heartily guffawed upon.
At the post game wrapup, Doctor Butcher Brophey gave a stunning lecture entitled “The Trouble With World Financial Markets, The Underlying Causes and Suggested Remedies: An Off-Handed Rumination.” By the time he had finished, the drinking hole was abandoned and the rest of the Strawbs home in bed, dreaming dreams of glory to come.
4 Bud, 6 Kilkenny, 2 Black and Tan, 3 Stella, 4 Guinness, a jug of water, 2 pounds of of wings and some startling macroeconomic claptrap were consumed.
Killer Strawberries 14 F-Word 3
October 16, 2008
Still smarting from last year’s end-of-season brain cramp, this year’s version of the Killer Strawberries came out swinging. Led by a rejuvenated Dr. Thug (rejuvenated in the sense of “no longer pissed before every game”), the squad laid a beating on its feckless foe reminiscent of the second Ali/Frasier slugfest.
It must be admitted that the team iced on Thursday was probably the strongest it has been in a long time. There was no Whoa!horny Richardson to regularly cough up the puck in his own end, Whoa!horny having retired on the advice of his psychotherapist and current wife. There was no Vice, the Vice claiming some woman, not his wife, advised him not to play until at least this week. It is believed to the be first time since his grade 8 graduation that the Dictator By The Lake has taken advice from anyone except one of his other split personalities. There was no Gawdawful Gumby, His Officiousness having decided that he was needed and/or more wanted elsewhere. One of these and/or’s was true. The other was a gross oversestimation of his desirability. Apparently, Sir Gumby will be a farce to be reckoned with this season.
All other Strawberries performed at or above expectation. They played with aplomb, dedication and panache. To further prove their commitment to a team that only has their best interests at heart, the night’s players assembled dutifully at the Terminal Tavren to recount the evening’s heroics, to officially pad their first game statistics and to gleefully cast aspersions upon those less dedicated than they. The Vice came in for some particularly vicious shots, not so much for his whimping out on ice (he “coached” rather than dressed), but moreso for his pusillanimous high-tailing it home immediately following his dubious coaching debut. Expressions like “Scotch swillin’ nambypamby” and “fraidy cat’ were bandied with great gusto and heartily guffawed upon.
At the post game wrapup, Doctor Butcher Brophey gave a stunning lecture entitled “The Trouble With World Financial Markets, The Underlying Causes and Suggested Remedies: An Off-Handed Rumination.” By the time he had finished, the drinking hole was abandoned and the rest of the Strawbs home in bed, dreaming dreams of glory to come.
4 Bud, 6 Kilkenny, 2 Black and Tan, 3 Stella, 4 Guinness, a jug of water, 2 pounds of of wings and some startling macroeconomic claptrap were consumed.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
SIGN UP FOR THE 2008-2009 SEASON
Hi Strawbs.
Just got notice this morning that the cost to play this year is $160. Money needs to be paid by the end of the day. Nice surprise!
Please let me know:
If you will be playing this year
Whether you will be coming in to sign up today or whether you want me to sign you up
What your phone number is.
If you want me to sign you up and pay, I’d like you to drop off a cheque to me tonight or tomorrow night, payable to me.
Attached is a Code of Ethics which you are supposed to read and agree to. I’ll sign this on your behalf if you are having me sign you up.
If I haven’t heard from you by 12:30, I’ll sign you up.
Please advise soonest.
Email at bob.walpole@canadorec.on.ca
IMW
Just got notice this morning that the cost to play this year is $160. Money needs to be paid by the end of the day. Nice surprise!
Please let me know:
If you will be playing this year
Whether you will be coming in to sign up today or whether you want me to sign you up
What your phone number is.
If you want me to sign you up and pay, I’d like you to drop off a cheque to me tonight or tomorrow night, payable to me.
Attached is a Code of Ethics which you are supposed to read and agree to. I’ll sign this on your behalf if you are having me sign you up.
If I haven’t heard from you by 12:30, I’ll sign you up.
Please advise soonest.
Email at bob.walpole@canadorec.on.ca
IMW
Monday, September 01, 2008
Brobdignagian Butchery Bags Big Booty For Brophey
Strawbs' Second Annual
Golf Tournament Report
August 28, 2008
To say that it has been a banner year for Dr. Butcher Brophey, teacher, humanitarian, boulevardier and hockey surgeon, would be a criminal understatement. In the last 12 months alone, this penalty box aficionado has been awarded a PhD in Hackery from Abattoir Academy of Carvemup, UK, become the first professor in the history to hold a chair in Zamboni Repair and Maintenance anywhere in the world (his doctoral dissertation was entitled “Using Zamboni Technology For Maiming An Opponent And Getting Away With It”), undergoing his first prostate exam and winning the coveted Grand Richard Trophy at the Killer Strawberries’ Second Annual Golf Tournament held at Osprey Links on August 28, 2008.
As usual, the tourney got off to a fantastic start, with lame excuses for non-attendance more numerous than the piles removed from Magboy’s ass in the 2007 off-season. Snowtop O’Farrell was the first to bow out, claiming a damaged ego and lack of balls made it impossible for him to realistically compete for the crown. Doubt was cast upon the second of the two excuses when his main squeeze, Lori Luscious reported to the Executive in a secret post-tournament e-mail that Snowtop had more balls than necessary to complete a round, she having kissed them for good luck only moments before his scheduled tee-off. When Lori Luscious was asked why she didn’t show up to defend her 2007 Grande Richarde trophy, she could only make a murky allusion to a recurring jaw injury which has kept her on her back for most of the year. Get well soon Luscious.
Excuses proffered by other non-attendees were spectacularly unbelievable. Freight Train Laronde claimed his dog ate his nearly completed doctoral dissertation. Dr. Thug said he could not play because he was having trouble completing his son’s first Physics assignment of the year. Whoahorney bold-facedly lied, saying he couldn’t find enough A535 to get him through the front nine. The Executive has since warned this lying liar to quit smoking the stuff.
Things did not pan out any better on the links. Shiny Sean telephoned the course starter minutes to tee-off to inform the Scoring Committee that he had actually played his round on the previous Monday, had shot a blistering 60, thus becoming the leader in the club house before the Vice even had a chance to drain his third Scotch flask of the day. Upon review, it was discovered by the team’s intrepid private detective, One-Eyed Larry The Fog, that Shiny had been at Canada’s Wonderland on the Monday in question and was attempting to pass off his miserable 9 hole mini-putt score as legitimate. Executive justice is expected to be pronounced soon.
The horror show continued from the get-go. Moses McLean, playing gingerly from his wheelchair-golf cart-mobile barcar, scared the bejesus out of his imprsessionable and underage girlfriend, the Siren of Brockville, by having mild cardiac infarctions and bad gas during his warm up swings. Why the Siren was carrying an updated copy of Moses’ will in her golf bag is anybody’s guess.
Warrin’ Peace showed up with his clubs shined, butt shaved and his lips sealed. He was so wound up and nervous that you couldn’t have shoved a needle up his butt with a jackhammer. Jesse The Leak, sporting silk knee high stockings and a brand new set of clubs allegedly received from his invisible girfriend as a birthday gift, displayed holes in his game bigger than the openings he regularly leaves eager opponents during hockey matches. Sir Gumby, as usual, was late, and finally caught up with his foursome by hole 14, four under par, driving both the beer cart and the beer girl simultaneously. He was not sure which score to hand in at tournament’s end.
MagBoy set a course record of his own, finishing his round in under 7 minutes. He mistakenly thought it was a mountain biking competition and was kicked off the property for laying skid marks on 17 of the 18 greens. His future status with the team was unknown at the time this report was filed with headquarters at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu. A psychiatric assessment has been ordered. Observers are not optimistic.
Loans Jones and her poor choice of a paramour, the once virile Pyjama Man, a Hugh Hefner protégée, showed up in a golf cart equipped with a large back seat and a gin dispenser. Apparently, golf was the last thing on their minds.
The lead foursome was spectacular, setting team records at will. Over 18 holes, the Vice polished off 2 sixty ounces glasses of Laphroig Scotch without any assistance from his playing mates. It did not affect his game at all, as he managed to break 150with ease. Archilles Perron was brutal. Thank Gawd there were no children present to witness his exhibition of pure ineptitude, bad sportsmanship and salty vocabulary. He could have scored better using a broom and a rotten orange. The Ice Marshal, defending Grand Richard champion of 2007, poet and majority stockholder in Victoria’s Secret Inc., was resplendent in his tartan kilt and matching Jimmy Buffet concert shirt. He played well, but not as well as the eventual winner, the aforementioned graduate of the world renowned Abattoir Academy.
Unfortunately, the tournament had to be suspended, with players still left on the 14th, 15 and 16th holes. A tropical storm unexpectedly descended upon the links. Play had to be stopped because of the torrential downpour, poor visibility conditions and lack of beer cart service. The Executive hastily convened a meeting, pondered the options and decided that, since beer service could not be guaranteed for the remaining holes, a brilliant yet unorthodox method would be used to determine the winners of all tournament awards and trophies: horsesh** luck.
At the Terminal Tavern, site of the closing ceremonies, the Vice ordered pen and paper and a clean hat, wrote the names of all players on slips of #4 Vellum paper (note:his own name appeared twice in the audited scraps) and placed the slips into the hat. Jesse The Leak somehow won both door prizes, courtesy of the excellent lottery ticket drawing powers of the nattering, chattering, recently engaged MagGirl. The prizes: 2 rare bottles of Cow Urine Chardonnay complete with floating marzipan golf balls, prizes surely to be displayed proudly on The Leak’s empty mantle. Madame La Chaise Lounge, who loves Chardonnay and marzipan more than her coddled CrackBerry, traded away her electonic dictator for one of the bottles and free goaltending lessons from the Leak: a lose/lose/lose situation for the hapless goaltender, Madame and the Chardonnay.
She Who Must Be Obeyed, former Miss Universe and the Ice Marshal's first wife, drew for the winner of La Grande Richarde. Miss White Go Go Boots upon learning that it was not she but Loan Jones who was being declared the winner, stomped off in a huff, leaving the team’s most handsome man to scurry after her with the beautiful baby squirrel wrap she left stranded on her bar stool. After smoking a couple of cigarettes and slashing the tires on Loans Jones’ 1959 Chrysler Imperial with the big back seat, Miss White Go Go Boots returned, and, in a gesture of goodwill by the Executive, was asked to select the winner of the 2008 golf tourney. With great aplomb, she pulled Le Grand Richard winner, the excited Butcher Brophey, who, upon the pull, ejaculated ecstatically “I’ve waited so long for this moment. The competition was stiff but I was stiffer. Thank you Gawd. Thank you, Strawbs’Executive. Thank you, Mrs. Sultry, my grade 2 art teacher…blah, blah,blah,blah.” At the time of the festivities break up, the grateful Butcher was still counting his blessings and thanking all the little people who made his victory possible.
17 Kilkenny, 41 apple martinis, 33 Guinness, 11Bud Light, 12 Stella, 23 Shirley Temples, 49 chicken wings (mild and Fat Boy), 4 Caesar salads, 12 baskets of fries and 1 rare bottle of Cow Urine Chardonnay were consumed.
Golf Tournament Report
August 28, 2008
To say that it has been a banner year for Dr. Butcher Brophey, teacher, humanitarian, boulevardier and hockey surgeon, would be a criminal understatement. In the last 12 months alone, this penalty box aficionado has been awarded a PhD in Hackery from Abattoir Academy of Carvemup, UK, become the first professor in the history to hold a chair in Zamboni Repair and Maintenance anywhere in the world (his doctoral dissertation was entitled “Using Zamboni Technology For Maiming An Opponent And Getting Away With It”), undergoing his first prostate exam and winning the coveted Grand Richard Trophy at the Killer Strawberries’ Second Annual Golf Tournament held at Osprey Links on August 28, 2008.
As usual, the tourney got off to a fantastic start, with lame excuses for non-attendance more numerous than the piles removed from Magboy’s ass in the 2007 off-season. Snowtop O’Farrell was the first to bow out, claiming a damaged ego and lack of balls made it impossible for him to realistically compete for the crown. Doubt was cast upon the second of the two excuses when his main squeeze, Lori Luscious reported to the Executive in a secret post-tournament e-mail that Snowtop had more balls than necessary to complete a round, she having kissed them for good luck only moments before his scheduled tee-off. When Lori Luscious was asked why she didn’t show up to defend her 2007 Grande Richarde trophy, she could only make a murky allusion to a recurring jaw injury which has kept her on her back for most of the year. Get well soon Luscious.
Excuses proffered by other non-attendees were spectacularly unbelievable. Freight Train Laronde claimed his dog ate his nearly completed doctoral dissertation. Dr. Thug said he could not play because he was having trouble completing his son’s first Physics assignment of the year. Whoahorney bold-facedly lied, saying he couldn’t find enough A535 to get him through the front nine. The Executive has since warned this lying liar to quit smoking the stuff.
Things did not pan out any better on the links. Shiny Sean telephoned the course starter minutes to tee-off to inform the Scoring Committee that he had actually played his round on the previous Monday, had shot a blistering 60, thus becoming the leader in the club house before the Vice even had a chance to drain his third Scotch flask of the day. Upon review, it was discovered by the team’s intrepid private detective, One-Eyed Larry The Fog, that Shiny had been at Canada’s Wonderland on the Monday in question and was attempting to pass off his miserable 9 hole mini-putt score as legitimate. Executive justice is expected to be pronounced soon.
The horror show continued from the get-go. Moses McLean, playing gingerly from his wheelchair-golf cart-mobile barcar, scared the bejesus out of his imprsessionable and underage girlfriend, the Siren of Brockville, by having mild cardiac infarctions and bad gas during his warm up swings. Why the Siren was carrying an updated copy of Moses’ will in her golf bag is anybody’s guess.
Warrin’ Peace showed up with his clubs shined, butt shaved and his lips sealed. He was so wound up and nervous that you couldn’t have shoved a needle up his butt with a jackhammer. Jesse The Leak, sporting silk knee high stockings and a brand new set of clubs allegedly received from his invisible girfriend as a birthday gift, displayed holes in his game bigger than the openings he regularly leaves eager opponents during hockey matches. Sir Gumby, as usual, was late, and finally caught up with his foursome by hole 14, four under par, driving both the beer cart and the beer girl simultaneously. He was not sure which score to hand in at tournament’s end.
MagBoy set a course record of his own, finishing his round in under 7 minutes. He mistakenly thought it was a mountain biking competition and was kicked off the property for laying skid marks on 17 of the 18 greens. His future status with the team was unknown at the time this report was filed with headquarters at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu. A psychiatric assessment has been ordered. Observers are not optimistic.
Loans Jones and her poor choice of a paramour, the once virile Pyjama Man, a Hugh Hefner protégée, showed up in a golf cart equipped with a large back seat and a gin dispenser. Apparently, golf was the last thing on their minds.
The lead foursome was spectacular, setting team records at will. Over 18 holes, the Vice polished off 2 sixty ounces glasses of Laphroig Scotch without any assistance from his playing mates. It did not affect his game at all, as he managed to break 150with ease. Archilles Perron was brutal. Thank Gawd there were no children present to witness his exhibition of pure ineptitude, bad sportsmanship and salty vocabulary. He could have scored better using a broom and a rotten orange. The Ice Marshal, defending Grand Richard champion of 2007, poet and majority stockholder in Victoria’s Secret Inc., was resplendent in his tartan kilt and matching Jimmy Buffet concert shirt. He played well, but not as well as the eventual winner, the aforementioned graduate of the world renowned Abattoir Academy.
Unfortunately, the tournament had to be suspended, with players still left on the 14th, 15 and 16th holes. A tropical storm unexpectedly descended upon the links. Play had to be stopped because of the torrential downpour, poor visibility conditions and lack of beer cart service. The Executive hastily convened a meeting, pondered the options and decided that, since beer service could not be guaranteed for the remaining holes, a brilliant yet unorthodox method would be used to determine the winners of all tournament awards and trophies: horsesh** luck.
At the Terminal Tavern, site of the closing ceremonies, the Vice ordered pen and paper and a clean hat, wrote the names of all players on slips of #4 Vellum paper (note:his own name appeared twice in the audited scraps) and placed the slips into the hat. Jesse The Leak somehow won both door prizes, courtesy of the excellent lottery ticket drawing powers of the nattering, chattering, recently engaged MagGirl. The prizes: 2 rare bottles of Cow Urine Chardonnay complete with floating marzipan golf balls, prizes surely to be displayed proudly on The Leak’s empty mantle. Madame La Chaise Lounge, who loves Chardonnay and marzipan more than her coddled CrackBerry, traded away her electonic dictator for one of the bottles and free goaltending lessons from the Leak: a lose/lose/lose situation for the hapless goaltender, Madame and the Chardonnay.
She Who Must Be Obeyed, former Miss Universe and the Ice Marshal's first wife, drew for the winner of La Grande Richarde. Miss White Go Go Boots upon learning that it was not she but Loan Jones who was being declared the winner, stomped off in a huff, leaving the team’s most handsome man to scurry after her with the beautiful baby squirrel wrap she left stranded on her bar stool. After smoking a couple of cigarettes and slashing the tires on Loans Jones’ 1959 Chrysler Imperial with the big back seat, Miss White Go Go Boots returned, and, in a gesture of goodwill by the Executive, was asked to select the winner of the 2008 golf tourney. With great aplomb, she pulled Le Grand Richard winner, the excited Butcher Brophey, who, upon the pull, ejaculated ecstatically “I’ve waited so long for this moment. The competition was stiff but I was stiffer. Thank you Gawd. Thank you, Strawbs’Executive. Thank you, Mrs. Sultry, my grade 2 art teacher…blah, blah,blah,blah.” At the time of the festivities break up, the grateful Butcher was still counting his blessings and thanking all the little people who made his victory possible.
17 Kilkenny, 41 apple martinis, 33 Guinness, 11Bud Light, 12 Stella, 23 Shirley Temples, 49 chicken wings (mild and Fat Boy), 4 Caesar salads, 12 baskets of fries and 1 rare bottle of Cow Urine Chardonnay were consumed.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Osprey Links, Hole #11, Strawbs Golf 2008
The Ice Marshall lines up a put, and an eternity later makes his put as the Butcher and Archilles look on.Strawbs Golf 2008 - Awards
Borrowing a page from the Urban Cowboy's book on phone-photos, Madame La Chaisse Lounge captured the Killer Strawberries' Golf 2008 Award recipients. Jesse the Leak won twice in the 19th Hole Chardonnay event, Loans Jones won the coveted P'tit Richard trophy, and Butcher Brophey is all grins upon hearing he won le Grand Richard - the Big Dick trophy.
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