Here are are a few pictures from the golf Tournament.
For a full viewing of pictures please visit http://www.buckwild.ca/igallery/igallery.asp?d=\33+-+strawbs+2009+golf+tourney\ .
Don't forget to click on some Google Ads.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Strawbs Golf Tourney 2009 Pictures
Hello Strawbs, Strawbetts and fans.
Here are are a few pictures from the golf Tournament.
For a full viewing of pictures please visit http://www.buckwild.ca/igallery/igallery.asp?d=\33+-+strawbs+2009+golf+tourney\ .
Here are are a few pictures from the golf Tournament.
For a full viewing of pictures please visit http://www.buckwild.ca/igallery/igallery.asp?d=\33+-+strawbs+2009+golf+tourney\ .
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The Garage of Bad Ideas May 23, 2009
A Bad Idea that turned out pretty good, actually.
You don't want to know where this Bad Idea is going.
Sampling the Garage of Bad Ideas vibes.
Hmmmm ... Bad Ideas fermenting.The Garage of Bad Ideas May 23, 2009
More Bad Ideas brewing.
The Butcher tries to remember a Bad Idea.
Gumby explains a Bad Idea about BBQ-ing.
A perfect example of a Bad Idea gone awry.
The final legacy to the Garage of Bad Ideas.Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Monday, May 04, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Killer Strawberries 2009 Dubious Achievement Awards Night
Pajama Man ready to be grilled.
Slickery and his fan.
Archilles and Warrin' before the slagging. 
Dr. Thug steals himself.Killer Strawberries 2009 Dubious Achievement Awards Night
Strawbs and fans milling about the Compound.
The Ice Marshall and the Leak.
Still dripping.
Freight Train gets his.
The Butcher on the hot seat.Killer Strawberries 2009 Dubious Achievement Awards Night
Ice Marshall and Gumby make out.
The Drip
The Butchers
The Ice Marshall slags Warrin' Peace.
Shiney Sean Brightly is humbled.Thursday, March 19, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Leak Leads Strawbs To Championship Victory
Geriatric Juggernaut Rules
Killer Strawberries 3 Redstripes 1
Game Report
March 16, 2009
Last night, a standing room only crowd of Killer Strawberry puck bunnies, wives, girlfriends, mistresses, family pets and few unsavoury hangers-on witnessed an on-ice exhibition of cunning old man hockey at its finest, as the Strawbs neutered its ill-mannered opponent with surgical precision on route to a decisive 3 to1 victory and a second championship in 3 years.
It was not easy. The obstreperous little bastards put up a fine fight, fuelled by disdain for their elders and a childlike vexation which too frequently manifested itself in the face of adversity. They are still young. They will learn. Maybe not. Who cares. We creamed the little mofos.
It was a fitting ending to a glorious Strawbs’ mini-era. For the last 5 years, Jesse The Leak has been tending the pipes for his favourite team ever, amassing an amazing 75-10-5 record over the stretch, despite or perhaps as a result of his numerous reconditioning stints with the Strawbs’ farm team’s farm team, the Buttface Bottomfeeders of Buttface, Alaska. Last night’s championship sudden death final was The Leak’s perfectly rendered swan song with his beloved hockey team. And boy did he show up to play. Barely 10 seconds into the game he was called upon to bar the door, and bar the door he did all night long. The petulant Redstripes squad could not solve him. He used his pads, the butt of his stick, the tips of his skates, the top of his helmet, a small dollop of luck and all else at his disposal to constantly foist their scoring attempts. He was certainly the game’s first star. His number, whatever it is, will be retired in a lavish ceremony later this summer at the Killer Strawberry headquarters and playland: the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu, Hawaii. He may even be invited to attend the ceremony, as long as he promises to behave, take no photos and sign the usual gag orders.
The Leak had plenty of backup on the evening. Everyone contributed a verse, except, of course, for Shiny Sean Brightly who was busily sunning his sausage in Fort Homodale, Florida. Shiny, we saved you some victory Scotch…NOT!
The defence was magnificent. Wave after wave of Redstripes was expertly manoeuvred into the corners where they were summarily relieved of the puck. Like an expert circus manager,Freight Train Laronde, pressed into a defensive role with Shiny’s unfortunate unauthorized abdication, used his extra long stick to repeatedly steer his opponents into nowhereland. The Vice, a veritable octopus of impudent impedence, clutched, grabbed and discumbobulated anything and everything that threatened to score. The Butcher must have had a big fight with his mistress because even his team mates were scared of the black temper he brought to the arena. You’ve got to admire a guy who, with only enough money in his pocket to either get his skates or his stick sharpened, opted to tune up his stick. To his credit, he did return the two beating hearts and the one spleen he managed to remove from his opponents’ bodies during the most heated parts of the game action. And like a true professional, he escaped unscathed except for that boneheaded penalty he took with 2 minutes remaining.
P. Gumbington Pettigrew, a zealous advocate of pre-game sex, with or without a partner, was solid on the blueline. His best play was coolly tucking the puck under a sprawling Leak, late in the game, as the puck was slowly trickling across the goal line.
Up front, it was all out effort all the time. Warrin’Peace, strung out on the patch, scored the game’s first goal, a snapshot that he ripped over the goalie’s left shoulder into a space smaller than that occupied by the Butcher’s brain. Dr. Thug tallied the second marker for the Strawbs, a soft hands goal that caused women’s hearts everywhere to beat just a little faster. MagPie, the team’s pepperpot and self-proclaimed wit (he is only half right on the latter point), delivered the coup de grace, the team’s third goal late in the third period, sealing the victory for the Strawbs. Archilles Perron, still recuperating from a vacuum attachment injury to his lower body, skated like he was 40 again. Slickery Mac was at his tricky slickest, ragging the puck like Eddie Shack during penalty kills, weaving expertly through oncoming traffic and making excellent choices on every part of the ice surface. Pyjama Boy, with his enamoratta looking on in full swoon, played a fine brand of feisty hockey, never losing his cool, always an offensive threat.
And let’s not forget the contribution of the Ice Marshal. He had duties both as player and coach. He juggled lines, worked penalty kill pairings, directed traffic in and out of the penalty box and still managed to create havoc when havoc was needed. “I just wanted to contribute in any way I could, what with my broken foot, severed aorta and post nasal drip. The trick is to never give up. I attribute my never-give-uppedness to the excellent upbringing I had at The Broda, the orphanage I grew up in, just across the street from the Carlton Cashbox. You can learn a lot from good nuns in such a fine place, especially from the older ones who take a liking to you, if you know what I mean. Thank you Sisters of Perpetual Suffering, and mostly you, Sister Vava Voom. ”
After the game, the Strawbs dressing room was a veritable zoo, with Scotch flowing, butts being towel whipped, hairs mussed and general anarchy reigning supreme. The festivities carried over to the Terminal Tavren, where the Teeter Kennedy Room was commandeered by the victors and their rabid fans. The party continued into the wee hours, with the lies growing more unbelievable, the insults more hug-like and the patrons more pissed. The Leak’s imminent departure was dutifully rued, the fans thanked and then thanked again. Teammates were toasted and roasted. Backs were slapped and funny handshakes exchanged. All in all, it was sublime.
407 Stella, 2 Appletinis, 354 Bass, 5692 and a half Guinness, 321 pounds of chicken wings, 1 celery stick and the sweet elixir of success were consumed.
Killer Strawberries 3 Redstripes 1
Game Report
March 16, 2009
Last night, a standing room only crowd of Killer Strawberry puck bunnies, wives, girlfriends, mistresses, family pets and few unsavoury hangers-on witnessed an on-ice exhibition of cunning old man hockey at its finest, as the Strawbs neutered its ill-mannered opponent with surgical precision on route to a decisive 3 to1 victory and a second championship in 3 years.
It was not easy. The obstreperous little bastards put up a fine fight, fuelled by disdain for their elders and a childlike vexation which too frequently manifested itself in the face of adversity. They are still young. They will learn. Maybe not. Who cares. We creamed the little mofos.
It was a fitting ending to a glorious Strawbs’ mini-era. For the last 5 years, Jesse The Leak has been tending the pipes for his favourite team ever, amassing an amazing 75-10-5 record over the stretch, despite or perhaps as a result of his numerous reconditioning stints with the Strawbs’ farm team’s farm team, the Buttface Bottomfeeders of Buttface, Alaska. Last night’s championship sudden death final was The Leak’s perfectly rendered swan song with his beloved hockey team. And boy did he show up to play. Barely 10 seconds into the game he was called upon to bar the door, and bar the door he did all night long. The petulant Redstripes squad could not solve him. He used his pads, the butt of his stick, the tips of his skates, the top of his helmet, a small dollop of luck and all else at his disposal to constantly foist their scoring attempts. He was certainly the game’s first star. His number, whatever it is, will be retired in a lavish ceremony later this summer at the Killer Strawberry headquarters and playland: the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu, Hawaii. He may even be invited to attend the ceremony, as long as he promises to behave, take no photos and sign the usual gag orders.
The Leak had plenty of backup on the evening. Everyone contributed a verse, except, of course, for Shiny Sean Brightly who was busily sunning his sausage in Fort Homodale, Florida. Shiny, we saved you some victory Scotch…NOT!
The defence was magnificent. Wave after wave of Redstripes was expertly manoeuvred into the corners where they were summarily relieved of the puck. Like an expert circus manager,Freight Train Laronde, pressed into a defensive role with Shiny’s unfortunate unauthorized abdication, used his extra long stick to repeatedly steer his opponents into nowhereland. The Vice, a veritable octopus of impudent impedence, clutched, grabbed and discumbobulated anything and everything that threatened to score. The Butcher must have had a big fight with his mistress because even his team mates were scared of the black temper he brought to the arena. You’ve got to admire a guy who, with only enough money in his pocket to either get his skates or his stick sharpened, opted to tune up his stick. To his credit, he did return the two beating hearts and the one spleen he managed to remove from his opponents’ bodies during the most heated parts of the game action. And like a true professional, he escaped unscathed except for that boneheaded penalty he took with 2 minutes remaining.
P. Gumbington Pettigrew, a zealous advocate of pre-game sex, with or without a partner, was solid on the blueline. His best play was coolly tucking the puck under a sprawling Leak, late in the game, as the puck was slowly trickling across the goal line.
Up front, it was all out effort all the time. Warrin’Peace, strung out on the patch, scored the game’s first goal, a snapshot that he ripped over the goalie’s left shoulder into a space smaller than that occupied by the Butcher’s brain. Dr. Thug tallied the second marker for the Strawbs, a soft hands goal that caused women’s hearts everywhere to beat just a little faster. MagPie, the team’s pepperpot and self-proclaimed wit (he is only half right on the latter point), delivered the coup de grace, the team’s third goal late in the third period, sealing the victory for the Strawbs. Archilles Perron, still recuperating from a vacuum attachment injury to his lower body, skated like he was 40 again. Slickery Mac was at his tricky slickest, ragging the puck like Eddie Shack during penalty kills, weaving expertly through oncoming traffic and making excellent choices on every part of the ice surface. Pyjama Boy, with his enamoratta looking on in full swoon, played a fine brand of feisty hockey, never losing his cool, always an offensive threat.
And let’s not forget the contribution of the Ice Marshal. He had duties both as player and coach. He juggled lines, worked penalty kill pairings, directed traffic in and out of the penalty box and still managed to create havoc when havoc was needed. “I just wanted to contribute in any way I could, what with my broken foot, severed aorta and post nasal drip. The trick is to never give up. I attribute my never-give-uppedness to the excellent upbringing I had at The Broda, the orphanage I grew up in, just across the street from the Carlton Cashbox. You can learn a lot from good nuns in such a fine place, especially from the older ones who take a liking to you, if you know what I mean. Thank you Sisters of Perpetual Suffering, and mostly you, Sister Vava Voom. ”
After the game, the Strawbs dressing room was a veritable zoo, with Scotch flowing, butts being towel whipped, hairs mussed and general anarchy reigning supreme. The festivities carried over to the Terminal Tavren, where the Teeter Kennedy Room was commandeered by the victors and their rabid fans. The party continued into the wee hours, with the lies growing more unbelievable, the insults more hug-like and the patrons more pissed. The Leak’s imminent departure was dutifully rued, the fans thanked and then thanked again. Teammates were toasted and roasted. Backs were slapped and funny handshakes exchanged. All in all, it was sublime.
407 Stella, 2 Appletinis, 354 Bass, 5692 and a half Guinness, 321 pounds of chicken wings, 1 celery stick and the sweet elixir of success were consumed.
Killer Strawberries 2008-2009 Champions
Here is the complete team, including Sean who was in Florida last night - photoshop is a great tool.
Seal the Deal Goal
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R75P86ysDHE
Monday, March 16, 2009
Championship Up For Grabs
Pre-game report
March 16, 2009
Well, it has finally come down to the nitty gritty. Tonight, in the confines of the beautiful Pete Palangio Arenas, the Killer Strawberries hope to put the finishing touches on a difficult season by winning their 2nd Canadore Ice Hockey Intramural Championship in 3 years.
The team is ready and has been ready since day 1 of the season. Except for Shiny Sean, who is attending The PeeWee Herman Wrestling and Clown School in Orlando, Florida, it is expected all Strawbs will be suited up tonight to slay the obstreperous little bastards who toil for the EVIL Redstripes.
The slick playmaking and opportunistic Shiny will be greatly missed and the Strawbs will have to turn it up a notch in order to reach their season-long goal. Fortunately, over the last couple of weeks, every Killer Strawberry has been energetically engaged in improving one or more aspects of their games. P. Gumbington Pettigrew The Third has limited his beer consumption to 6 pints per day and has not had a French fry or an impure thought since March 11. The Vice has been parking his car at the top of his driveway each day for a month and walks both ways, up and down, carrying small boulders and cases of empties to improve his stamina. Freight Train Laronde has cut out his daily afternoon nap to empty the dishwasher and thus flex his already oversized supraspinitises. Archilles Perron has taken to vaccuuming and has shovelled all the snow off his front lawn. Dr. Thug has been living in a anti-barimetric bubble to speed his physical and mental recovery. Warrin’ Peace now walks the full 5 minutes to Tim Horton’s everyday, twice a day, smoking only on the return leg. Pyjama Man has been living in the back seat of his car, avoiding the relentless come-hither overtures of his girlfriend, the seductive Loans Jones, which overtures have, in the past, hindered his on-ice production. MagBoy, in the last month, has climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, crossed the Gobi Desert on his bicycle and circumnavigated Antarctica in a converted bathtub. The Ice Marshall has been conserving his energy at the Aloha Baby Compound, passing his time playing nude badmington and Twister with the locals. Slickery Mac has been busily making himself a new pair of skates, using the deer hide, bone and sinew he culled by hand from a carcass he found lying abandoned in MagBoy’s living room. Dr. Bonehead Butcher Brophey has undergone extensive counselling and was graduated, Magna Cum Gaga, from the world famous Miss White Go Go Boots Wife School, in Emasculation City, Ohio. He is expected to be as mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore. Jesse The Leak has spent the last 8 days, psyching himself up with the aid of herbal teas and crumpets at the small tea parties he has been holding in his parents' basement with all his bobblehead action figures. This will be the Leak’s last game with the Strawbs. The squad fully expects him to stand on his head.
Anyone planning to attend the match tonight at 9pm is advised to show up early to ensure themselves of a good seat. Officials with The Office of Great Sporting Events Worldwide is predicted a Standing Room Only Crowd of over 5 fans. Rumours have been flying that She Who Must be Obeyed, the very fortunate life consort (so far) of Ice Marshall Walpole, will be showing up for the very first time in 21 years to one of her beau’s Canadore hockey league games. “I’ve put this day off for as long I could” stated the soto-voce beauty. “I know my man is virile and I always fear for his opponents. I was sure that one of these days he would be charged at the rink for being so brutally handsome and manly and hurting his lesser opponents. He has been talking of retirement lately and this may be the last time I can ever see him weave his on-ice magic. I just have to go.
The Strawbs promise their fans a real barn burner. They are, to a man, committed to victory.
March 16, 2009
Well, it has finally come down to the nitty gritty. Tonight, in the confines of the beautiful Pete Palangio Arenas, the Killer Strawberries hope to put the finishing touches on a difficult season by winning their 2nd Canadore Ice Hockey Intramural Championship in 3 years.
The team is ready and has been ready since day 1 of the season. Except for Shiny Sean, who is attending The PeeWee Herman Wrestling and Clown School in Orlando, Florida, it is expected all Strawbs will be suited up tonight to slay the obstreperous little bastards who toil for the EVIL Redstripes.
The slick playmaking and opportunistic Shiny will be greatly missed and the Strawbs will have to turn it up a notch in order to reach their season-long goal. Fortunately, over the last couple of weeks, every Killer Strawberry has been energetically engaged in improving one or more aspects of their games. P. Gumbington Pettigrew The Third has limited his beer consumption to 6 pints per day and has not had a French fry or an impure thought since March 11. The Vice has been parking his car at the top of his driveway each day for a month and walks both ways, up and down, carrying small boulders and cases of empties to improve his stamina. Freight Train Laronde has cut out his daily afternoon nap to empty the dishwasher and thus flex his already oversized supraspinitises. Archilles Perron has taken to vaccuuming and has shovelled all the snow off his front lawn. Dr. Thug has been living in a anti-barimetric bubble to speed his physical and mental recovery. Warrin’ Peace now walks the full 5 minutes to Tim Horton’s everyday, twice a day, smoking only on the return leg. Pyjama Man has been living in the back seat of his car, avoiding the relentless come-hither overtures of his girlfriend, the seductive Loans Jones, which overtures have, in the past, hindered his on-ice production. MagBoy, in the last month, has climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, crossed the Gobi Desert on his bicycle and circumnavigated Antarctica in a converted bathtub. The Ice Marshall has been conserving his energy at the Aloha Baby Compound, passing his time playing nude badmington and Twister with the locals. Slickery Mac has been busily making himself a new pair of skates, using the deer hide, bone and sinew he culled by hand from a carcass he found lying abandoned in MagBoy’s living room. Dr. Bonehead Butcher Brophey has undergone extensive counselling and was graduated, Magna Cum Gaga, from the world famous Miss White Go Go Boots Wife School, in Emasculation City, Ohio. He is expected to be as mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore. Jesse The Leak has spent the last 8 days, psyching himself up with the aid of herbal teas and crumpets at the small tea parties he has been holding in his parents' basement with all his bobblehead action figures. This will be the Leak’s last game with the Strawbs. The squad fully expects him to stand on his head.
Anyone planning to attend the match tonight at 9pm is advised to show up early to ensure themselves of a good seat. Officials with The Office of Great Sporting Events Worldwide is predicted a Standing Room Only Crowd of over 5 fans. Rumours have been flying that She Who Must be Obeyed, the very fortunate life consort (so far) of Ice Marshall Walpole, will be showing up for the very first time in 21 years to one of her beau’s Canadore hockey league games. “I’ve put this day off for as long I could” stated the soto-voce beauty. “I know my man is virile and I always fear for his opponents. I was sure that one of these days he would be charged at the rink for being so brutally handsome and manly and hurting his lesser opponents. He has been talking of retirement lately and this may be the last time I can ever see him weave his on-ice magic. I just have to go.
The Strawbs promise their fans a real barn burner. They are, to a man, committed to victory.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Grampas Ganch Gang of Grumpy Gen-Whiners
Game Report
March 9, 2009
Killer Strawberries 7 Redstripes 4
Gawd knows it must be hard to lose to a bunch of geriatric go-getters judiciously seasoned with just the right amount of youth. Just ask the Redstripes, who, despite their excellent trash talk, hormone-fuelled bravado and general sulkiness, were unable to subdue a squad of Killer Strawberries hell-bent on capturing their second crown in 3 years.
The game started out on a difficult note. P. Gumbington Pettigrew the Third, a man of immense self-professed talent and an ego to match, was told he would not be allowed to play because he had neglected to pay off a $20 fine incurred 3 matches previous. It took several shady attempts at truthiness and a last minute intervention by the Pope to get him permission to play. But play he did, leading his team in on-ice treachery, the proffering of dubious advice and endless heartfelt exhortation to anyone who would listen to his incoherent rants.
The team was further handicapped on the evening. Dr. Felonious Thug, unplugged and reeling from a homemade concoction of codeine, morphine and grape Kool-Aid, donned his best Punch Imlach fedora and took over bench duties. He was unable to play on the evening, having once again injured himself in a non-hockey mishap. Apparently, after the last game, he severed a tendon in his right thumb while attempting to operate a TV remote without teenage supervision.
Warrin’ Peace was, for the twentieth time this season, noticeably absent. According to his first and current wife, the gorgeous (pregnant?)Samarra Dessert, Warrin’ could not make the game owing to some prior commitment with his sports psychiatrist, or sports hairstylist or some other sports related human.
None of this, however, was able to knock the Strawbs off the mission they had set for themselves after a devastating playoff loss in March 2008: regain the coveted Canadore Intramural Hockey “D” Cup. To this end, The Killer Strawberries scored often and early in the match, much to the chagrin of the whiny little Redstripes who truly believed they deserved to beat a pile of wizened veterans who were so ripe they still remember firsthand when the Montreal Maroons ruled the hockey world. Magboy led the team in enthusiasm and gusto. This whirling dervish bedeviled the opposition with his energy and flying limbs and actually scored on one of his many breakways/penalty shots.
Freight Train Laronde ratcheted up his game to 1961 levels. He tallied two beauties and even succeeded in making the Ice Marshal look respectable. Shiny Sean was a stalwart, moving between offence and defence with the fluidity, grace and repertoire of a Kama Sutra master.
Not all went smoothly however. The Strawbs were forced to overcome a 7 minute mid-game spurt of brainfartitis, when, leading 4-0, they managed to let the Redstripes re-enter the game. The opposition somehow managed to make the score 4-3 before the Strawbs were pounded back to reality by the quick scores and relentless juvenile Redstripe taunting (the words Grampa, old man, old timer, ancient piece of dog feces etc. were being tossed around like midgets in a dwarf bowling contest). From that point on, the juggernaut, reawakened and angry, kicked it up a notch. The Killer Strawberries revved up their engines, slammed the petal to the metal and grinded their way into passing gear, leaving their rivals grasping for any straw to slow the juggernaut down: all to no avail. Final score: Killer Strawberries 7 Redstripes 4.
The Strawbs now await the victor in Thursday night’s game between the Free Agents and the Redstripes to see who will play them in the Championship. The final is already sold out, and the broadcast blackout has not been lifted. It will be a barn burner.
Following the match, all able minded Strawbs and the 10 others who played, met up at the Terminal Tavren to bulk up and to plot strategy. It can be reported that they succeeded beautifully in one of those endeavours.
4 Stella, 7 Guinness, 3 Black and Tan 2 Blue, 3 Sterling, 5 Steamwhistle, 4 pounds of seasoned wings, a low-fat poutine and some Oil of Juggernaut were consumed.
March 9, 2009
Killer Strawberries 7 Redstripes 4
Gawd knows it must be hard to lose to a bunch of geriatric go-getters judiciously seasoned with just the right amount of youth. Just ask the Redstripes, who, despite their excellent trash talk, hormone-fuelled bravado and general sulkiness, were unable to subdue a squad of Killer Strawberries hell-bent on capturing their second crown in 3 years.
The game started out on a difficult note. P. Gumbington Pettigrew the Third, a man of immense self-professed talent and an ego to match, was told he would not be allowed to play because he had neglected to pay off a $20 fine incurred 3 matches previous. It took several shady attempts at truthiness and a last minute intervention by the Pope to get him permission to play. But play he did, leading his team in on-ice treachery, the proffering of dubious advice and endless heartfelt exhortation to anyone who would listen to his incoherent rants.
The team was further handicapped on the evening. Dr. Felonious Thug, unplugged and reeling from a homemade concoction of codeine, morphine and grape Kool-Aid, donned his best Punch Imlach fedora and took over bench duties. He was unable to play on the evening, having once again injured himself in a non-hockey mishap. Apparently, after the last game, he severed a tendon in his right thumb while attempting to operate a TV remote without teenage supervision.
Warrin’ Peace was, for the twentieth time this season, noticeably absent. According to his first and current wife, the gorgeous (pregnant?)Samarra Dessert, Warrin’ could not make the game owing to some prior commitment with his sports psychiatrist, or sports hairstylist or some other sports related human.
None of this, however, was able to knock the Strawbs off the mission they had set for themselves after a devastating playoff loss in March 2008: regain the coveted Canadore Intramural Hockey “D” Cup. To this end, The Killer Strawberries scored often and early in the match, much to the chagrin of the whiny little Redstripes who truly believed they deserved to beat a pile of wizened veterans who were so ripe they still remember firsthand when the Montreal Maroons ruled the hockey world. Magboy led the team in enthusiasm and gusto. This whirling dervish bedeviled the opposition with his energy and flying limbs and actually scored on one of his many breakways/penalty shots.
Freight Train Laronde ratcheted up his game to 1961 levels. He tallied two beauties and even succeeded in making the Ice Marshal look respectable. Shiny Sean was a stalwart, moving between offence and defence with the fluidity, grace and repertoire of a Kama Sutra master.
Not all went smoothly however. The Strawbs were forced to overcome a 7 minute mid-game spurt of brainfartitis, when, leading 4-0, they managed to let the Redstripes re-enter the game. The opposition somehow managed to make the score 4-3 before the Strawbs were pounded back to reality by the quick scores and relentless juvenile Redstripe taunting (the words Grampa, old man, old timer, ancient piece of dog feces etc. were being tossed around like midgets in a dwarf bowling contest). From that point on, the juggernaut, reawakened and angry, kicked it up a notch. The Killer Strawberries revved up their engines, slammed the petal to the metal and grinded their way into passing gear, leaving their rivals grasping for any straw to slow the juggernaut down: all to no avail. Final score: Killer Strawberries 7 Redstripes 4.
The Strawbs now await the victor in Thursday night’s game between the Free Agents and the Redstripes to see who will play them in the Championship. The final is already sold out, and the broadcast blackout has not been lifted. It will be a barn burner.
Following the match, all able minded Strawbs and the 10 others who played, met up at the Terminal Tavren to bulk up and to plot strategy. It can be reported that they succeeded beautifully in one of those endeavours.
4 Stella, 7 Guinness, 3 Black and Tan 2 Blue, 3 Sterling, 5 Steamwhistle, 4 pounds of seasoned wings, a low-fat poutine and some Oil of Juggernaut were consumed.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Fans Turn Out In Droves To First Playoff Match
Strawberries 3 Free Agents 1
Game Report
February 27
Extra seating had to be brought in last night to accommodate the pumped up Jaegermeister/Lysol fuelled throng of fans which showed up to cheer on their beloved squad of Strawberry delights. The noise was so great that the Killler Strawberries could barely think, not that anyone watching would have known the difference in cogitation levels between this game and any other Strawbs’ game for that matter. Led by award winning videographer and recently “fiftied” Gawdawful Gumby Scorcese, the fans chanted, stomped and clapped their squad to a 3-1 victory over a very determined and ornery bunch of Free Agents. For his work on the evening, Gawd has been invited to spend an afternoon this summer at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu, Hawaii so that he can record, on tape for posterity, some selected Executive wisdomisms. He will also be allowed to clean out the stables with the Olsen twin of his choice.
The game itself was a ragged affair. Of the 40 minutes of playing time, various members of the Killer Strawberries were asked to spend a total of 18 minutes and thirty six seconds in the company of the scorekeeper, a reformed pederast from Kingston Pen. On 3 occasions the Strawberries had to kill off a 5 on 3 disadvantage. It did so with aplomb, grit and lotsa luck.
It may have been a sign that the team, like a forgotten container of yogurt in an abandoned fridge, has been around the league well beyond its best before date. Near the end of the game, an exhausted Dr. Felonious Thug was attempting to corral a loose puck in front of the Strawbs' bench. With Dr. Thug’s back exposed, a Free Agent thought it would be good fun to slam him face first into the top of the boards. Felonious collapsed like a cheap suitcase. When he finally came to, he demanded of one of the Zebra’s to explain why no penalty was called on the play. The Zebra’s response: “Write another letter to the league”. It is true that the Executive has used pen and paper to excoriate the league's big foreheads for their lax supervision and repeatedly poor choice of certain bumbling officials. Officials can make or break a game. Officials need to be good. The league needs to use good officials.
All any team ever expects from officiators is a modicum of competence and accountability. Too often, neither is received. The Zebra’s response last night indicated, among other things, a total lack of impartiality bordering on retribution. Mr. Zebra, hockey is not a one way street. We make mistakes and we pay by way of goals against or by time spent in the sin bin. Your mistakes, when egregious enough, need to be pointed out to those who pay your stipends. We suck it up most of the time and so should you.
When they weren’t killing penalties, the Strawbs played very well on offence. The team was led by the torrid Slickery Mac who tallied twice, the second on a beauty featured later that evening on Sportsline or whatever Gumby’s new videography show is called. The third goal, which sealed the victory was lovely as well. Shiny Sean, who was born without kneecaps in a New Orleans brothel, picked up a feed just inside the Free Agent blueline and lobbed a gorgeous saucer pass to a waiting MagBoy who one timed the puck into the upper recesses on the net, much to the satisfaction of his enamorata, the beautiful MagGirl who was in attendance. She is said to have swooned.
The defence, strengthened by the continued absence of the Butcher and Gawdawful Gumby, was stellar. Warrin’ Peace, shanghai’d into a defenceman’s role, stepped up his game and proved himself admirably in the unaccustomed position. Freight Train also played back and used his size, reach and halitosis to great effect. The Vice, hampered by home cooking and memories of a recent bloodless yet life changing palace coup at the Compound For Minor Vice, hooked, tripped and grabbed his way, Brophey-style, to the game’s fifth star. His new old boss, Madame LaChaise, also in attendance, did not swoon but is said to have moderately approved of his play.
The Leak was solid in net. He had to be, given the amount of time the Strawbs spent short-handed. This will be the Leak’s last season, having accepted a position this April with Revenue Canada, College and University Professor Audit Division. The team will certainly miss his dexterity, urbanity, compassion and ability to overlook his teammates’ shortcomings, both on the rink and during tax filing season. Did we mention he was handsome to boot?
After the match, the team and its rabid fans, including some chick named Terry or Sherry or Bloody Mary or something like that, reconvened at its favoured den of iniquity, the down at the heels Terminal Tavren to celebrate the hard won victory. Zebras were calumniated, Canadore Hockey Central aspersed, fans’ love reciprocated, and gritty play recounted with glee.
18 Stella, 2 Appletinis with the little red umbrellas, 2 Sterling, 15 Keiths, 3 Steamwhistle, 2 pounds of Italian perogies ,4 pounds of chicken wings and some bitter recollections of penalties left uncalled were consumed.
Game Report
February 27
Extra seating had to be brought in last night to accommodate the pumped up Jaegermeister/Lysol fuelled throng of fans which showed up to cheer on their beloved squad of Strawberry delights. The noise was so great that the Killler Strawberries could barely think, not that anyone watching would have known the difference in cogitation levels between this game and any other Strawbs’ game for that matter. Led by award winning videographer and recently “fiftied” Gawdawful Gumby Scorcese, the fans chanted, stomped and clapped their squad to a 3-1 victory over a very determined and ornery bunch of Free Agents. For his work on the evening, Gawd has been invited to spend an afternoon this summer at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu, Hawaii so that he can record, on tape for posterity, some selected Executive wisdomisms. He will also be allowed to clean out the stables with the Olsen twin of his choice.
The game itself was a ragged affair. Of the 40 minutes of playing time, various members of the Killer Strawberries were asked to spend a total of 18 minutes and thirty six seconds in the company of the scorekeeper, a reformed pederast from Kingston Pen. On 3 occasions the Strawberries had to kill off a 5 on 3 disadvantage. It did so with aplomb, grit and lotsa luck.
It may have been a sign that the team, like a forgotten container of yogurt in an abandoned fridge, has been around the league well beyond its best before date. Near the end of the game, an exhausted Dr. Felonious Thug was attempting to corral a loose puck in front of the Strawbs' bench. With Dr. Thug’s back exposed, a Free Agent thought it would be good fun to slam him face first into the top of the boards. Felonious collapsed like a cheap suitcase. When he finally came to, he demanded of one of the Zebra’s to explain why no penalty was called on the play. The Zebra’s response: “Write another letter to the league”. It is true that the Executive has used pen and paper to excoriate the league's big foreheads for their lax supervision and repeatedly poor choice of certain bumbling officials. Officials can make or break a game. Officials need to be good. The league needs to use good officials.
All any team ever expects from officiators is a modicum of competence and accountability. Too often, neither is received. The Zebra’s response last night indicated, among other things, a total lack of impartiality bordering on retribution. Mr. Zebra, hockey is not a one way street. We make mistakes and we pay by way of goals against or by time spent in the sin bin. Your mistakes, when egregious enough, need to be pointed out to those who pay your stipends. We suck it up most of the time and so should you.
When they weren’t killing penalties, the Strawbs played very well on offence. The team was led by the torrid Slickery Mac who tallied twice, the second on a beauty featured later that evening on Sportsline or whatever Gumby’s new videography show is called. The third goal, which sealed the victory was lovely as well. Shiny Sean, who was born without kneecaps in a New Orleans brothel, picked up a feed just inside the Free Agent blueline and lobbed a gorgeous saucer pass to a waiting MagBoy who one timed the puck into the upper recesses on the net, much to the satisfaction of his enamorata, the beautiful MagGirl who was in attendance. She is said to have swooned.
The defence, strengthened by the continued absence of the Butcher and Gawdawful Gumby, was stellar. Warrin’ Peace, shanghai’d into a defenceman’s role, stepped up his game and proved himself admirably in the unaccustomed position. Freight Train also played back and used his size, reach and halitosis to great effect. The Vice, hampered by home cooking and memories of a recent bloodless yet life changing palace coup at the Compound For Minor Vice, hooked, tripped and grabbed his way, Brophey-style, to the game’s fifth star. His new old boss, Madame LaChaise, also in attendance, did not swoon but is said to have moderately approved of his play.
The Leak was solid in net. He had to be, given the amount of time the Strawbs spent short-handed. This will be the Leak’s last season, having accepted a position this April with Revenue Canada, College and University Professor Audit Division. The team will certainly miss his dexterity, urbanity, compassion and ability to overlook his teammates’ shortcomings, both on the rink and during tax filing season. Did we mention he was handsome to boot?
After the match, the team and its rabid fans, including some chick named Terry or Sherry or Bloody Mary or something like that, reconvened at its favoured den of iniquity, the down at the heels Terminal Tavren to celebrate the hard won victory. Zebras were calumniated, Canadore Hockey Central aspersed, fans’ love reciprocated, and gritty play recounted with glee.
18 Stella, 2 Appletinis with the little red umbrellas, 2 Sterling, 15 Keiths, 3 Steamwhistle, 2 pounds of Italian perogies ,4 pounds of chicken wings and some bitter recollections of penalties left uncalled were consumed.
Gutsy
Game Report
Killer Strawberries 5 Jetfires 1
February 21, 2009-02-28
Note: The writer would like to apologize to all regular followers of the infamous Killer Strawberries Hockey and Gentlemen's Club for the late filing of this game report. He has been in Kiev negotiating a new gas treaty between Russia and the Ukraine, which treaty is needed to ensure that the 200 million people in Europe do not freeze this winter. The negotiations were intense and the agreement was not concluded until 9 hours before the start of the first playoff game. The writer had to dash to the Strawbs' private Gulfstream which was waiting to transport him to Jack Garland Airport in North Bay so that he could play for his beloved team. He also had to slough off the effects of the 807 vodka toasts he was forced to consume at the treaty ratification ceremony which ended but minutes before his flight. He was also forced to forego the highly anticipated company of Olga and Tatiana who eagerly await his return to Kiev so that they may resume their discussions of the roles of women in Turginev and Tolstoy.)
It was a move which caught a severely shorthanded Killer Strawberries squad by surprise. Apparently, the sloping foreheads at Canadore Intramural Hockey Central allowed the Spitfires to amalgamate overnight with the Jet Rangers to form a new Jetfires team replete with sloping foreheads of its own. Not only that, but by some form of indecipherable alchemy, the new combination was awarded the same amount of season points as the Strawbs, turning last night’s game into a battle for first place and its concommitant bye in the first round of the playoffs. The alchemic additions, deletions and other mathematical legerdemain involved, among other things, involved not counting one of the Strawbs’ victories during regular league play. One can only hope that none of the officials involved ever works as a dispensing pharmacist or other profession where numbers, numerals, decimal points and exponents are used in life threatening situations.
The Strawbs, however, were undaunted. Well, at least the 7 skaters and 1 goalie who bothered showed up to the game were. The circumstances were so dire that Canada’s team was forced to use the Ice Marshal on defence, a position he hasn’t played since priests used to say mass in Latin with their backs and fat asses turned to the congregation.
Our 8 intrepids played excellently against its 14 gung ho opponents, scoring 5 times while allowing only 1 goal against. The Leak was superb between the pipes and will be allowed to start the next game (barring of course a blockbuster trade at the deadline).
The victory propelled the Strawbs into undisputed first place. They are itching for the playoffs to start so that they can claim the ultimate prize in all of hockeydom: the right to brag about past exploits for a whole year.
Post game, the few Strawbs who toiled against the Jetfires, save for Archilles Perron who had to go home to brush his teeth and finish dusting his wife’s toilet paper roll collection, reassembled at the Terminal Tavren to toast victory and slag those other Strawbs who did not contribute on the evening. The only absentee with a good excuse was P. Gumbington Pettigrew the Third, who was serving game 1 of his recent suspension, a suspension which resulted from his having used the inflammatory phrase “c’mon ref” in his questioning of a dubious call in last week’s game. And, despite the suspension, he came to the arena to support his colleagues, the sign of a gentleman, team player and desperate bachelor with nothing better to do at 11pm on a Thursday night.
4 Stella, 2 Sterling, 3 Guinness, 2 Keiths, 2 Blue and the satisfaction of a gutsy first place finish were consumed.
Killer Strawberries 5 Jetfires 1
February 21, 2009-02-28
Note: The writer would like to apologize to all regular followers of the infamous Killer Strawberries Hockey and Gentlemen's Club for the late filing of this game report. He has been in Kiev negotiating a new gas treaty between Russia and the Ukraine, which treaty is needed to ensure that the 200 million people in Europe do not freeze this winter. The negotiations were intense and the agreement was not concluded until 9 hours before the start of the first playoff game. The writer had to dash to the Strawbs' private Gulfstream which was waiting to transport him to Jack Garland Airport in North Bay so that he could play for his beloved team. He also had to slough off the effects of the 807 vodka toasts he was forced to consume at the treaty ratification ceremony which ended but minutes before his flight. He was also forced to forego the highly anticipated company of Olga and Tatiana who eagerly await his return to Kiev so that they may resume their discussions of the roles of women in Turginev and Tolstoy.)
It was a move which caught a severely shorthanded Killer Strawberries squad by surprise. Apparently, the sloping foreheads at Canadore Intramural Hockey Central allowed the Spitfires to amalgamate overnight with the Jet Rangers to form a new Jetfires team replete with sloping foreheads of its own. Not only that, but by some form of indecipherable alchemy, the new combination was awarded the same amount of season points as the Strawbs, turning last night’s game into a battle for first place and its concommitant bye in the first round of the playoffs. The alchemic additions, deletions and other mathematical legerdemain involved, among other things, involved not counting one of the Strawbs’ victories during regular league play. One can only hope that none of the officials involved ever works as a dispensing pharmacist or other profession where numbers, numerals, decimal points and exponents are used in life threatening situations.
The Strawbs, however, were undaunted. Well, at least the 7 skaters and 1 goalie who bothered showed up to the game were. The circumstances were so dire that Canada’s team was forced to use the Ice Marshal on defence, a position he hasn’t played since priests used to say mass in Latin with their backs and fat asses turned to the congregation.
Our 8 intrepids played excellently against its 14 gung ho opponents, scoring 5 times while allowing only 1 goal against. The Leak was superb between the pipes and will be allowed to start the next game (barring of course a blockbuster trade at the deadline).
The victory propelled the Strawbs into undisputed first place. They are itching for the playoffs to start so that they can claim the ultimate prize in all of hockeydom: the right to brag about past exploits for a whole year.
Post game, the few Strawbs who toiled against the Jetfires, save for Archilles Perron who had to go home to brush his teeth and finish dusting his wife’s toilet paper roll collection, reassembled at the Terminal Tavren to toast victory and slag those other Strawbs who did not contribute on the evening. The only absentee with a good excuse was P. Gumbington Pettigrew the Third, who was serving game 1 of his recent suspension, a suspension which resulted from his having used the inflammatory phrase “c’mon ref” in his questioning of a dubious call in last week’s game. And, despite the suspension, he came to the arena to support his colleagues, the sign of a gentleman, team player and desperate bachelor with nothing better to do at 11pm on a Thursday night.
4 Stella, 2 Sterling, 3 Guinness, 2 Keiths, 2 Blue and the satisfaction of a gutsy first place finish were consumed.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Sad Event
It's pretty sad that the "poet" lordiette of the Killer Strawberries can't post a write up to the last regular season game, also a fan appreciation night, where the Strawbs clinched 1st place in the division. Even more sad, is that this non-posting continues on the day of the first game of the playoffs. What is happening?
Sunday, February 22, 2009
See Mike, I do catch fish
This fish was a sleeper. He didn't start fighting until I told him his next best friend was basil.
Still no decent pikerel yet.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Grampa Takes Junior To The Woodshed
Killer Strawberries 10 Free Agents 3
Game Report
February 12, 2009
Just as the moon and the sun raise all boats with their pull of the tides, so competition raises the level of play in all sports. Hockey is no exception. It is this competitive aspect, coupled with large dollops of comraderie which make the game of hockey , at the professional level as much as at the pickup level on a lightly snow covered side street, such a pleasure to play, no matter the age of the participants.
Speaking of age, it is no secret that the Killer Strawberries are not getting any younger. The team’s average age is somewhere around 47 with a median age of 52. These figures used to be much higher in the days when Moses McLean carelessly patrolled the right side. Mr. McLean (Canadore College student number: XIII) now rests comfortably in his Barcolounger on Decrepit Lane, staring aimlessly out his picture window, reminiscing about the days when he ran with dinosaurs. We almost miss him. With Moses’ forced retirement, Dr. Billy Goat (Thelonius) Thug is saddled with the difficult task of ensuring the team’s median age never drops below 50. So far, the aging, dementia-prone puck handler has carried out this duty efficiently, effectively and with aplomb. The Strawbs have nothing but a deep, abiding respect their senescent teammate. Moreover, they respect their opponents because they realize that competiton tainted with disrecpect is really nothing more than savagery.
The Strawbs' respect for the aged and for opponents is, of course, no accident. Since our first taste of mother’s milk, we have been learning and relearning that respect for our elders and fellow competitors is a cornerstone upon which civilized society is founded. Apparently the content of mother’s milk has changed in the last 20 years. The change of 20 years ago was in evidence last night. With the score 7-3 in favour of the Strawberries, an obviously bottle-suckled Free Agent had the temerity to lay upon the Ice Marshal a vituperative and ugly version of the epithet “Grampa”, as in “Hey Grampa, you suck.” The result: Grampa and his teammates went on to take Junior Bottle-Breath and his ilk out to the woodshed for a final 10-3 whoopin’. Gotta hurt when your Grampa kicks your ass in a young man’s game.
The whoopin’ was a full team effort. The defence was solid. Butcher Brophey attributed the defence corps’ excellent play to Gumby’s pre-mature ejaculation (or is it ejection?) from the game at the 4 minute mark of the opening period for asking the referee if he wouldn’t better enjoy himself having sex elsewhere (or words to that effect). It was said in a very sincere, caring and respectful way. Despite the diplomatic delivery of Gumby’s gentle suggestion, he was forced to hit the showers early and had to watch from the sidelines as his team dismantled its foe. Jesse The Leak was superb, as he repeatedly flustered the Agents, especially on the 3 minute, 2 man-advantage power play they were awarded upon Gumby’s unexpected exit from the game.
With 10 goals, it is obvious the Strawbs were firing on all offensive cylinders. The offence was led by the Ice Marshall himself, who executed a rare triple hat trick: 3 goals, 3 assists and 3 penalties. It should be noted that he did not deserve any of the penalties. He took them all in stride, Zen moments of quiet resignation in the face of an unfair universe. Pyjama Man, unchaperoned by his babysitter, notched 2 goals. No one remembers who scored the other goals. Doesn’t matter cause they weren’t really needed.
After the game, all the Strawberries, save for Warrin’ Peace who had to hightail it home to finish putting away the dishes before his wife/ruler got home from her week-long spa visit, reconvened at the Terminal Tavren to refuel. The memory of Moses McLean was toasted and teammates hugged each other with insults: the perfect ending to an ass-whoopin' evening.
10 Guinness, 6 Stella, 2 Sterling, 3 Keiths, 4 pounds of chicken wings, a plate of ersatz bologna-flavouted perogies and recollections of woodshed justice were consumed.
Game Report
February 12, 2009
Just as the moon and the sun raise all boats with their pull of the tides, so competition raises the level of play in all sports. Hockey is no exception. It is this competitive aspect, coupled with large dollops of comraderie which make the game of hockey , at the professional level as much as at the pickup level on a lightly snow covered side street, such a pleasure to play, no matter the age of the participants.
Speaking of age, it is no secret that the Killer Strawberries are not getting any younger. The team’s average age is somewhere around 47 with a median age of 52. These figures used to be much higher in the days when Moses McLean carelessly patrolled the right side. Mr. McLean (Canadore College student number: XIII) now rests comfortably in his Barcolounger on Decrepit Lane, staring aimlessly out his picture window, reminiscing about the days when he ran with dinosaurs. We almost miss him. With Moses’ forced retirement, Dr. Billy Goat (Thelonius) Thug is saddled with the difficult task of ensuring the team’s median age never drops below 50. So far, the aging, dementia-prone puck handler has carried out this duty efficiently, effectively and with aplomb. The Strawbs have nothing but a deep, abiding respect their senescent teammate. Moreover, they respect their opponents because they realize that competiton tainted with disrecpect is really nothing more than savagery.
The Strawbs' respect for the aged and for opponents is, of course, no accident. Since our first taste of mother’s milk, we have been learning and relearning that respect for our elders and fellow competitors is a cornerstone upon which civilized society is founded. Apparently the content of mother’s milk has changed in the last 20 years. The change of 20 years ago was in evidence last night. With the score 7-3 in favour of the Strawberries, an obviously bottle-suckled Free Agent had the temerity to lay upon the Ice Marshal a vituperative and ugly version of the epithet “Grampa”, as in “Hey Grampa, you suck.” The result: Grampa and his teammates went on to take Junior Bottle-Breath and his ilk out to the woodshed for a final 10-3 whoopin’. Gotta hurt when your Grampa kicks your ass in a young man’s game.
The whoopin’ was a full team effort. The defence was solid. Butcher Brophey attributed the defence corps’ excellent play to Gumby’s pre-mature ejaculation (or is it ejection?) from the game at the 4 minute mark of the opening period for asking the referee if he wouldn’t better enjoy himself having sex elsewhere (or words to that effect). It was said in a very sincere, caring and respectful way. Despite the diplomatic delivery of Gumby’s gentle suggestion, he was forced to hit the showers early and had to watch from the sidelines as his team dismantled its foe. Jesse The Leak was superb, as he repeatedly flustered the Agents, especially on the 3 minute, 2 man-advantage power play they were awarded upon Gumby’s unexpected exit from the game.
With 10 goals, it is obvious the Strawbs were firing on all offensive cylinders. The offence was led by the Ice Marshall himself, who executed a rare triple hat trick: 3 goals, 3 assists and 3 penalties. It should be noted that he did not deserve any of the penalties. He took them all in stride, Zen moments of quiet resignation in the face of an unfair universe. Pyjama Man, unchaperoned by his babysitter, notched 2 goals. No one remembers who scored the other goals. Doesn’t matter cause they weren’t really needed.
After the game, all the Strawberries, save for Warrin’ Peace who had to hightail it home to finish putting away the dishes before his wife/ruler got home from her week-long spa visit, reconvened at the Terminal Tavren to refuel. The memory of Moses McLean was toasted and teammates hugged each other with insults: the perfect ending to an ass-whoopin' evening.
10 Guinness, 6 Stella, 2 Sterling, 3 Keiths, 4 pounds of chicken wings, a plate of ersatz bologna-flavouted perogies and recollections of woodshed justice were consumed.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
As The Habs Nosedive, The Strawbs Soar
Game Report
Strawbs 10 ALU Warriors 3
February 9, 2009
It is fortunate that the smarter Strawbs have stopped watching the Habs play in recent weeks, as Gumby’s team of underachieving Russsians, Finns, Yanks and Canadian Canadiens continues to spiral toward an ignominious 9th place finish in the Campbell Conference: fortunate because the Strawbs have not picked up the same bad habits which have plagued Les Glorieux since mid-January. Certainly, the Killer Strawberries are proud of the other bad habits they have picked up but thank Gitchigoomi they refuse to emulate the tanking Canadiens.
Last night’s matchup, a 10-2 victory over a stunned ALU squad, brought the Strawbs’ record to 5-1-2 since the new 2009 season began. Much of the consistent good results can be parked at Slickery Mac’s doorstep as he continues the same type of torrid scoring pace he once set in an obscure men’s league in San Francisco in the early 90’s. He has even become a post game regular at the Terminal Tavren, where the wait staff have fondly nicknamed him Handsome or Piss Tank or something or other.
Dr. Thug, his dementia in partial remission, played an excellent game, scoring a beauty on a one man wrecking crew play. After having niftily tucked the puck behind the startled goaltender on a partial breakaway, his inertia propelled him, face first, into the equally startled end boards. He was "with it" enough after his close encounter with concusssion number (n+1)x100 to look back to see what had happened to the puck he left behind. He screamed “Hallelujah” when he noticed the exasperated goaltender fishing out the good Dr.'s deposit from the back of the cage. Another notch for his bedposts or whatever else he notches.
Jesse The Leak made a solid, tail-between-his-legs return to the Strawberries after his disastrous try-out with the Thinkin’ Drinkin’ Stinkins of the now defunct C.R.A.P. hockey league. He made numerous good saves on the evening. He did however forget to carry the Ice Marshal’s equipment to his car after the match, pursuant to the terms of his new(post-Stinkins) contract with his beloved squad.
Butcher Brophey showed up to the arena with a new set of gently used equipment after his old equipment was put into emergency quarantine by the Centre For Disease Control. He picked up the almost spotless equipment at a mid-week yard sale lorded over by the Dictator By The Lake at the Compound For Minor Vice. Apparently, the Vice (aka The Dictator, Rob The Torch etc.) had won a minor lottery somewhere and had used the proceeds to update his old equipment. The equipment was about 5 years old on average but it had nary a scratch, material pull,drop of blood or sweat mark upon it: gently used indeed. And, who knew The Butcher and The Vice had fat asses of the same size and droop.
It was good to see Pyjama Man enter the dressing room 5 seconds before the puck was dropped. He said he would have stayed home but couldn’t get his babysitter to come over. “I knew the Strawbs would need me tonight, and since I hadn’t anything better to do, I brought my girls with me so I could play. I left the car running and they seem to be having fun playing with the lighter.”
Archilles was finally recovered from the horrible blister he has been stoically enduring since the terrible accident he had while drying the dishes at his home. He played poorly on the night but it was good to see him out of his house where unspeakable accidents seem to befall him almost weekly.
The team is struggling to find the right position for Shiny Sean who fancies himself a goal scorer. While he starts all his shifts at defence, he rarely finishes them there. He is forever darting at the opposition’s net, screaming for the puck to be put on his stick. When this inevitably does not occur, he pouts for while, regroups and tries the same stunt again. He is as habitually persistent/hard-headed as Gumby is habitually tardy/soft-headed. Unlike Gumby, however, he does have a goal this year.
And what’s with MagBoy? Again, last night, he slammed himself into the boards, even harder than Dr. Thug had done earlier in the game. It is obvious his skating lessons are not taking. Is he forgetting to take his medication? Are things okay at home? Is his medulla oblongata in a state of disrepair?
And what’s with Freight Train Laronde. There are rumours that he actually has soft hands and some very high tech moves which he uses in the training wheels league he skates in on Wednesdays According to a lowly placed source with new gently used equipment, Laronde can snap the puck into the top corner, through his legs while reciting Byronesque verse. Where is that talent when he plays for the Killer Strawberries? Come on Freight train, show us your stuff. After all, the team’s motto is “Show us your finesse or you get to play defence.”
And what’s with Warrin’ Peace. He continues to rack up his frequent absentee points at an alarming rate. Pretty soon he will be demoted from waterboy to waterwussy.
And finally, what’s with the poetry that has been seeping, like a mangy fox creeping, into an unguarded henhouse on the hill? Well, according to sports psychologist, Ozzie Andharriet, poetry can, if deftly applied, increase performance levels by .08% over the long run ( Note 1). So there.
All in all, the game was an excellent Strawbs outing and helped solidy the team’s grip on first place. To further solidy their grips, most of the players (save for the Vice who had to go home to iron out the wrinkles in his new equipment) ventured out to the Terminal Tavren. Old lies were recounted, new lies freshly minted, and a little Robbie Burns quoted for good measure.
8 Stella, 2 Black and Tan, 3 Guinness, 2 Sterling (huh?), 5 Steamwhistle, one “Hello, Handsome” and some iambic pentameter were consumed.
(1) Dr. Highly Selassie, The Book Of Useful Stats, Dubious Press, 2008
Strawbs 10 ALU Warriors 3
February 9, 2009
It is fortunate that the smarter Strawbs have stopped watching the Habs play in recent weeks, as Gumby’s team of underachieving Russsians, Finns, Yanks and Canadian Canadiens continues to spiral toward an ignominious 9th place finish in the Campbell Conference: fortunate because the Strawbs have not picked up the same bad habits which have plagued Les Glorieux since mid-January. Certainly, the Killer Strawberries are proud of the other bad habits they have picked up but thank Gitchigoomi they refuse to emulate the tanking Canadiens.
Last night’s matchup, a 10-2 victory over a stunned ALU squad, brought the Strawbs’ record to 5-1-2 since the new 2009 season began. Much of the consistent good results can be parked at Slickery Mac’s doorstep as he continues the same type of torrid scoring pace he once set in an obscure men’s league in San Francisco in the early 90’s. He has even become a post game regular at the Terminal Tavren, where the wait staff have fondly nicknamed him Handsome or Piss Tank or something or other.
Dr. Thug, his dementia in partial remission, played an excellent game, scoring a beauty on a one man wrecking crew play. After having niftily tucked the puck behind the startled goaltender on a partial breakaway, his inertia propelled him, face first, into the equally startled end boards. He was "with it" enough after his close encounter with concusssion number (n+1)x100 to look back to see what had happened to the puck he left behind. He screamed “Hallelujah” when he noticed the exasperated goaltender fishing out the good Dr.'s deposit from the back of the cage. Another notch for his bedposts or whatever else he notches.
Jesse The Leak made a solid, tail-between-his-legs return to the Strawberries after his disastrous try-out with the Thinkin’ Drinkin’ Stinkins of the now defunct C.R.A.P. hockey league. He made numerous good saves on the evening. He did however forget to carry the Ice Marshal’s equipment to his car after the match, pursuant to the terms of his new(post-Stinkins) contract with his beloved squad.
Butcher Brophey showed up to the arena with a new set of gently used equipment after his old equipment was put into emergency quarantine by the Centre For Disease Control. He picked up the almost spotless equipment at a mid-week yard sale lorded over by the Dictator By The Lake at the Compound For Minor Vice. Apparently, the Vice (aka The Dictator, Rob The Torch etc.) had won a minor lottery somewhere and had used the proceeds to update his old equipment. The equipment was about 5 years old on average but it had nary a scratch, material pull,drop of blood or sweat mark upon it: gently used indeed. And, who knew The Butcher and The Vice had fat asses of the same size and droop.
It was good to see Pyjama Man enter the dressing room 5 seconds before the puck was dropped. He said he would have stayed home but couldn’t get his babysitter to come over. “I knew the Strawbs would need me tonight, and since I hadn’t anything better to do, I brought my girls with me so I could play. I left the car running and they seem to be having fun playing with the lighter.”
Archilles was finally recovered from the horrible blister he has been stoically enduring since the terrible accident he had while drying the dishes at his home. He played poorly on the night but it was good to see him out of his house where unspeakable accidents seem to befall him almost weekly.
The team is struggling to find the right position for Shiny Sean who fancies himself a goal scorer. While he starts all his shifts at defence, he rarely finishes them there. He is forever darting at the opposition’s net, screaming for the puck to be put on his stick. When this inevitably does not occur, he pouts for while, regroups and tries the same stunt again. He is as habitually persistent/hard-headed as Gumby is habitually tardy/soft-headed. Unlike Gumby, however, he does have a goal this year.
And what’s with MagBoy? Again, last night, he slammed himself into the boards, even harder than Dr. Thug had done earlier in the game. It is obvious his skating lessons are not taking. Is he forgetting to take his medication? Are things okay at home? Is his medulla oblongata in a state of disrepair?
And what’s with Freight Train Laronde. There are rumours that he actually has soft hands and some very high tech moves which he uses in the training wheels league he skates in on Wednesdays According to a lowly placed source with new gently used equipment, Laronde can snap the puck into the top corner, through his legs while reciting Byronesque verse. Where is that talent when he plays for the Killer Strawberries? Come on Freight train, show us your stuff. After all, the team’s motto is “Show us your finesse or you get to play defence.”
And what’s with Warrin’ Peace. He continues to rack up his frequent absentee points at an alarming rate. Pretty soon he will be demoted from waterboy to waterwussy.
And finally, what’s with the poetry that has been seeping, like a mangy fox creeping, into an unguarded henhouse on the hill? Well, according to sports psychologist, Ozzie Andharriet, poetry can, if deftly applied, increase performance levels by .08% over the long run ( Note 1). So there.
All in all, the game was an excellent Strawbs outing and helped solidy the team’s grip on first place. To further solidy their grips, most of the players (save for the Vice who had to go home to iron out the wrinkles in his new equipment) ventured out to the Terminal Tavren. Old lies were recounted, new lies freshly minted, and a little Robbie Burns quoted for good measure.
8 Stella, 2 Black and Tan, 3 Guinness, 2 Sterling (huh?), 5 Steamwhistle, one “Hello, Handsome” and some iambic pentameter were consumed.
(1) Dr. Highly Selassie, The Book Of Useful Stats, Dubious Press, 2008
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Solid Effort Assures Victory
Game Report
February 5, 2009
Killer Strawberries 4 Jet Rangers 2
Last night’s matchup was a workmanlike affair for the Strawbs as they systematically dismantled the Jet Rangers offence and defence on their way to a 4-2 victory.
The Strawberries’ pipes were ably defended by fill-in, Cat Thomas, a shy philately enthusiast and small gauge train aficionado who was picked up to replace the mysteriously absent Jesse The Leak. Based on his performance, Mr. Cat was invited to be the team’s backup for the rest of the season. He diplomatically declined, citing his aversion to something he termed “low standards”. We presume he was speaking of the opposition.
The incredible rubber man, Dr. Thelonius Thug, returned from his nth hundredth head smacking to lead the team in cheerleading and on-ice fancy footwork. Although advised against suiting up by his online support group, the Dizzy Dinosaur Greats of Hockey, he did play well. Unfortunately, there were disturbing signs of his advanced dementia different from the old signs of his advanced dementia to which the team has become accustomed. Among the signs: Dr.Thug dressed and undressed 3 times before the game actually started because he was confused whether the Strawbs were the home team, the visiting team or the home team. On the plus side, The Vice extracted $50 bucks from the notorious tight wad by convincing him that he had not yet paid his entry fee to the team. The money will be put to a good cause at the Terminal Tavren or other such fine charitable organizations.
Freight Train 444 continued his inspired play as he was moved back and forth between centre and defence as the situation required. “I felt like a yo-yo out there” he reported after the game. “I don’t usually swing from both sides of the plate like that but it sure was fun.”
Slickery Mac was the game’s biggest offensive threat, scoring 2 beauties and constantly setting up the Ice Marshall, to no avail. (In his defence, the Ice Marshal was playing in a full body cast and was still reeling from his starter wife’s declaration that their 50 year old kitchen was going to be redone come hell or high water.) One of Slickery’s goals was an absolute beauty. He struck the puck with such force that it snapped the net’s back bar, ripped through the boards and struck a surprised Zamboni driver busily engaged in some kind of lurid ménage with a siren in white go go boots and her niece/aunt from a previous marriage.
Once again, the Strawbs were afflicted with an ugly case of absenteeism. The Leak, poor student by day, hot and cold goaltender by night, took it upon himself to attempt an unauthorized try-out with the Drinkin Thinkin Stinkins of the renegade Continental Recovering Alcoholic Poets (C.R.A.P.) League. According to Shelley Keats-Yeats, the Stinkins’ manager, coach, bus driver and muse:
We took a peek
At Jesse The Leak
And unfortunately found him wanting.
Best take him back
Cause he’s on track
For some ugly merciless taunting.
In front of a puck
He really does suck.
His skills they are so yucky.
Dump him now
He’s lost his wow
And then consider yourselves lucky.
Mr. Leak is expected to start the Strawbs’ next game, conditional upon a written apology to the Strawbs and a note from his psychiatrist.
Dr. Bonehead Butcher Brophey was also unable to make the match. Apparently, the North Bay Parry Sound Health Unit condemned his equipment, minutes before his departure for the game. The Health Unit was particularly appalled by the state of his undergarments (both the ones he was wearing and those he uses for hockey). The official report reported, as official reports are wont to do, that “the Butcher’s undershirt had the aroma, consistency and appearance of a moldy Limburger left to rot for 23 days on the floor of some backwoods Amazonian forest.” The rest of the report was not nearly as complimentary. After the game, the Executive admonished Brophey for being a danger to himself, to his team and to all the communities within a 50 mile radius of his ramshackle home in Corbeil, Ontario. (The town motto: We may not be big, but we’re small.) A disposal team from the Center For Disease Control in Atlanta has confiscated the offending equipment for further analysis and quarantine.
The last absentee,the once proud Warrin Peace, has been a problem all year. He seems impervious to the team’s encouragement and lavish incentice system. Since his marriage/bondage to the mesmerizing Samarra Dessert, he is no longer the same man he was before his misguided foray into matrimonial bliss. And the humiliations just keep piling on. For example,the absentee was, as of last Tuesday, officially installed as the head eunuch at the Garage Of Bad Ideas. Under the terms of his “promotion”, he was allowed to not participate in last night’s match because his boss needed her delicate feet rubbed after an exhausting retail therapy marathon in NYC, with a bevy of her like-minded girlfriends. The team hopes he finds his balls soon.
Warmed by the victory and despite the plethora of unauthorized absences, the Killer Strawberries reconvened at the Terminal Tavern to go over the high points of the game.
Feats were feted
And Yeats requited
For giving the Strawbs back their Leak.
Brophey was slagged
And Warrin’, debagged,
Was ridiculed as worthless and weak.
5 Bud, 3 Blue, 4 Guinness, 7 Steamwhistle, 1 Black and tan and 2 chicken’s balls were consumed.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Digging Deep
Game Report
January 30, 2009
Killer Strawberries 5 Spitfires 0
For the Killer Strawberries who bothered to show up for the match against the well-abhored Spitfires, the pre-game sentiment in the dressing was not unlike that customarily experienced by a first time patient about to undergo a three fingered prostate exam administered by Hulk Hogan’s bigger brother. In the previous 2 matchups between these two teams, there was not an ounce of goodwill left by the time the final buzzer clanged. To say that these 2 squads dislike each other would be like saying the Strawbs have a mild dislike for referee Napoleon Fizzlercracker and his Travelling Incompetence Road Show..
By the Zamboni’s last lap of surface polishing, there were 8 intrepid Strawbs laced up, including Jesse The Leak, who would go on to shine this evening. Seven skaters, with an average age of 50, is usually a recipe for exhaustion by minute 5 of the first period in the cleanest of games. This matchup did not portend much hockey cleanliness.
And where were the 5 pusillanimous pudds who callously left their team in this vile predicament. Well, I’ll tell you. Dr. Thug, claiming to be suffering from his nth hundredth self-administered concussion, was in Las Vegas filming a celebrity wrestling match with the Victoria’s Secret models. Sure. And Butcher Brophey is a vegetarian. Shiny Sean claimed he had to take one of his kids to a hospital in Barrie. Everybody knows there are no hospitals in Barrie or anywhere within 50 miles of that den of constantly snarled traffic. Methinks he was at Casino Rama to play a little poker and to catch the Al Martino concert.
Archilles Perron could not make it because he had a little blister on his thumb from doing the dishes. This is a Strawb’s first….an injury from doing housework. Poor baby. The pain must be excrutiating.
And where was Pyjama Man, the once reliable point getter who has fallen on hard times in the scoring department. Well, he hired a babysitter for his girls and proceeded to spend the night babysitting the babysitter. Who was the babysitter? Why, it turned out to be his main squeeze, Loans Jones, whom he hadn’t seen since their salacious afternoon tryst which ended at 3pm in stall #4 of the women’s washroom at their City Hall workplace. While the Strawbs are unamused by his absence from the Spitfire game, they do heartily congratulate him upon the creative use of his 5 minute afternoon coffee break. Just don’t let it happen again, you priapetic toad.
The absence roster was completed by Warrin’ Peace, the team’s secret captain and official waterboy. His excuse…he had to stay home to clean up the mess left behind by his wife’s co-workers, unruly nurses, who, earlier in the day, had engaged in a clothes optional wild bacchanalian fling involving copious quantities of wine and much acrimony towards the management at their place of employ. Warrin’ predicts all the drywall damage will be repaired by next game, Great Gitchigoomi willing.
On the ice, the Spitfires had personnel problems of their own. They eked a squad as equally depleted as the aging Strawbs. Unfortunately, the skaters who showed up were their biggest meatheads, drooling like mangy rabied dogs at the chance to chop, hack and slice. Didn’t matter. The Strawberries took it to their much detested foe. They scored early. They defended their territory like Homer’s ancient Trojans. Unlike the valiant Trojans, however, the Strawberries defences were not breached. Jesse The Leak was impenetrable, using his speed, youthful guile and the width of the goalposts to his advantage. On one play, he stacked his pads to his left and blew up his chest to the right as he careened flawlessly across the crease, thus robbing an astonished Spitter of a sure goal. His play was ably assisted by some stalwarts on defence: the lovely orange-socked, recently fiftied Sir Gawdawful Gumby: by the team’s able surgeon, Butcher Brophey and by the wily, calorie-gulping Vice. These men kept the puck almost exclusively on the perimeter all night. It is difficult to recall a game so well played in the defensive zone.
At forward, Freight Train Laronde was spectacular. In the dressing room, he predicted he would score, and, like the Babe, was true to his prognostication. Likea tsunami of rogue waves assaulting the shore, he bombarded the opposition’s net with strike after lightning strike. He did not score again but he certainly deserved to.
Slickery Mac was also a constant offensive threat. He notched three tallies on the 800 shots he propelled at the hapless Spits’goaler. On one shot, he managed to perform a bloodless tracheotomy on the poor fellow, leaving him gasping for air late in the first period. MagBoy was his customary burr under the saddle and managed to piss off every Spit, both referees and one of the two timekeepers. “Sorry I didn’t get around the second timekeeper” he stated ruefully after the match. “ fully expected to return to the Sin Bin before game’s end and I would have finished the job properly. Just didn’t get the chance.” He did, however, atone for his shortfall, by placing an expletive filled anonymous phone call to the poor girl’s dormroom just after midnight.
The Ice Marshal, the last of the forwards to be mentioned herein, was voted 8th star of the game by his buddy, the blind-to-his-own-faults, P. Gumbington Pettigrew. “I thought he played like a big fat slug on Demerol” asserted P. Gumbington. “Nothing the loss of 25 pounds and a little effort can’t cure.” This from a man who spent the previous seven days drinking 4 litres of Scotch per diem as he scoffed down salted peanuts and No Name potato chips by the vatful while never leaving his couch, all in the name of his 50th birthday week celebrations. At the presser following the game, the Ice Marshal defended himself from Gumby’s callous calumny by averring that he never uses Demerol, preferring to suck it up like a real man.
Final score…Killer Strawberries 5 Spitters 0. Take that you gravy sucking pigs.
Following the game, the happy Strawbs convened at the Terminal Tavren to relish their latest victory on the road to the Championship. They were joined by the numerous adorers and hangers-on who had witnessed the earlier immolation of their opponents. Backs were slapped, bums pinched and the absentees toasted to hell.
5 Bud, 7 Guinness, 2 Blue, 3 Stella, 1 Black and Tan, 3 pounds of chicken wings, a vat of perogies and memories of the other Trojan War were consumed.
January 30, 2009
Killer Strawberries 5 Spitfires 0
For the Killer Strawberries who bothered to show up for the match against the well-abhored Spitfires, the pre-game sentiment in the dressing was not unlike that customarily experienced by a first time patient about to undergo a three fingered prostate exam administered by Hulk Hogan’s bigger brother. In the previous 2 matchups between these two teams, there was not an ounce of goodwill left by the time the final buzzer clanged. To say that these 2 squads dislike each other would be like saying the Strawbs have a mild dislike for referee Napoleon Fizzlercracker and his Travelling Incompetence Road Show..
By the Zamboni’s last lap of surface polishing, there were 8 intrepid Strawbs laced up, including Jesse The Leak, who would go on to shine this evening. Seven skaters, with an average age of 50, is usually a recipe for exhaustion by minute 5 of the first period in the cleanest of games. This matchup did not portend much hockey cleanliness.
And where were the 5 pusillanimous pudds who callously left their team in this vile predicament. Well, I’ll tell you. Dr. Thug, claiming to be suffering from his nth hundredth self-administered concussion, was in Las Vegas filming a celebrity wrestling match with the Victoria’s Secret models. Sure. And Butcher Brophey is a vegetarian. Shiny Sean claimed he had to take one of his kids to a hospital in Barrie. Everybody knows there are no hospitals in Barrie or anywhere within 50 miles of that den of constantly snarled traffic. Methinks he was at Casino Rama to play a little poker and to catch the Al Martino concert.
Archilles Perron could not make it because he had a little blister on his thumb from doing the dishes. This is a Strawb’s first….an injury from doing housework. Poor baby. The pain must be excrutiating.
And where was Pyjama Man, the once reliable point getter who has fallen on hard times in the scoring department. Well, he hired a babysitter for his girls and proceeded to spend the night babysitting the babysitter. Who was the babysitter? Why, it turned out to be his main squeeze, Loans Jones, whom he hadn’t seen since their salacious afternoon tryst which ended at 3pm in stall #4 of the women’s washroom at their City Hall workplace. While the Strawbs are unamused by his absence from the Spitfire game, they do heartily congratulate him upon the creative use of his 5 minute afternoon coffee break. Just don’t let it happen again, you priapetic toad.
The absence roster was completed by Warrin’ Peace, the team’s secret captain and official waterboy. His excuse…he had to stay home to clean up the mess left behind by his wife’s co-workers, unruly nurses, who, earlier in the day, had engaged in a clothes optional wild bacchanalian fling involving copious quantities of wine and much acrimony towards the management at their place of employ. Warrin’ predicts all the drywall damage will be repaired by next game, Great Gitchigoomi willing.
On the ice, the Spitfires had personnel problems of their own. They eked a squad as equally depleted as the aging Strawbs. Unfortunately, the skaters who showed up were their biggest meatheads, drooling like mangy rabied dogs at the chance to chop, hack and slice. Didn’t matter. The Strawberries took it to their much detested foe. They scored early. They defended their territory like Homer’s ancient Trojans. Unlike the valiant Trojans, however, the Strawberries defences were not breached. Jesse The Leak was impenetrable, using his speed, youthful guile and the width of the goalposts to his advantage. On one play, he stacked his pads to his left and blew up his chest to the right as he careened flawlessly across the crease, thus robbing an astonished Spitter of a sure goal. His play was ably assisted by some stalwarts on defence: the lovely orange-socked, recently fiftied Sir Gawdawful Gumby: by the team’s able surgeon, Butcher Brophey and by the wily, calorie-gulping Vice. These men kept the puck almost exclusively on the perimeter all night. It is difficult to recall a game so well played in the defensive zone.
At forward, Freight Train Laronde was spectacular. In the dressing room, he predicted he would score, and, like the Babe, was true to his prognostication. Likea tsunami of rogue waves assaulting the shore, he bombarded the opposition’s net with strike after lightning strike. He did not score again but he certainly deserved to.
Slickery Mac was also a constant offensive threat. He notched three tallies on the 800 shots he propelled at the hapless Spits’goaler. On one shot, he managed to perform a bloodless tracheotomy on the poor fellow, leaving him gasping for air late in the first period. MagBoy was his customary burr under the saddle and managed to piss off every Spit, both referees and one of the two timekeepers. “Sorry I didn’t get around the second timekeeper” he stated ruefully after the match. “ fully expected to return to the Sin Bin before game’s end and I would have finished the job properly. Just didn’t get the chance.” He did, however, atone for his shortfall, by placing an expletive filled anonymous phone call to the poor girl’s dormroom just after midnight.
The Ice Marshal, the last of the forwards to be mentioned herein, was voted 8th star of the game by his buddy, the blind-to-his-own-faults, P. Gumbington Pettigrew. “I thought he played like a big fat slug on Demerol” asserted P. Gumbington. “Nothing the loss of 25 pounds and a little effort can’t cure.” This from a man who spent the previous seven days drinking 4 litres of Scotch per diem as he scoffed down salted peanuts and No Name potato chips by the vatful while never leaving his couch, all in the name of his 50th birthday week celebrations. At the presser following the game, the Ice Marshal defended himself from Gumby’s callous calumny by averring that he never uses Demerol, preferring to suck it up like a real man.
Final score…Killer Strawberries 5 Spitters 0. Take that you gravy sucking pigs.
Following the game, the happy Strawbs convened at the Terminal Tavren to relish their latest victory on the road to the Championship. They were joined by the numerous adorers and hangers-on who had witnessed the earlier immolation of their opponents. Backs were slapped, bums pinched and the absentees toasted to hell.
5 Bud, 7 Guinness, 2 Blue, 3 Stella, 1 Black and Tan, 3 pounds of chicken wings, a vat of perogies and memories of the other Trojan War were consumed.
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.
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