Saturday, October 20, 2007
Strawbs Kick Off Birthday Week in Grand Style
Strawberries 5 Mighty Piglets 1
Game Report
October 18, 2007
The annual self-administered and self-promoted “Rob the Torch’s Birthday Week” celebrations began with great fanfare last Thursday night at the beautiful Pete Palangio Arenas. To mark the kickoff, the Strawbs donned, for the first time ever, a full set of matching team socks, save for Gawdawful Gumby who, in his usual truculent style, refused to include himself in another “juvenile, conformist and frankly quite communistic undertaking”. Just imagine this kind of behaviour from a man who soils his own bed because it helps him to get up in the morning.
The new socks were not your mundane, run of the mill, plain Jane and vanilla socks. No sirree. The new hosiery was, by Executive Fiat, specially made by a local haberdashery, Socks to Be You, to honour those breathtaking red fishnet stockings favoured by the team’s most demanding fan, the wistful Miss White Go Go Boots. It is not often a professional sporting team honours inanimate objects (the stockings, not Miss WGGB) but, given the surreal motivating effect of Miss White Go Go Boots’ clothing choices upon the hormonal outputs of those fortunate enough to bask occasionally in her reflected glory, the honouring is fully understandable.
And honour the socks they did. Pyjama Man, in his first game of the season, single-handedly emasculated the Mighty Piglets, turning them into a million freeze dried bacon bits with four unanswered goals of a quality befitting both his new socks and the Birthday Week celebrations. Dr. Thug sprung himself from the clutches of his own moving phlegm pile to complete the team’s scoring…well almost. There was another goal scored. Shiny Shone McCabe, disoriented by the lights and intoxicated with the thrill of playing with his first real hockey team in 34 years, took it upon himself to ruin a fabulous outing by the rejuvenated Jesse The Leak, by brazenly depositing the puck into his own net. At his post-game debriefing in the Zamboni Room, Shiny Shone admitted he had always found that goaltenders are prone to become complacent when they record shutouts. All he was trying to do was ensure that that The Leak’s burgeoning ego did not impede his future performance. The Executive promptly excoriated the new boy for thinking thoughts not approved by management. The Executive also believes that the threat of a prolonged rehabilitation stint with the Bottom Feeding Blowfish (or worse, the bumbling Nasty Cupcakes) has cured Shiny of any further unauthorized actions.
There was one other disappointment, normally overlooked. On the basis of his rigorous summer training regimen, Archilles Perron, long suffering betrothed of Ms.Glasgow Glamour, was elevated to the first line alongside the team’s leaders in all departments which count. Buffed to a svelte 168 pounds by a diet of non-alcoholic beverages, tofu, seaweed and sugar-free gum, Archilles ought to have shone. He did not. In fact, he was a black hole of shininess, a dim shadow of amorphous inefficiency lost in a sea of ineptitude. One hopes he gets better soon.
Fortunately, nothing could take the shine off the end result. A big win is a big win, even more so when accomplished with the sartorial splendour afforded by new socks.
The celebrations surrounding Rob the Torch’s Birthday Week continued to the wee hours of the morning, with massive quantities of subsidized beverages being quaffed at Leo’s, Freight Train 444’s frequent pre-class imbibery. The festivities will end around next Wednesday when the Torch’s frail liver finally screams surrender.
21 jugs of liquid swill, most of it strained through a pair of red fishnet stockings found discarded on the floor of the Zamboni Room, were consumed.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Strawbs Wing Aviators
Strawberries 3 Aviators 2
Game Report
October 15, 2007
The tension in the dressing room before the first game of the new season was palpable yet subdued. From among the reserved susurrations, there could be detected an aura of high expectation for the coming season, tinged with an unspoken concern surrounding the level of play to be expected from a team, which quite frankly, had let itself go to seed in the off-season.
Seated against the far wall, while casually dusting the dead moths and desiccated mouse droppings from his disheveled equipment, Whoahorny Richardson calmly applied a light layer of nitro to his ailing chest in the hope that tonight would not be the night he croaked at his own blue line as a swarm of testosterone infused jackanapes descended upon his donkless goaltender. Butcher Brophey, recently elevated to that rare air of academia known to us lesser mortals as the “Doctorate”, a Doctorate conferred upon him by the Laxative Institute of Higher Business Studies of Bath-and-Spa, England, nervously tugged at a hockey undergarment best described as “beyond recognition”. The smell which emanated from said undergarment was causing much nausea all around until the proud Doctor acted upon the unanimous suggestion that he dispose of the offending article by using one the trash cans located in the arena parking lot. “I’ve had the best sex of my life in this thing” he protested. “Well you shoulda wiped yourself off on the curtains instead” growled unsympathetic Gumby, no stranger himself to the benefits of a handy set of drapes.
The new kid (aged 30 something), Shiny Shone Brightly did not know what to make of the pre-game proceedings but did show the Executive that he was worthy of his promotion to the big team by keeping his thoughts unuttered until he had actually made some kind of useful contribution to his new team.
With the determination of Dick Cheney on a duck hunt and with a Championship to defend, the Strawbs ascended the long stairway from the dressing room to the ice surface, encouraged by the screams of delight and admiration emanating from its solid fan base. Mag Girl, atwitter with lust at the sight of her man and men in uniform, and Samara Desert, lost in a gossamer reverie recounting her recent honeymoon with Warrin’ Peace, stomped their feet in appreciation, hopeful that their support might lead to victory on the ice and later at home. Both fans were resplendent in their blue-rinsed squirrel coats, gifts from the Executive last year at the end of season celebration.
The game started off at a very high pace. Mag Boy scrolled about the ice like a piece of overstretched barbed wire finally released from its imprisonment between the cedar posts of an ancient field fence. While there was much to admire in his enthusiasm, his direction and purpose left something to be desired. In his defence, he did score 2 of the team’s 3 goals, one of which certainly looked intended.
Jesse The Leak, recent graduate of the College and unfortunate student of the newly minted Doctor Butcher, turned in a first period performance worthy of Bambi’s mother after she took the bullet to the skull. The two first shots he faced, with a combined velocity of point 2 metres per day, found the back of the net with ease. Fresh from a dressing down between periods, he regained the form expected of him, blanking the pesky Aviators over the final 22 minutes.
Gumby gumbied gumbyesquely and was plus 4 on the night according to his own suspect calculations. He termed his performance “a granular one” and was quickly correctly by the ever sharp Freight Train 444 who noted that the performance was more glandular than granular, the gland in question being located at the end of his lower colon. “What’s grammar gotta do with it?” cried an exasperated Gumby, clearly hurt by the remark.
Although they chose not to score on this occasion, the versatile Vice Marshall and the laconic Ice Marshall ensured that the grit necessary for a repeat championship was present in spades. “By going to the box so frequently, we were trying to accomplish 2 things” announced the Ice Marshall at game’s end. "Firstly, by sitting in the box, we made it highly unlikely that we would take another penalty for at least the next 3 minutes. And secondly, this group of chronic underachievers and humility deficient aficionados of women’s fine lingerie needs to feel a little adversity to get their games to the level needed for success." As the sagacity of the proffered tactics slowly seeped into the barely conscious recesses of the team’s collective psyche, a suggestion was made that there existed a location where the beer was cold and the chicks even colder. “We’re not going to your place again, Brophey,” screamed all in unison, warmed by the prospect of free booze but even more frightened of running into a Miss White Go Go Boots not known for welcoming any male attention which she herself had not initiated.
The victors and their fans congregated post-tussle at the Bull. The game was duly reviewed and aspersions cast upon those pusillanimous Strawbs who failed to show for the match (Archilles, Pyjama Man and the self-concussed Dr. Thug).
8 Guinness, 3 Stella Artois, 2 Bud Light, 2 Red Keiths, one Sissy Singapore Sling and some parsimonious praise were consumed.
Game Report
October 15, 2007
The tension in the dressing room before the first game of the new season was palpable yet subdued. From among the reserved susurrations, there could be detected an aura of high expectation for the coming season, tinged with an unspoken concern surrounding the level of play to be expected from a team, which quite frankly, had let itself go to seed in the off-season.
Seated against the far wall, while casually dusting the dead moths and desiccated mouse droppings from his disheveled equipment, Whoahorny Richardson calmly applied a light layer of nitro to his ailing chest in the hope that tonight would not be the night he croaked at his own blue line as a swarm of testosterone infused jackanapes descended upon his donkless goaltender. Butcher Brophey, recently elevated to that rare air of academia known to us lesser mortals as the “Doctorate”, a Doctorate conferred upon him by the Laxative Institute of Higher Business Studies of Bath-and-Spa, England, nervously tugged at a hockey undergarment best described as “beyond recognition”. The smell which emanated from said undergarment was causing much nausea all around until the proud Doctor acted upon the unanimous suggestion that he dispose of the offending article by using one the trash cans located in the arena parking lot. “I’ve had the best sex of my life in this thing” he protested. “Well you shoulda wiped yourself off on the curtains instead” growled unsympathetic Gumby, no stranger himself to the benefits of a handy set of drapes.
The new kid (aged 30 something), Shiny Shone Brightly did not know what to make of the pre-game proceedings but did show the Executive that he was worthy of his promotion to the big team by keeping his thoughts unuttered until he had actually made some kind of useful contribution to his new team.
With the determination of Dick Cheney on a duck hunt and with a Championship to defend, the Strawbs ascended the long stairway from the dressing room to the ice surface, encouraged by the screams of delight and admiration emanating from its solid fan base. Mag Girl, atwitter with lust at the sight of her man and men in uniform, and Samara Desert, lost in a gossamer reverie recounting her recent honeymoon with Warrin’ Peace, stomped their feet in appreciation, hopeful that their support might lead to victory on the ice and later at home. Both fans were resplendent in their blue-rinsed squirrel coats, gifts from the Executive last year at the end of season celebration.
The game started off at a very high pace. Mag Boy scrolled about the ice like a piece of overstretched barbed wire finally released from its imprisonment between the cedar posts of an ancient field fence. While there was much to admire in his enthusiasm, his direction and purpose left something to be desired. In his defence, he did score 2 of the team’s 3 goals, one of which certainly looked intended.
Jesse The Leak, recent graduate of the College and unfortunate student of the newly minted Doctor Butcher, turned in a first period performance worthy of Bambi’s mother after she took the bullet to the skull. The two first shots he faced, with a combined velocity of point 2 metres per day, found the back of the net with ease. Fresh from a dressing down between periods, he regained the form expected of him, blanking the pesky Aviators over the final 22 minutes.
Gumby gumbied gumbyesquely and was plus 4 on the night according to his own suspect calculations. He termed his performance “a granular one” and was quickly correctly by the ever sharp Freight Train 444 who noted that the performance was more glandular than granular, the gland in question being located at the end of his lower colon. “What’s grammar gotta do with it?” cried an exasperated Gumby, clearly hurt by the remark.
Although they chose not to score on this occasion, the versatile Vice Marshall and the laconic Ice Marshall ensured that the grit necessary for a repeat championship was present in spades. “By going to the box so frequently, we were trying to accomplish 2 things” announced the Ice Marshall at game’s end. "Firstly, by sitting in the box, we made it highly unlikely that we would take another penalty for at least the next 3 minutes. And secondly, this group of chronic underachievers and humility deficient aficionados of women’s fine lingerie needs to feel a little adversity to get their games to the level needed for success." As the sagacity of the proffered tactics slowly seeped into the barely conscious recesses of the team’s collective psyche, a suggestion was made that there existed a location where the beer was cold and the chicks even colder. “We’re not going to your place again, Brophey,” screamed all in unison, warmed by the prospect of free booze but even more frightened of running into a Miss White Go Go Boots not known for welcoming any male attention which she herself had not initiated.
The victors and their fans congregated post-tussle at the Bull. The game was duly reviewed and aspersions cast upon those pusillanimous Strawbs who failed to show for the match (Archilles, Pyjama Man and the self-concussed Dr. Thug).
8 Guinness, 3 Stella Artois, 2 Bud Light, 2 Red Keiths, one Sissy Singapore Sling and some parsimonious praise were consumed.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Howdy horrendiferous hackers.
It is time to sign up for the Strawbs. The cost is $160 this year, up from $140. The executive has launched a formal protest and fully expects that nothing will happen.
For those of you fortunate enough to work in the executive’s shadow at the Education Centre, go see Laura in Athletics (C250) to sign up and pay asap. Apparently there is a late fee of $20 which applies as of tomorrow. I think they might give us a couple of days grace (max), as defending OHL Chumps.
For those less fortunate and less skilled, come to my house at 905 Pinewood Rd. (just off Jane St.) tonight after 7:30 or, at the latest, tomorrow after supper, with your cheques payable to Canadore College. If I should be temporarily away at the time of your visit, check my mailbox at the end of my driveway for sign up sheets. Fill in the sheet and leave your cheque. Bring beer and munchies.
Love,
IMW
It is time to sign up for the Strawbs. The cost is $160 this year, up from $140. The executive has launched a formal protest and fully expects that nothing will happen.
For those of you fortunate enough to work in the executive’s shadow at the Education Centre, go see Laura in Athletics (C250) to sign up and pay asap. Apparently there is a late fee of $20 which applies as of tomorrow. I think they might give us a couple of days grace (max), as defending OHL Chumps.
For those less fortunate and less skilled, come to my house at 905 Pinewood Rd. (just off Jane St.) tonight after 7:30 or, at the latest, tomorrow after supper, with your cheques payable to Canadore College. If I should be temporarily away at the time of your visit, check my mailbox at the end of my driveway for sign up sheets. Fill in the sheet and leave your cheque. Bring beer and munchies.
Love,
IMW
Monday, August 06, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Temper tantrum Fails To Put Damper on Inaugural Strawberries Golf Tourney
Despite the petty growling of one rather irascible Strawbette invitee, the first annual Killer Strawberries’ Serenity Now! Golf Classic could only be termed, in the words of the team’s Poet Laureate, Miss White Go Go Boots herself, “a marvelous congeries of bonhomie, sportsmanship and karmic connection with universe”.
The day started off luminously with a beneficent sun beaming down magnanimously on the assembled throng, caressing them with the warmth they so miss in their own homes. Fourteen intrepid souls hacked and slashed their ways into Strawberry history at the beautiful Osprey Links Golf and Country Club located in Callander, Ontario, home to the world’s most extensive used suppository exhibit. Among the throng, one could easily collect autographs from such current Strawbs’ greats as the dictatorial Vice Marshall (AKA Rob the Torch), godless Gawdawful Gumby, the recently lei’d Butcher Brophey (PhD, LMNOP), next year’s team captain Warrin’ Peace, the outfoxed Magnesium Boy, the relentlessly browbeaten Archilles Perron and the incredibly handsome Ice Marshall Walpole. Strawb’s alumnium, the category filled with those forced out to hockey pasture in recent years, was almost adequately represented by the aging Moses McLean (alum 1898) and the peerless raconteur, Snowtop O’Farrell who last toiled for the Strawberries wearing the toque he inherited from Aurel Joliette, his younger half-brother.
To demonstrate the team’s commitment to sensitivity, gender equality and other such pinko communist, tree hugging, granola eating, hemp wearin’, Birkinstockian drivel, the lesser sex was invited to join in the festivities, provided they remain quiet and walk at least fifteen yards behind the magnificent men in their rich and vibrant lives. Participating under these generous terms of engagement were the winsome Siren of Brockville, the only woman silly enough to be married to Moses Mclean, Miss White Go Go Boots, resplendent in her squirrel-skin golf shoes and matching red micro-mini designed for maximum titillation on short putts, the hard hitting, hard drinkin’, buffed to a tee, Postmistress Lori the Luscious, sporting the first Guinness Book recognized haido, done completely by self-administered WhipperSnipper TM, and last and least, the earlier referred-to irascible Strawbette, Glasgow Glamour, a virago of vicious vulturine vituperation.
On this august occasion, all golfers played below par, ensuring the course was properly fed with scores of errant balls, missed opportunities and well- considered epithets of the unrepeatable variety. Gawdawful Gumby probably summed it up best, when in a rare moment of poignant introspection, he declared “My game is really hard on this course.” Not only was the game hard on the course, it was hard on the players too. On at least four separate occasions, the pressure bubbled over to such a degree that Warrin’ Peace saw himself cruelly afflicted with sphincter seizures so great that his playing partner, MagBoy, had to perform the emergency de-sphincter-seizuring manoeuvres he reluctantly learned on an ill-advised 1991 camping trip sponsored by the former Bishop of the Diocese of Boston. Moses McLean had to quit on the sixteenth hole after he ran out of balls. While he did not finish the round, he did still manage to record a score of 102, good for 7th place overall, by retrogression. The Siren of Brockville found the water so often, it appeared she was carrying around her own wet spot. Snowtop O’Farrell replaced so many disturbingly deep divots, he was offered an apprenticeship position with Burrow’s Country Store and Landscaping Emporium. The Vice was so brutal, so dictatorial and so disruptive to wildlife that the management of Osprey gave him a 5 year membership to Highview G & CC, complete with unlimited bar tab. Osprey ought to be out of business by this time next year.
Glamour Glasgow, who, despite her relative newness to the game, still managed to provide a boat load of useless advice to her hangdog husband, the badly hectored Archilles, a man marked for sainthood in the “marital-hell endured” category. The Postmistress was almost flawless over her nine hole stint, shooting a highly commendable 51 from the men’s tees. If she learns to control her potty mouth, she is destined for golfing greatness. Whatever she may be called in the Strawb’s dressing room, Miss White Go Go Boots lived up to her new reputation as a dazzling dresser from tee to green. Women of the world take note: this lady knows how to deport herself in any venue, from Buckinham palace to the Zamboni Room at Palangio Arenas. A true professional in every sense.
At the end of the ordeal, the revelers congregated at the closest terminal tavren (yes, tavren), the nattily appointed Callander Tavren and Shuffleboard Shootery. Lies were recounted with relish, scores tabulated but not audited, accusations of cheating were wantonly wielded like spare change in a sailor bar, and complaints fell upon deaf ears. Glasgow Glamour lost her fetching moniker by demanding that the “Lesser Sex Award” be renamed to something she ludicrously termed “less offensive to women”. Despite the foolishness of her unrequested and pre-mature ejaculation, the award has been renamed the “Miss Temper Tantrum Trophy” to honour her brilliant diplomacy-infused contribution to male-female relations worldwide. In a secret vote after her long anticipated departure from the tavren, it was decided that the trophy shall be hers in perpetuity, to be displayed proudly atop her home karaoke system.
The sartorially sagacious Miss White Go Go Boots was rewarded with the conferring upon her dignified self of the highly sought after “Poesie” Award, given to “the tournament participant most encouraged to take up another sport”. Upon winning the coveted award, Miss White Go Go Boots cried like a baby, comforted by the fact that she could finally, with dignity, end the soul-sucking charade that she had been hoping beyond hope would save her tattered marriage. Good luck with that one.
While frivolity has its place, all was not frivolous at the awards ceremony. The first “Big Dick” Trophy, emblematic of Strawberry golfing supremacy, was brought out with tremendous fanfare and to raucous acclaim. The Ice Marshall, acting as Master of Ceremonies and Temper Tantrum Controller, announced the individual scores in descending order of incompentence. As a fevered hush engulfed the room, it all came down to the last 2 names on the list. The runner up was announced; his score a scintillating 86 on a course bent on humiliating even the most seasoned sportsman. Archilles Perron, by finishing second, had beaten his nemesis, the rotund third place Butcher Brophey. Archilles was jubilant in his runnerupship and vowed to return a better golfer, husband and friend at the next Annual. The Ice Marshall, after waiting for Archilles’ well-earned congratulatory backslaps to subside, then got around to announcing the tournament victor. As he shook his own hand in victory, the crowd rushed to the restrooms to throw up. Whispers of “anyone but him” could be deciphered between whelps of regurgitation. With the help of the wisdom and Zen-like tranquility which has marked his storied career, the Ice Marshall hosted his Big Dick, secure in his own manhood and at one with life's meaning, in a universe known for its warped sense of humour. After his head became a little less swelled, he donned the gorgeous Green Plaid Jacket which seemed to fit him perfectly. Peace reigned in the Cosmos and the Gods of Golf smiled upon all.
18 pitchers of draft, 2 glasses of whine, a thousand chicken wings, 1 low-cal chicken wrap with double poutine, a few fries and the satiating glow of requited comraderie were consumed.
The day started off luminously with a beneficent sun beaming down magnanimously on the assembled throng, caressing them with the warmth they so miss in their own homes. Fourteen intrepid souls hacked and slashed their ways into Strawberry history at the beautiful Osprey Links Golf and Country Club located in Callander, Ontario, home to the world’s most extensive used suppository exhibit. Among the throng, one could easily collect autographs from such current Strawbs’ greats as the dictatorial Vice Marshall (AKA Rob the Torch), godless Gawdawful Gumby, the recently lei’d Butcher Brophey (PhD, LMNOP), next year’s team captain Warrin’ Peace, the outfoxed Magnesium Boy, the relentlessly browbeaten Archilles Perron and the incredibly handsome Ice Marshall Walpole. Strawb’s alumnium, the category filled with those forced out to hockey pasture in recent years, was almost adequately represented by the aging Moses McLean (alum 1898) and the peerless raconteur, Snowtop O’Farrell who last toiled for the Strawberries wearing the toque he inherited from Aurel Joliette, his younger half-brother.
To demonstrate the team’s commitment to sensitivity, gender equality and other such pinko communist, tree hugging, granola eating, hemp wearin’, Birkinstockian drivel, the lesser sex was invited to join in the festivities, provided they remain quiet and walk at least fifteen yards behind the magnificent men in their rich and vibrant lives. Participating under these generous terms of engagement were the winsome Siren of Brockville, the only woman silly enough to be married to Moses Mclean, Miss White Go Go Boots, resplendent in her squirrel-skin golf shoes and matching red micro-mini designed for maximum titillation on short putts, the hard hitting, hard drinkin’, buffed to a tee, Postmistress Lori the Luscious, sporting the first Guinness Book recognized haido, done completely by self-administered WhipperSnipper TM, and last and least, the earlier referred-to irascible Strawbette, Glasgow Glamour, a virago of vicious vulturine vituperation.
On this august occasion, all golfers played below par, ensuring the course was properly fed with scores of errant balls, missed opportunities and well- considered epithets of the unrepeatable variety. Gawdawful Gumby probably summed it up best, when in a rare moment of poignant introspection, he declared “My game is really hard on this course.” Not only was the game hard on the course, it was hard on the players too. On at least four separate occasions, the pressure bubbled over to such a degree that Warrin’ Peace saw himself cruelly afflicted with sphincter seizures so great that his playing partner, MagBoy, had to perform the emergency de-sphincter-seizuring manoeuvres he reluctantly learned on an ill-advised 1991 camping trip sponsored by the former Bishop of the Diocese of Boston. Moses McLean had to quit on the sixteenth hole after he ran out of balls. While he did not finish the round, he did still manage to record a score of 102, good for 7th place overall, by retrogression. The Siren of Brockville found the water so often, it appeared she was carrying around her own wet spot. Snowtop O’Farrell replaced so many disturbingly deep divots, he was offered an apprenticeship position with Burrow’s Country Store and Landscaping Emporium. The Vice was so brutal, so dictatorial and so disruptive to wildlife that the management of Osprey gave him a 5 year membership to Highview G & CC, complete with unlimited bar tab. Osprey ought to be out of business by this time next year.
Glamour Glasgow, who, despite her relative newness to the game, still managed to provide a boat load of useless advice to her hangdog husband, the badly hectored Archilles, a man marked for sainthood in the “marital-hell endured” category. The Postmistress was almost flawless over her nine hole stint, shooting a highly commendable 51 from the men’s tees. If she learns to control her potty mouth, she is destined for golfing greatness. Whatever she may be called in the Strawb’s dressing room, Miss White Go Go Boots lived up to her new reputation as a dazzling dresser from tee to green. Women of the world take note: this lady knows how to deport herself in any venue, from Buckinham palace to the Zamboni Room at Palangio Arenas. A true professional in every sense.
At the end of the ordeal, the revelers congregated at the closest terminal tavren (yes, tavren), the nattily appointed Callander Tavren and Shuffleboard Shootery. Lies were recounted with relish, scores tabulated but not audited, accusations of cheating were wantonly wielded like spare change in a sailor bar, and complaints fell upon deaf ears. Glasgow Glamour lost her fetching moniker by demanding that the “Lesser Sex Award” be renamed to something she ludicrously termed “less offensive to women”. Despite the foolishness of her unrequested and pre-mature ejaculation, the award has been renamed the “Miss Temper Tantrum Trophy” to honour her brilliant diplomacy-infused contribution to male-female relations worldwide. In a secret vote after her long anticipated departure from the tavren, it was decided that the trophy shall be hers in perpetuity, to be displayed proudly atop her home karaoke system.
The sartorially sagacious Miss White Go Go Boots was rewarded with the conferring upon her dignified self of the highly sought after “Poesie” Award, given to “the tournament participant most encouraged to take up another sport”. Upon winning the coveted award, Miss White Go Go Boots cried like a baby, comforted by the fact that she could finally, with dignity, end the soul-sucking charade that she had been hoping beyond hope would save her tattered marriage. Good luck with that one.
While frivolity has its place, all was not frivolous at the awards ceremony. The first “Big Dick” Trophy, emblematic of Strawberry golfing supremacy, was brought out with tremendous fanfare and to raucous acclaim. The Ice Marshall, acting as Master of Ceremonies and Temper Tantrum Controller, announced the individual scores in descending order of incompentence. As a fevered hush engulfed the room, it all came down to the last 2 names on the list. The runner up was announced; his score a scintillating 86 on a course bent on humiliating even the most seasoned sportsman. Archilles Perron, by finishing second, had beaten his nemesis, the rotund third place Butcher Brophey. Archilles was jubilant in his runnerupship and vowed to return a better golfer, husband and friend at the next Annual. The Ice Marshall, after waiting for Archilles’ well-earned congratulatory backslaps to subside, then got around to announcing the tournament victor. As he shook his own hand in victory, the crowd rushed to the restrooms to throw up. Whispers of “anyone but him” could be deciphered between whelps of regurgitation. With the help of the wisdom and Zen-like tranquility which has marked his storied career, the Ice Marshall hosted his Big Dick, secure in his own manhood and at one with life's meaning, in a universe known for its warped sense of humour. After his head became a little less swelled, he donned the gorgeous Green Plaid Jacket which seemed to fit him perfectly. Peace reigned in the Cosmos and the Gods of Golf smiled upon all.
18 pitchers of draft, 2 glasses of whine, a thousand chicken wings, 1 low-cal chicken wrap with double poutine, a few fries and the satiating glow of requited comraderie were consumed.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Killer Strawberries Golf Tournament 2007
The Killer Strawberries will be having their first golf tournament this Thursday, July 26 at Osprey Links in Callandar, ON. Tee off times for 18 holes start at 3pm and 9 holes at 5:15pm. Refreshments and bragging begins in the Callandar Tavern at 8pm. Notable Strawbs and ex-Strawbs golfing include: the Ice Marshall, the Vice Marshall, War 'N Peace, Gawdawful Gumby, Moses McLean and Mrs. Moses, SloMo O'Farrell and better half, Dr. Butcher Brophey and Miss GoGo Boots, Mag Boy, Archilles Perron and Joan, and Freight Train Laronde and his "caboose."
Any former and current Strawbs are encouraged to come out and play.
Any former and current Strawbs are encouraged to come out and play.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Dubious Achievement Night
Last night was Dubious Awards Night at the Aloha Baby East Compound. The real Dubious players were noticeable by their absence.Dubious Awards
The Leak - Was I Suppossed to Stop That?The Butcher - Miss White Go Go Boots Service Award
Gawdawful Gumby - Pokey Pumpkin-socked Picaroon
Whoahorny - A535, Smells Like Casselholme
Archilles - What's That Meshy Thing Behind the Goalie?
Ice Marshall - Suffering Fools Patiently
Magnesium Boy - When I Skate Fast, I Don't Have to Think
Pajama Man - My Crackberry Stole My Scoring Touch
The Torch - Creaky, Leaky, But Still Sneaky
Freight Train 444 - Scoring With a Velocity Challenged Shot
Dr. Thug - C'mon Boys, We Can Still Score Another 10 Goals Easy
Wanderin' Warren Peace - Yes Dear, No Dear, If You Say So Dear
Monday, April 09, 2007
DUBIOUS ACHIEVEMENT AWARDS NIGHT
The 2006-2007 Killer Strawberries' Dubious Achievement Awards Night is scheduled for Thursday, April 19, at the Aloha Baby East Compound. Bring your party hats.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Fly In The Ointment Still Tastes Sweet
Killer Strawberries Win Championship
Game Report
March 1 2007
Strawbs 1 Blades of Steel 0
It was a bittersweet ending to a Cinderella year.
The early scouting reports published in September had pegged the Strawbs to a 4th place finish, based mostly on adulterated photos obtained surreptitiously over the summer by the team’s unauthorized papparazzi. One particularily damning photo, allegedly taken in August, showed the unflattering aftermath of the team’s annual summer Bacchanalian Babefest and Shoe Shine at its retreat at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu. The photos were obviously Photoshopped by devious minds bent on sullying the immaculate character of this august squad of almost-canonized hockey saints.
In September, the whole team, save for an ovoid-shaped Butcher Brophey, showed up to training camp in better shape than ever. The Butcher blamed his faux pregnancy condition on a summer diet of potato chips, high-cal fatty tissue poppers made from the preserved spleens of his previous on-ice conquests and beer by the keg. Pyjama Man Gibbons lost over 65 pounds since his last game in February 2006 and he could not stop repeating the fact that, for the first time since 1965, he could actually see his own feet without the help of a well-placed mirror. Dr. Thug, fresh from picking unwitting mosquitos out of the malarial swamps of Nicaragua, was limiting himself to one 10,000 word treatise per hour on the subject of Non-EuclidianVariants In The Airborne Dispersal of Anopheles Vectors of Toxicity. Freight Train Laronde reported to camp armed with a new wristshot capable of exceeding 35 miles per hour at sea level (yeah, the Sea of Tranquility maybe). The Vice Ice, who hadn’t set a significant fire in over 2 years, boasted of a new liver donated to him by the estate of Dean Martin. “It may not be top quality, but it’s a lot better than my old one” quipped this newest hunk of hepatic handicraft.
Gumby Pettigrew, although 3 days late to camp due to a mixup in his self-prescribed medications, did show up sporting a new, less irascible attitude. While in the past, his Orneriness would ostentatiously ignore any questions related to his summer whereabouts, the current genesis of this Pumpkin-socked Picaroon was a lot more forthcoming by informing all questioners that perhaps they might like to ask their wives/girlfriends about what he was doing when they (the questioners) weren’t home.
Archilles Perron came prepared for a gruelling training session. Every muscle in his body was athletically taut. He attributed his stellar condition to the fact that his wife had walked all over him for the previous 6 months. Whether the “walking over” was metaphorical or not has yet to be determined but Archilles did let it be known to management that he was to be home by 3:30pm everyday during camp and that he had better not be late or else.
The team’s goaltending situation looked slightly less bleak than it had in the past. Jesse The Leak had spent the summer practising his coverage of loose rebounds and fishing the puck out of his own net. He also boasted to the whole squad that he was a changed netminder. That did not stop management from continuing to seek someone else for the position until it finally gave up on its search on October 25, 6 minutes before the team roster deadline.
Magnesium Boy, who self-concusses for fun, spent the off-season kissing his enamorata’s butt, in the vain hope that he would be let out twice a week during the season to hone his game with Strawbs. He must have done a half-assed job because it became quickly apparent that his bachelor days were vanishing quicker than his recent erections (he builds and sells ice huts). Strawbs’ management arranged an intervention on his behalf and was able to charm Magnesium Girl into letting her personal slave play twice a week, providing he buy her a new squirrel fur coat with matching boots so that she could fish comfortably in the warm side of the ice hut. The coat and boots were picked out for her specifically by that arbiter of good taste and beacon of sartorial splendour, Miss White Go Go Boots herself.
The Ice Marshall showed up with his own good news in tow. He had been scouting all summer for players who would fit the Strawberries’ mold without breaking it. While sojourning with The Paducca School For Wayward Babes Cheerleading Squad at his personal retreat on Lake Mindemoya near Wiky, the astute hockey man spotted Wanderin’ Warrin’ Peace practising his peerless stickhandling manoeuvres on a hockey rink made entirely of ice cubes purloined from Rusty Erickson’s trailer camped on the shores of said lake. The Ice Marshall immediately signed the Manitoulin Magic Man to a one way, 2 year, three clause contract to join the illustrious Strawberries starting in the 2006-2007 season. On hearing the news of his new contract, his second main squeeze at the time, Miss Samara Desert, joyously advised the rookie that they were now engaged and would be getting married after the season ended, preferably at a venue with indoor plumbing. The ever alert Ice Marshall, having noticed the desperation accompanying both the betrothal announcement and its reluctant acceptance, parked himself the next day at the only bus station on the island, caught the frightened rookie by the arm as he attempted to board the outbound bus for Sudbury and reminded him of his contractual obligations. After a brief paroxysm of tears, Warrin’ finally caught his breath and accepted his fate. He spent the rest of the summer picking out wedding stationery.
The team’s missing link was found by the Ice Marshall at a little known but well attended event put on by The Nuns For Nookie in beautiful Pembroke. Whoahorney Richardson was operating an A535 kiosk at the event’s small trade show, surrounded by itinerant hawkers and pedlars selling wares unknown to even Larry Flynt and his ilk. “A535 is a cure-all” Whoahorney told the IM. “I’ve used it for all my ailments since peewee. It even cured my onanism.” On the strength of his vocabulary alone, Whoahorney was signed to a day to day contract extending through November 2006 and extendable at the option of Strawbs’ management.
With this motley crew of chronic underachievers, the Strawberries entered the current season in hopeful fashion. Performance in the pre-January part of the schedule was tepid with wins equalling losses. But something happened over Christmas. Maybe it was the bonhomie of the season. Perhaps it was the strength of overblown New Year’s resolutions. Or the A535. Whatever it was, it worked. The Strawbs stormed out of the gate like stallions on Cialis. They lost but one game from then on, and a close one at that. With every on-ice battle, the squad became stronger, more tight-knit and more determined to prove those pusillanimous, pre-season pundits wrong. They entered the playoffs seeded #1 and did not disappoint. In a double elimination format, the Killer Strawberries’ juggernaut rolled over every opponent who dared get in its way. The team was firing on all cylinders, a well tuned machine of 12 moving parts focussed on the Cup. Undefeated. Defiant. Delirious with the anticipation of Cup glory.
But the fickle Gods of Hockey, ensconced on the icy side of Mount Olympus, are known for their love of irony. In what turned out to be the last game of the season, the Strawbs were to face the Blades of Steel, a team which was but one game from elimination. To claim the Cup, they would have had to beat the Strawbs twice in row. It was an unlikely scenario; so unlikely that the Gods decided the Blades should forfeit the encounter to which the Strawberries so looked forward: a case of hockey interruptus at its worst. There was joy in Hockeyville but it was a bittersweet joy.
In the past, the Killer Strawberries have tasted the acrid bitterness of victory stolen away by lesser mortals. Indeed, the Gods have pulled the rug out from under the Strawbs on numerous occasions. Hopes have been dashed and dreams trampled under the hooves of Olympian whim. Well screw you, Gods. The fly you put into our ointment this time is still oh so sweet.
4 Bud, 5 jugs of Keith’s, 1 jug of bad Kilkenny, 2 Bud Light, 3 Guinnesses, 1 Bass, 2 Blue, 1 glass of white wine (spilled onto her squirrel coat), 4 pounds of wings and a sweet tasting fly were consumed. For an instant, harmony reigned in an inscrutable universe and the Killer Strawberries proclaimed CHAMPIONS.
Game Report
March 1 2007
Strawbs 1 Blades of Steel 0
It was a bittersweet ending to a Cinderella year.
The early scouting reports published in September had pegged the Strawbs to a 4th place finish, based mostly on adulterated photos obtained surreptitiously over the summer by the team’s unauthorized papparazzi. One particularily damning photo, allegedly taken in August, showed the unflattering aftermath of the team’s annual summer Bacchanalian Babefest and Shoe Shine at its retreat at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu. The photos were obviously Photoshopped by devious minds bent on sullying the immaculate character of this august squad of almost-canonized hockey saints.
In September, the whole team, save for an ovoid-shaped Butcher Brophey, showed up to training camp in better shape than ever. The Butcher blamed his faux pregnancy condition on a summer diet of potato chips, high-cal fatty tissue poppers made from the preserved spleens of his previous on-ice conquests and beer by the keg. Pyjama Man Gibbons lost over 65 pounds since his last game in February 2006 and he could not stop repeating the fact that, for the first time since 1965, he could actually see his own feet without the help of a well-placed mirror. Dr. Thug, fresh from picking unwitting mosquitos out of the malarial swamps of Nicaragua, was limiting himself to one 10,000 word treatise per hour on the subject of Non-EuclidianVariants In The Airborne Dispersal of Anopheles Vectors of Toxicity. Freight Train Laronde reported to camp armed with a new wristshot capable of exceeding 35 miles per hour at sea level (yeah, the Sea of Tranquility maybe). The Vice Ice, who hadn’t set a significant fire in over 2 years, boasted of a new liver donated to him by the estate of Dean Martin. “It may not be top quality, but it’s a lot better than my old one” quipped this newest hunk of hepatic handicraft.
Gumby Pettigrew, although 3 days late to camp due to a mixup in his self-prescribed medications, did show up sporting a new, less irascible attitude. While in the past, his Orneriness would ostentatiously ignore any questions related to his summer whereabouts, the current genesis of this Pumpkin-socked Picaroon was a lot more forthcoming by informing all questioners that perhaps they might like to ask their wives/girlfriends about what he was doing when they (the questioners) weren’t home.
Archilles Perron came prepared for a gruelling training session. Every muscle in his body was athletically taut. He attributed his stellar condition to the fact that his wife had walked all over him for the previous 6 months. Whether the “walking over” was metaphorical or not has yet to be determined but Archilles did let it be known to management that he was to be home by 3:30pm everyday during camp and that he had better not be late or else.
The team’s goaltending situation looked slightly less bleak than it had in the past. Jesse The Leak had spent the summer practising his coverage of loose rebounds and fishing the puck out of his own net. He also boasted to the whole squad that he was a changed netminder. That did not stop management from continuing to seek someone else for the position until it finally gave up on its search on October 25, 6 minutes before the team roster deadline.
Magnesium Boy, who self-concusses for fun, spent the off-season kissing his enamorata’s butt, in the vain hope that he would be let out twice a week during the season to hone his game with Strawbs. He must have done a half-assed job because it became quickly apparent that his bachelor days were vanishing quicker than his recent erections (he builds and sells ice huts). Strawbs’ management arranged an intervention on his behalf and was able to charm Magnesium Girl into letting her personal slave play twice a week, providing he buy her a new squirrel fur coat with matching boots so that she could fish comfortably in the warm side of the ice hut. The coat and boots were picked out for her specifically by that arbiter of good taste and beacon of sartorial splendour, Miss White Go Go Boots herself.
The Ice Marshall showed up with his own good news in tow. He had been scouting all summer for players who would fit the Strawberries’ mold without breaking it. While sojourning with The Paducca School For Wayward Babes Cheerleading Squad at his personal retreat on Lake Mindemoya near Wiky, the astute hockey man spotted Wanderin’ Warrin’ Peace practising his peerless stickhandling manoeuvres on a hockey rink made entirely of ice cubes purloined from Rusty Erickson’s trailer camped on the shores of said lake. The Ice Marshall immediately signed the Manitoulin Magic Man to a one way, 2 year, three clause contract to join the illustrious Strawberries starting in the 2006-2007 season. On hearing the news of his new contract, his second main squeeze at the time, Miss Samara Desert, joyously advised the rookie that they were now engaged and would be getting married after the season ended, preferably at a venue with indoor plumbing. The ever alert Ice Marshall, having noticed the desperation accompanying both the betrothal announcement and its reluctant acceptance, parked himself the next day at the only bus station on the island, caught the frightened rookie by the arm as he attempted to board the outbound bus for Sudbury and reminded him of his contractual obligations. After a brief paroxysm of tears, Warrin’ finally caught his breath and accepted his fate. He spent the rest of the summer picking out wedding stationery.
The team’s missing link was found by the Ice Marshall at a little known but well attended event put on by The Nuns For Nookie in beautiful Pembroke. Whoahorney Richardson was operating an A535 kiosk at the event’s small trade show, surrounded by itinerant hawkers and pedlars selling wares unknown to even Larry Flynt and his ilk. “A535 is a cure-all” Whoahorney told the IM. “I’ve used it for all my ailments since peewee. It even cured my onanism.” On the strength of his vocabulary alone, Whoahorney was signed to a day to day contract extending through November 2006 and extendable at the option of Strawbs’ management.
With this motley crew of chronic underachievers, the Strawberries entered the current season in hopeful fashion. Performance in the pre-January part of the schedule was tepid with wins equalling losses. But something happened over Christmas. Maybe it was the bonhomie of the season. Perhaps it was the strength of overblown New Year’s resolutions. Or the A535. Whatever it was, it worked. The Strawbs stormed out of the gate like stallions on Cialis. They lost but one game from then on, and a close one at that. With every on-ice battle, the squad became stronger, more tight-knit and more determined to prove those pusillanimous, pre-season pundits wrong. They entered the playoffs seeded #1 and did not disappoint. In a double elimination format, the Killer Strawberries’ juggernaut rolled over every opponent who dared get in its way. The team was firing on all cylinders, a well tuned machine of 12 moving parts focussed on the Cup. Undefeated. Defiant. Delirious with the anticipation of Cup glory.
But the fickle Gods of Hockey, ensconced on the icy side of Mount Olympus, are known for their love of irony. In what turned out to be the last game of the season, the Strawbs were to face the Blades of Steel, a team which was but one game from elimination. To claim the Cup, they would have had to beat the Strawbs twice in row. It was an unlikely scenario; so unlikely that the Gods decided the Blades should forfeit the encounter to which the Strawberries so looked forward: a case of hockey interruptus at its worst. There was joy in Hockeyville but it was a bittersweet joy.
In the past, the Killer Strawberries have tasted the acrid bitterness of victory stolen away by lesser mortals. Indeed, the Gods have pulled the rug out from under the Strawbs on numerous occasions. Hopes have been dashed and dreams trampled under the hooves of Olympian whim. Well screw you, Gods. The fly you put into our ointment this time is still oh so sweet.
4 Bud, 5 jugs of Keith’s, 1 jug of bad Kilkenny, 2 Bud Light, 3 Guinnesses, 1 Bass, 2 Blue, 1 glass of white wine (spilled onto her squirrel coat), 4 pounds of wings and a sweet tasting fly were consumed. For an instant, harmony reigned in an inscrutable universe and the Killer Strawberries proclaimed CHAMPIONS.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Pink Sink at Rink
Strawb Juggernaut Rolls On
Game Report
February 22, 2007
Strawbs 7 Rec’n Crew Flamingoes 5
The brash and aimlessly cocky pink Flamingoes came out flying, hellbent on showing an older team that its place in the sun had expired long ago with Tutenkhamen and Herotodus of Alexandria. Boy, were they wrong. The Strawbs, facing unprecedented adversity when its pre-game stash of Geritol and A535 failed to materialize, dug deep and produced a gem of a game, to thwart a hubris taunting throng of pink jerseyed youths, drunk on visions of playoff grandeur.
The Strawbs bent but did not break. They led the whole way, trading goals frequently with a determined Rec’n Crew, whose total bench age (175 years) was dwarfed by that of that of their creaky yet treacherous adversary (516 years). As Aristidis so bodly formulated in 312 BC, “It is not the age of youth which triumpheth in the end but, since time immemorial, it is the youth in age which prevaileth.” Aristidis, despite the unfortunate speech impediment, is still, of course, immaculate in his accuracy.
Pyjama Man, recovering from his recent addadictomy, led the Killer Strawberries’ charge with four goals whose beauty has been unmatched since Helen of Troy was scoring for Trojans. He hit every open spot in the opponent’s net, including one from which the hapless netminder finally retrieved his jockstrap. The VIM and IMW teamed up like they used to do on the frozen surfaces of Lahr and Soest and Zwiebrucken. While shorthanded, the VIM, scrambling for the puck in his own end, spotted the IMW cruising the Flamingoes’ blueline disguised as a faceoff circle, and drilled a beautifully banked pass off the far end boards. The ever alert pseudo faceoff circle remorphed into a scoring threat, scooped the rebounding biscuit and promptly deposited it behind a baffled and less than jovial goaltender.
Butcher Brophey, whose feisty approach to the game had been left at home on a basement shelf for the last 5 matches, finally returned ugly and ornery and was quickly tossed from the tussle for repeated illegal use of a non-surgical instrument in a surgical manner. Rumour has it that Miss White Go Go Boots had been seen stretching in the Zamboni room during the first intermission and that the Butcher, as mooneyed as a lovestruck puppy feeling his first oats, began to deliberately remove the vital organs of several Flamingoes so that he could get tossed and thus personally verify the rumour. This is not what anyone would call “taking one for the team.” It was a selfish move by selfish man for selfish reasons.
The true grit of the unselfish Strawbs was evidenced quite clearly in the last 4 minutes of the game. The Flamingoes were pressing hard. The zebras seemed to want to help the misguided youth by penalizing the Strawbs for infractions which only existed in their febrile little referee minds. For what seemed like an eternity, the penalty box was jammed with a concoction of ripe Strawberries. Some were forced to sit on teammates’ laps or to hang from the rafters, given the limited space available. At one time there was over 250 years of hard earned experience in the Sin Bin. But in the end, it did not matter. The unpenalized Strawbs swirled and swung and dove and roved like whirling dervishes at an ADD revival. Jesse The Leak was magnificent all evening and especially so in the last 4 minutes, stopping shots with his dangling appendix and other assorted misplaced organs. “I wasn’t letting anything get by me,” he declared. “I thrive on adversity and amphetamines. Besides, Buttface, Alaska is the last place I want to be these days, what with the dreaded syphilis on the wax.”
Freight Train was pure hockey locomotion on the left side, Dr. Thug looked at least 4 years younger than his reputed yet unverified 58 years, Archilles made some lovely, unintercepted passes (at the fans), Whoahorney laid in a few jaw-rattlin’ shoulders and Gumby was at his taunting best when the game was on the line. It is believed that his caustic line, “Don’t turn pink on us now,” so confused the opposition that they were still trying to decode the cryptic message well after midnight. Because they are unschooled in offensive Zen, it is not likely this famous koan will ever make sense to them.
Certainly, part of last night’s victory had to be attributable to the tremendous turnout for Fan Appreciation Night. Once again, the Strawbs were cheered on by a standing room only crowd of 2 adoring and vocal fans (the turtle-skirt wearing Samara Desert, current main squeeze of the incomparable Warrin’ Peace and the shy, retiring Mag Girl, the brains and boss behind the emerging MagGirlBoy Empire). We do not count Miss White Go Go Boots as a fan for the purposes of this game only. She did not emerge from the Zamboni Room until the team and its fans had reassembled at the Terminal Tavren. All we know is that Palangio Arenas has the only Zamboni with a back seat and that Miss WGGB likes to drive from the back seat. She arrived late, without explanation or remorse, to the team’s watering hole by way of a black stretch limousine, clutching a dozen white roses, a near empty flask of Johnny Walker Red and grin that would make the Cheshire Cat blush.
Upon her arrival, Fan Appreciation Night got into full swing. The team’s 3 fans were feted with rare blood-red tulips and a box of limited edition, thigh slimming Cherry Blossoms. A poem, written in their honour by squad’s Poet Laureate For Life, Rhymin’ Simon Hymen, was read by the IMW. Sometime soon it will be published, but suffice it to say that, upon the reading’s conclusion, there was not a dry eye or piece of unsullied lingerie to be found within hearing distance.
2 Kilkenny, 10 Steamwhistle, 4 Guinness, 6 Bud, 2 Bud Light, 1.5 Stella Artois, a glass ofwhite wine, 3 pounds of chicken wings and some dregs of Johnny Walker Red were consumed.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Team Photo
Here are your 2006-2007 Killer Strawberries resplendent in their white victory jerseys. Once again - Almost Undefeated in 2007!Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Steamroller Steams On
Game Report
February 19, 2007
Strawbs 9 Team Up 1
After spotting a dogged Team Up a single goal in the first five minutes, the indomitable Killer Strawberries went on to strangle their opposition with a defence so stingy that many fans fled the arena for fear of being squeezed senseless themselves. Jesse The Leak was not busy on the evening but came up big on a couple of occasions. In one memorable situation, Gawdawful Gumby, mistaking himself for a rushing defenceman, deftly moved the puck out of his own corner, spun toward the front of his own net and promptly performed a flawless nosedive about 3 feet in the slot. The puck, finding itself temporarily uncaressed, veered smoothly to a stunned but happy opponent who, in turn, drilled a shot at a flabbergasted Leak. Fortunately, the save was made and Gumby was left with but a small trace of humble pie upon his baffled countenance. He did not endeavour to repeat the move again during the game.
The Vice Ice was less subtle in his only bonehead move of the evening, sliding a perfect pass onto the stick of hungry Team Upper who was cruising the high slot, his bright orange jersey ablaze in anticipation. Again the Leak was equal to the faux pas and saved the VIM’s butt once more.
At the other end of the rink, Gumby, the VIM, Whoahorny and the Butcher were peerless in their offensiveness. It was virtually impossible to sneak the puck past these intrepid blueliners. They used every part of their battered bodies, stick shafts of both kinds, skate blades, and decorative sock tassels to keep the biscuit bouncing inside the enemy’s zone. Combined with the relentless forechecking and hockey legerdemain of the rabid forwards, poor Team Up just could not keep up. The opposition netminder saw more rubber than Xaviera Hollander on a Dutch holiday weekend and managed to stop quite a few sure goals. To his credit, he never gave up in the face of the never-ending onslaught and managed somehow to hold the Strawbs to a mere 9 goals on the evening. As is wont on a team imbued with a steely resolve to win at all costs, the Strawbs’scoring was evenly distributed. Both lines were humming, a veritable Swiss clockwork of precision and reliability.
The fan base continued its strong showing of support, with Mag Girl and Samara Desert swooning post-game, deliriously in love with their men in white, all 12 of them. They had to be escorted home following the team picture, their knees too weak to support the burden of their requited admiration. Notable by her absence was Miss White Go-Go Boots. Rumour has it that she is miffed by the sudden swelling of the team’s fan base. She is reluctant to share any of the swelling but management expects she will come around. Once smitten, twice bitten.
At the Terminal Tavren, most Strawberries assembled for a post-game jam. The compliments flowed freely and a heartfelt bonhomie pervaded the proceedings. The defensive faux pas (2) were magnanimously forgiven and magically turned into strengths by an observant Dr. Thug who noted that the faux pas were like inoculations. They sting for a short time but they make you stronger in the end, unless, of course, they kill you. The Ice Marshall was a little more sanguine. “ I love these guys, even if they sometimes play like crap.”
2 Coronas, 6 Guinness, 2 Kilkenny, 3 Steamwhistle, 1 Harp, 6 unidentified libations, 12 chicken wings, a plate of fat-free perogies and some liberal forgiveness were consumed.
February 19, 2007
Strawbs 9 Team Up 1
After spotting a dogged Team Up a single goal in the first five minutes, the indomitable Killer Strawberries went on to strangle their opposition with a defence so stingy that many fans fled the arena for fear of being squeezed senseless themselves. Jesse The Leak was not busy on the evening but came up big on a couple of occasions. In one memorable situation, Gawdawful Gumby, mistaking himself for a rushing defenceman, deftly moved the puck out of his own corner, spun toward the front of his own net and promptly performed a flawless nosedive about 3 feet in the slot. The puck, finding itself temporarily uncaressed, veered smoothly to a stunned but happy opponent who, in turn, drilled a shot at a flabbergasted Leak. Fortunately, the save was made and Gumby was left with but a small trace of humble pie upon his baffled countenance. He did not endeavour to repeat the move again during the game.
The Vice Ice was less subtle in his only bonehead move of the evening, sliding a perfect pass onto the stick of hungry Team Upper who was cruising the high slot, his bright orange jersey ablaze in anticipation. Again the Leak was equal to the faux pas and saved the VIM’s butt once more.
At the other end of the rink, Gumby, the VIM, Whoahorny and the Butcher were peerless in their offensiveness. It was virtually impossible to sneak the puck past these intrepid blueliners. They used every part of their battered bodies, stick shafts of both kinds, skate blades, and decorative sock tassels to keep the biscuit bouncing inside the enemy’s zone. Combined with the relentless forechecking and hockey legerdemain of the rabid forwards, poor Team Up just could not keep up. The opposition netminder saw more rubber than Xaviera Hollander on a Dutch holiday weekend and managed to stop quite a few sure goals. To his credit, he never gave up in the face of the never-ending onslaught and managed somehow to hold the Strawbs to a mere 9 goals on the evening. As is wont on a team imbued with a steely resolve to win at all costs, the Strawbs’scoring was evenly distributed. Both lines were humming, a veritable Swiss clockwork of precision and reliability.
The fan base continued its strong showing of support, with Mag Girl and Samara Desert swooning post-game, deliriously in love with their men in white, all 12 of them. They had to be escorted home following the team picture, their knees too weak to support the burden of their requited admiration. Notable by her absence was Miss White Go-Go Boots. Rumour has it that she is miffed by the sudden swelling of the team’s fan base. She is reluctant to share any of the swelling but management expects she will come around. Once smitten, twice bitten.
At the Terminal Tavren, most Strawberries assembled for a post-game jam. The compliments flowed freely and a heartfelt bonhomie pervaded the proceedings. The defensive faux pas (2) were magnanimously forgiven and magically turned into strengths by an observant Dr. Thug who noted that the faux pas were like inoculations. They sting for a short time but they make you stronger in the end, unless, of course, they kill you. The Ice Marshall was a little more sanguine. “ I love these guys, even if they sometimes play like crap.”
2 Coronas, 6 Guinness, 2 Kilkenny, 3 Steamwhistle, 1 Harp, 6 unidentified libations, 12 chicken wings, a plate of fat-free perogies and some liberal forgiveness were consumed.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Steamroller
Game Report
February 12, 2007
Strawbs 13 Aviators 0
In front of a standing room only crowd of 2 rabid fans, the Strawb juggernaut continued its winning ways last evening, stomping all over a demoralized squadron of whiplashed Aviators. Jesse The Leak set the tone early with a superb glove save in the first minute, once again showing why he is the team’s number one netminder. For the rest of the evening, he stymied the opposition with timely stoppages, some of them spectacular.Rumours were rampant that he will be signed to a long term contract, good through February, 2007.
The Strawberries squad was rewarded frequently for its recent adoption of blitzkrieg hockey, rolling over its lines and defence pairings in rapid fire fashion. Freight Train 444 potted 3 on the evening, 2 of them deliberately. Pyjama Man, feeling that his team scoring crown could be at risk, also elevated his game and netted 3 himself. It was lovely to see him return to form, after too long a hiatus attempting to imitate his hero, Tie Domi.
Magnesium Boy, under the watchful eye of his leash controller, the incomparable and unopinionated Magnesium Girl, found the twine once or twice, thus completing his Valentine’s gift to his enamorata. We hear his reward will come on March 21, 2007, which is S & BJ Day, the male equivalent of Valentine’s Day.
Warrin’ Peace claimed to have added two markers of his own until it was pointed out to him that goals scored during warmup only count as half. It did not seem to matter much to his personal fan, Samara Desert, who missed all his goals while embroiled in a heated discussion with Magnesium Girl on the thigh slimming merits of low fat yogurt.
Others also contributed to the goal total directly. Still others were content to play a disciplined game of strong forechecking, backchecking, tape to tape passing, front of the net clearing and tie ups, and highly effective defensive rushing, as exemplified by that new found scoring machine, Whoahorny Richardson. Whaohorny attributes his resurgence to the healing powers of prune juice and A535, a balm he splatters upon his ravaged body so liberally, he has been asked to change in another dressing room. “It smells like Cassellholme in here!” ejaculated one unidentified wit.
Many of the players and both fans repaired to the Terminal Tavren to discuss the parallels between Schopenhauer’s theory of Will To Power and the team’s recent return to barn burner hockey. Somewhere along the line, the discussion got sidetracked and Warrin’ Peace was abruptly notified by his leash administrator that he was to be married on June 30th of this year. The ever helpful Gumby inquired of the stunned Warrin’ whether he was aware of the upcoming event. The diplomatic Warrin’ mumbled something about “the tyranny of a dictatorship”, pecked his fan on the cheek and excused himself with haste. We are not sure where he went for the following 10 minutes, but we suspect it may have been to change his underwear.
4 Guinness, 3 Corona with lime, 1 glass of white wine from the Bonfield region, 1 Blue, 3 Bud, 2.5 Stella, 2 Steam Whistle, 5.5 Kilkenny, 3 lbs of chicken wings, 1 supersized bowl of lowcal perogies with bacon and sour cream and some unexpected, bowel-disturbin’ bonding-for-life news were consumed.
Pond Hockey
A few Strawbs were on the outdoor rink on the weekend sharpening their skills prior to the last regular season game of the year.Friday, February 09, 2007
Thursday Night Practice
Since only 1/4 of the Killer Strawberries heeded the call to practice on the lake on Thursday night, a quorum not being achieved, the few participating Strawbs were left with but one alternative: do some perfunctory rink inspection and then settle for a spa night which included a steam bath and hot tub. Unfortunately the Olson twins weren't available for post-spa massages.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Hockey As It Was Meant To Be Played
Game Report
February 5, 2007
Strawbs 2 Blades of Steel 2
Some games should never have been played. Other games can be so good, the euphoric afterglow remains long after a winning last second goal has been called off. Last Monday’s game, most assuredly, fell within the latter category.
While the Strawbs have put forward some decent efforts over the course of this season, Monday’s tilt was by far the embodiment of the team’s best effort all year. The lesser line of Dr. Thug, Magnesium Boy and Pyjama Man, fearing demotion along with Jesse The Leak to the Nasty Cupcakes, the team’s farm team’s farm team, ramped up its game to Gargantuan Level II. On one memorable play, Pyjama Man, clad only in one shinpad and a loose athletic support, after scrapping his way through four defenders hellbent on getting him ready for his upcoming conversion to Judaism, swooped down the right side and spooned the loveliest pass to a charging Dr. Thug so hyped up on the scent of an imminent goal that 3 foot icicles of pure spittle desire hung from his lopsided cage. He looked and smelled like a demented Sasquatch. Following a small feint to the left, Dr. Thug dealt a deft backhand pass to a patient and well positioned Magnesium Boy, who, digging deep into his subconcious, managed to marshall all the forces of his primaeval nature and drilled a shot splendidly into the bossom of the waiting net. It was a goal so beautiful that the gods of hockey, firmly esconced in their perches high above Doublerink Arenas, were heard to weep in quiet appreciation.
The top line of handsome Archilles Perron, Wanderin’ Warrin’ Peace and the dastardly Ice Marshall, having set the game’s tone earlier with meta-Herculean play, was not to be outdone. The top line did not score on the evening. That job was selflessly left to others. But the centre and his wingers were not without their chances, hard won chances, close chances, where one on one battles for the puck were the equivalent of trench warfare. It was a night, when not only was a worthy opponent to be met head-on, but where the Fates themselves conspired to test the mettle of our dauntless heroes to see if they had the brass they so often claimed. With fierce determination and perspicacious tenacity, Archilles and Co. swirled and darted, poke-checked with finesse, dove for loose pucks and put their bodies at risk to create artful, unforeseen opportunities and to thwart an equally determined opposition. And their perseverance was mirrored in the play of a defence which came to play and to play hard. Freight Train controlled his territory with the precision of Rommel, Whoahorny alternated seamlessly between offence and defence: so much so, that he was almost penalized for being too many men on the ice, all of his own. The Vice Ice continued to use professional level treachery and cunning to compensate for a body and mind wracked with injury and suffering. Gawdawful Gumby will never be called Gawdawful again after turning in a peformance only his adoring mother could have imagined.
Between the pipes, the Leak was stellar as he imitated Stretch Armstrong, Roger Crozier and Mr. Rogers, all rolled into one. It was a beautiful day in his neighbourhood, where only hockey-god-assisted goals could ever hope to find the twine. One goal only escaped The Leak’s certain grasp, the other having been awarded by a zebra blind to the rules of hockey.
Many of the players did not attend the post game festivities because they had left their souls on the ice. Too exhausted to rejoice, they repaired humbly to their abodes, warmed by the fires of their manifested desires.
No reliable post game consumption report is available. The attendees were too tired to count.
This just in - Three trooper Strawbs did feel the need to continue the post game deliberations at the usual terminal tavren. 2 Stellas and 2 Keiths were consumed and 4 chickens were spared.
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