Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
A Promising Loss
CCCP 6 Strawbs 2
Game Report
January 27, 2011
The odds were stacked last evening against the Killer Strawberries as they entered their match with the first place CCCP Bolsheviks. The Bolsheviks are, to a man, a squad of excellent teenage players, most of whom represent Canadore College at the varsity level. The Strawbs, too, have some fine players, a few of whom are still young enough to squat relatively undisturbed in the family basement for a couple more years. Fortunately for all concerned, they are out on their own having been nudged out of the nest not so long ago. They are living under new roofs where they are masters of their own domains, second in command only to the strong women blind enough to love them while still desperately trying to mold them into specimens they can occasionally take out into public.
Other Strawbs are in their thirties, an age which permits them to stay up routinely past midnight, join their mates for a few post game sarsaparillas and still be able to function the next morning without the aid of copious quantities of A535, Ibuprofen, Alka Seltzer or little blue pills. The remaining Strawbs, older, wiser and more forgiving of the foibles which are now inextricably entrenched in their very DNA, continue to live out the dreams gifted to them eons ago…..dreams first made vivid in street hockey games spanning every season, incarnate in countless pick up battles which followed endless shoveling of school and playground rinks, and still alive in memories of pure hockey joy which miraculously surface, unannounced, like some long-forgotten and fondly remembered friend.
To say that these Killer Strawberries, in their encounter with the Bolsheviks, faced the long end of Vegas odds would indeed be accurate. But strangely, the unexplainable chemistry of youth and near senescence combined once more to produce a worthy performance. After one period of playing with a skeleton crew of 3 defencemen whose total age surpassed 160, the Strawbs found themselves in the thick of a well-contested 2-2 tie. They were full value for the score and, with a little liuck, might have been ahead.
The last period was hard-fought with the sides trading many scoring opportunities. In the end, CCCP prevailed 6-2…..worthy winners but a little shocked that, despite the score, the game was a very close one. The Killer Strawberries may have lost. Yet, they will carry with them into the playoffs the knowledge that, as in their playground dreams, anything can happen.
After the match, those not yet ready to go home reconvened at the Terminal Tavren. Playoff hopes were discussed, well-executed plays recalled, and outdoor rink rat exploits, real and imagined, were recounted with all the fondness they deserved.
3 Stella, 4 Creemore Pale Ale, 4 Lake of Bays, 2 Bud and the promise glimpsed in a well-fought loss were consumed.
Game Report
January 27, 2011
The odds were stacked last evening against the Killer Strawberries as they entered their match with the first place CCCP Bolsheviks. The Bolsheviks are, to a man, a squad of excellent teenage players, most of whom represent Canadore College at the varsity level. The Strawbs, too, have some fine players, a few of whom are still young enough to squat relatively undisturbed in the family basement for a couple more years. Fortunately for all concerned, they are out on their own having been nudged out of the nest not so long ago. They are living under new roofs where they are masters of their own domains, second in command only to the strong women blind enough to love them while still desperately trying to mold them into specimens they can occasionally take out into public.
Other Strawbs are in their thirties, an age which permits them to stay up routinely past midnight, join their mates for a few post game sarsaparillas and still be able to function the next morning without the aid of copious quantities of A535, Ibuprofen, Alka Seltzer or little blue pills. The remaining Strawbs, older, wiser and more forgiving of the foibles which are now inextricably entrenched in their very DNA, continue to live out the dreams gifted to them eons ago…..dreams first made vivid in street hockey games spanning every season, incarnate in countless pick up battles which followed endless shoveling of school and playground rinks, and still alive in memories of pure hockey joy which miraculously surface, unannounced, like some long-forgotten and fondly remembered friend.
To say that these Killer Strawberries, in their encounter with the Bolsheviks, faced the long end of Vegas odds would indeed be accurate. But strangely, the unexplainable chemistry of youth and near senescence combined once more to produce a worthy performance. After one period of playing with a skeleton crew of 3 defencemen whose total age surpassed 160, the Strawbs found themselves in the thick of a well-contested 2-2 tie. They were full value for the score and, with a little liuck, might have been ahead.
The last period was hard-fought with the sides trading many scoring opportunities. In the end, CCCP prevailed 6-2…..worthy winners but a little shocked that, despite the score, the game was a very close one. The Killer Strawberries may have lost. Yet, they will carry with them into the playoffs the knowledge that, as in their playground dreams, anything can happen.
After the match, those not yet ready to go home reconvened at the Terminal Tavren. Playoff hopes were discussed, well-executed plays recalled, and outdoor rink rat exploits, real and imagined, were recounted with all the fondness they deserved.
3 Stella, 4 Creemore Pale Ale, 4 Lake of Bays, 2 Bud and the promise glimpsed in a well-fought loss were consumed.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
A Turkish Pissoir
Game Report
Killer Strawberries 9 Those Guys 4
January 24, 2011
If the Killer Strawberries have any pretensions to a fourth championship title in 5 years, they will have to dramatically improve their on-ice performance, which of late, has been as inspiring as an unplanned visit to a public Turkish pissoir in the seedier part of Istanbul.
There has certainly been no problem with the team’s off-ice demeaner. They still close down the Terminal Tavren on a regular basis, floss at a professional level and continue to cause women to swoon by using nothing more than a suggestively arched eyebrow. One Strawb has even been nominated for another Nobel Peace prize for his undertakings with orphaned Thai street workers.
Alas, the hockey side of the business has been deteriorating since the loss of the irreplaceable Dr. Thug to the seductive world of academia. Deep in the heart of Scarberia, the beloved goal scoring howler and chick checker is now spending his waking hours initiating unsuspecting foreign students into the dark mysteries of transactional RNA recombination, lipase catalisticism, T-cell zygotes and Scotch imbibation. The Strawbs miss his “Je ne sais quoi”, Je ne sais how” and Je ne sais why”.
The squad has also been adversely affected by the inability of Warrin’ Peace to extricate his fat ass from his fridge-enhanced BarcoLounger now firmly ensconced in the womb of the Garage of Bad Ideas. He has left the team longing for his over-the-top extroversion and pithy philosophical ejaculations.
Still, these are not very good excuses for the Stawbs’ in-game shenanigans since the the schedule resumed just after New Year’s. What was Slickery Mac thinking last night as he taunted a posse of Those Guys alone in his own end by dangling the puck deftly and brazenly among frustrated sticks and wobbly legs, until, exhausted, he lost the biscuit to 3 of them who then took the liberated puck toward the Strawbs’ net and proceeded to pepper the baffled Marquis DeSave with 37 shots. The barrage finally ended when that rarest of breed, the back-checking forward, put a decisive end to the tomfoolery.
Who did the Vice think he was by pinching in at every opportunity? Sure, he was successful in 51.26% of the time, but what of the remaining 76.34% of the time when he played as befuddedly as a neophyte mathematician trying to multiply, unaided by an abacus, three digit Roman numerals converted to base 3.
Moreover, what was with the performance put in by Shiny Shone Less Brightly, a performance which could only be described as “abysmal” since there does not exist a term in the English language capable of moving that pejorative any further down the Scale of Awfulness? ( In the coming months, some time will certainly be spent at Aloha Baby Compound manufacturing a new descriptor for such a level of ineptitude.)
Fortunately, there was one bright spot on defence, if only for the briefest of moments. It was when (it hurts to say) P. Gumbington The Third, disgusted beyond disgust with the play of his team mates, took matters into his own hands with the score at 5-4 in favour of the Strawberries. He glided magisterially into the opposition slot, his voluminous mane flowing like Guy Lafleur’s in a wind of his own making, and proceeded to slam a beautiful feed past a clearly stunned enemy goaler. It was the turning point in a sloppy match, eventually won by the Strawbs 9-4.
Save for Slickery’s too-realistic imitation of a deer caught in the headlights, the Strawbs’ play at forward was banal yet oddly productive. Goals were scored in bunches, but sadly they were scored with all the enthusiasm reserved for shoveling the driveway for the fourth time in 24 hours. And the enthusiasm had a flaccid panache to match.
Oh, and by the way, the goaltending sucked…. sucked like a new Hoover on steroids.
After the match, most of the Killer Strawberries slunk home to lie about the game to their spouses and dogs. The Vice, the Ice and the Gumbatorial Device, did not duck out. Rather they screamed off to the Terminal Tavren to efface any lingering memories of the crappy play of the Others. They were successful.
1 Keith’s Red, II.XIV (base 3) SteamWhistles, 1 glass of water, 2 Hockstaeder Pale Ales and several happily acknowledged come-on winks from an inebriated bridal party were consumed.
Killer Strawberries 9 Those Guys 4
January 24, 2011
If the Killer Strawberries have any pretensions to a fourth championship title in 5 years, they will have to dramatically improve their on-ice performance, which of late, has been as inspiring as an unplanned visit to a public Turkish pissoir in the seedier part of Istanbul.
There has certainly been no problem with the team’s off-ice demeaner. They still close down the Terminal Tavren on a regular basis, floss at a professional level and continue to cause women to swoon by using nothing more than a suggestively arched eyebrow. One Strawb has even been nominated for another Nobel Peace prize for his undertakings with orphaned Thai street workers.
Alas, the hockey side of the business has been deteriorating since the loss of the irreplaceable Dr. Thug to the seductive world of academia. Deep in the heart of Scarberia, the beloved goal scoring howler and chick checker is now spending his waking hours initiating unsuspecting foreign students into the dark mysteries of transactional RNA recombination, lipase catalisticism, T-cell zygotes and Scotch imbibation. The Strawbs miss his “Je ne sais quoi”, Je ne sais how” and Je ne sais why”.
The squad has also been adversely affected by the inability of Warrin’ Peace to extricate his fat ass from his fridge-enhanced BarcoLounger now firmly ensconced in the womb of the Garage of Bad Ideas. He has left the team longing for his over-the-top extroversion and pithy philosophical ejaculations.
Still, these are not very good excuses for the Stawbs’ in-game shenanigans since the the schedule resumed just after New Year’s. What was Slickery Mac thinking last night as he taunted a posse of Those Guys alone in his own end by dangling the puck deftly and brazenly among frustrated sticks and wobbly legs, until, exhausted, he lost the biscuit to 3 of them who then took the liberated puck toward the Strawbs’ net and proceeded to pepper the baffled Marquis DeSave with 37 shots. The barrage finally ended when that rarest of breed, the back-checking forward, put a decisive end to the tomfoolery.
Who did the Vice think he was by pinching in at every opportunity? Sure, he was successful in 51.26% of the time, but what of the remaining 76.34% of the time when he played as befuddedly as a neophyte mathematician trying to multiply, unaided by an abacus, three digit Roman numerals converted to base 3.
Moreover, what was with the performance put in by Shiny Shone Less Brightly, a performance which could only be described as “abysmal” since there does not exist a term in the English language capable of moving that pejorative any further down the Scale of Awfulness? ( In the coming months, some time will certainly be spent at Aloha Baby Compound manufacturing a new descriptor for such a level of ineptitude.)
Fortunately, there was one bright spot on defence, if only for the briefest of moments. It was when (it hurts to say) P. Gumbington The Third, disgusted beyond disgust with the play of his team mates, took matters into his own hands with the score at 5-4 in favour of the Strawberries. He glided magisterially into the opposition slot, his voluminous mane flowing like Guy Lafleur’s in a wind of his own making, and proceeded to slam a beautiful feed past a clearly stunned enemy goaler. It was the turning point in a sloppy match, eventually won by the Strawbs 9-4.
Save for Slickery’s too-realistic imitation of a deer caught in the headlights, the Strawbs’ play at forward was banal yet oddly productive. Goals were scored in bunches, but sadly they were scored with all the enthusiasm reserved for shoveling the driveway for the fourth time in 24 hours. And the enthusiasm had a flaccid panache to match.
Oh, and by the way, the goaltending sucked…. sucked like a new Hoover on steroids.
After the match, most of the Killer Strawberries slunk home to lie about the game to their spouses and dogs. The Vice, the Ice and the Gumbatorial Device, did not duck out. Rather they screamed off to the Terminal Tavren to efface any lingering memories of the crappy play of the Others. They were successful.
1 Keith’s Red, II.XIV (base 3) SteamWhistles, 1 glass of water, 2 Hockstaeder Pale Ales and several happily acknowledged come-on winks from an inebriated bridal party were consumed.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Gift of Hockey
Game Report
Killer Strawberries Some Free Agents Fewer
January 20, 2011
Last night’s game against the Free Agents marked the 473rd time the Killer Strawberries, a team of incomprehensible nuances, contradictions and chemistry, had taken to the ice as part of the Canadore College Intramural Hockey League: 26 years of glorious losses, improbable victories, smelly dressing rooms and jokes so bad they continue to merit repeating at every possible opportunity. If the Strawbs did not exist, they would have been invented by some 20th century Voltaire.
In one of the most serendipitous bequests emanating from the Great Inscrutable Cosmic Void, the Killer Strawberries were ,from the very beginning, favoured with the Gift of Hockey. The Gift takes many forms, some recurring, some astonishing in their novelty. It is the Gift which pries the Strawbs from the comfort of couches everywhere, at 11in the evening, with the thermometer moaning at 35 below. It’s the highlight of every week.
And how did the Gift manifest itself in game #473? As always, it was in small things. It was in having the dressing room go from virtually empty at 10 minutes to game time to so full by the Zamboni’s last lick of the ice that the Executive had to once more make room for the final straggler on their throne by the door. The lateness of stragglers never goes unremarked or unscathed. “Pyjama Man, you’re late again. Take your time buddy, you’ve still got 30 second to get ready . And by the way, get rid of that erection you shoulda taken care of at home. Maybe the Butcher can help you with it when he finally shows up.”
It manifested itself again, 3 minutes into the match as the aforementioned Bonehead Butcher Brophey finally emerged from the locker room, half dressed, to boyishly press his nose against the glass, temporarily locked out of the play, heartsick that may have missed a shift.
It was in looking down the bench and marveling that a small gulf, a mere 40 years of dubious living, separated the youngest Strawberry from the team’s oldest fossil. It was in being surprised for the 400th time that Gumby, Gawdawful Gumby, bestockinged as usual in his fluorescent pumpkin hosiery, could be so egregiously out of position yet still have the unmitigated gall to point out to his right winger that he was not covering his point man quite to Gawd’s satisfaction.
It was in admiring the sublime beauty of a clearing pass executed by Shiny Shone Brightly as it was meticulously coralled by Shifty Drouin who was streaking as gracefully as Jean Beliveau through the unclogged center ice zone. It was in the whole bench laughing as Achilles, alone with the puck at the side of net, failed to put the biscuit into an opening only slightly less large than Gumby’s ego. But that did not deter Achilles. Soon thereafter, he redeemed himself on an unexpected second chance by threading the puck through the eye of a needle into a startled mesh.
The alchemy continued as MagBoy maniacally chased loose pucks anywhere and everywhere like a besotted retriever puppy gamboling in his first field of pigeons. It was in watching the handsome Ice Marshal as he knifed a well planned Gumby pass into the glass just above the crossbar. It was evident in the grins of his team mates as Slickery Mac, carrying 60 more pounds that he did when first drafted by the Strawbs, calmly called off his attempt to cross the opposition’s blue line, turned gracefully with the puck glued to his stick, quickly reassessed the best route of attack and deftly penetrated an obviously baffled defence.
It was in Mayor Maynot’s screaming down the left wing to catch up with a puck clearly intent on beating him to the icing line, beating the belligerent biscuit to its hoped for destination, and then slipping it, deadeye, into to top shelf. It was in having the unripest of the Strawbs, the Marquis DeSave, contort himself like a Cirque De Soleil understudy in order to successfully thwart, for the sixth time in the game, a 3 on 0 rush by the Free Agents. And finally, it was in the pleasure which accompanies the shaking of one's head as both the Butcher and the Vice (an accomplished arsonist of great repute in Northern Ontario)got called for hooking the same hapless opponent unwise enough to venture within the reach of their respective scalpels: 6 minutes for unauthorized synchronized surgery.
There were certainly more manifestations of the Gift, too many really to be enumerated here. Suffice it to say that the wonder continued well into the night as it followed the team to its post game perch at the Terminal Tavren. Compliments were, as is customary, sheathed in derogatory clothing and a whole lotta forgiveness was bestowed upon the undeserving: another typical Strawberry outing.
6 SteamWhistles, 8 Lake of Bays offerings, 1 draft, 1 Guinness, 4 Rickerds Red, 7 pounds of chicken wings and more than deserved of the limitless Gift were consumed.
Killer Strawberries Some Free Agents Fewer
January 20, 2011
Last night’s game against the Free Agents marked the 473rd time the Killer Strawberries, a team of incomprehensible nuances, contradictions and chemistry, had taken to the ice as part of the Canadore College Intramural Hockey League: 26 years of glorious losses, improbable victories, smelly dressing rooms and jokes so bad they continue to merit repeating at every possible opportunity. If the Strawbs did not exist, they would have been invented by some 20th century Voltaire.
In one of the most serendipitous bequests emanating from the Great Inscrutable Cosmic Void, the Killer Strawberries were ,from the very beginning, favoured with the Gift of Hockey. The Gift takes many forms, some recurring, some astonishing in their novelty. It is the Gift which pries the Strawbs from the comfort of couches everywhere, at 11in the evening, with the thermometer moaning at 35 below. It’s the highlight of every week.
And how did the Gift manifest itself in game #473? As always, it was in small things. It was in having the dressing room go from virtually empty at 10 minutes to game time to so full by the Zamboni’s last lick of the ice that the Executive had to once more make room for the final straggler on their throne by the door. The lateness of stragglers never goes unremarked or unscathed. “Pyjama Man, you’re late again. Take your time buddy, you’ve still got 30 second to get ready . And by the way, get rid of that erection you shoulda taken care of at home. Maybe the Butcher can help you with it when he finally shows up.”
It manifested itself again, 3 minutes into the match as the aforementioned Bonehead Butcher Brophey finally emerged from the locker room, half dressed, to boyishly press his nose against the glass, temporarily locked out of the play, heartsick that may have missed a shift.
It was in looking down the bench and marveling that a small gulf, a mere 40 years of dubious living, separated the youngest Strawberry from the team’s oldest fossil. It was in being surprised for the 400th time that Gumby, Gawdawful Gumby, bestockinged as usual in his fluorescent pumpkin hosiery, could be so egregiously out of position yet still have the unmitigated gall to point out to his right winger that he was not covering his point man quite to Gawd’s satisfaction.
It was in admiring the sublime beauty of a clearing pass executed by Shiny Shone Brightly as it was meticulously coralled by Shifty Drouin who was streaking as gracefully as Jean Beliveau through the unclogged center ice zone. It was in the whole bench laughing as Achilles, alone with the puck at the side of net, failed to put the biscuit into an opening only slightly less large than Gumby’s ego. But that did not deter Achilles. Soon thereafter, he redeemed himself on an unexpected second chance by threading the puck through the eye of a needle into a startled mesh.
The alchemy continued as MagBoy maniacally chased loose pucks anywhere and everywhere like a besotted retriever puppy gamboling in his first field of pigeons. It was in watching the handsome Ice Marshal as he knifed a well planned Gumby pass into the glass just above the crossbar. It was evident in the grins of his team mates as Slickery Mac, carrying 60 more pounds that he did when first drafted by the Strawbs, calmly called off his attempt to cross the opposition’s blue line, turned gracefully with the puck glued to his stick, quickly reassessed the best route of attack and deftly penetrated an obviously baffled defence.
It was in Mayor Maynot’s screaming down the left wing to catch up with a puck clearly intent on beating him to the icing line, beating the belligerent biscuit to its hoped for destination, and then slipping it, deadeye, into to top shelf. It was in having the unripest of the Strawbs, the Marquis DeSave, contort himself like a Cirque De Soleil understudy in order to successfully thwart, for the sixth time in the game, a 3 on 0 rush by the Free Agents. And finally, it was in the pleasure which accompanies the shaking of one's head as both the Butcher and the Vice (an accomplished arsonist of great repute in Northern Ontario)got called for hooking the same hapless opponent unwise enough to venture within the reach of their respective scalpels: 6 minutes for unauthorized synchronized surgery.
There were certainly more manifestations of the Gift, too many really to be enumerated here. Suffice it to say that the wonder continued well into the night as it followed the team to its post game perch at the Terminal Tavren. Compliments were, as is customary, sheathed in derogatory clothing and a whole lotta forgiveness was bestowed upon the undeserving: another typical Strawberry outing.
6 SteamWhistles, 8 Lake of Bays offerings, 1 draft, 1 Guinness, 4 Rickerds Red, 7 pounds of chicken wings and more than deserved of the limitless Gift were consumed.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Turkey Brain
Game Report
Thrashers 5 Killer Strawberries 2
January 13, 2011
Thank Allah that the Christmas Break did not last a scintilla juris longer. The Strawbs, battling what can only be adequately described as an epidemic of Turkey Brain TM, got schooled by a band of hyperkinetic teenagers in a one-sided battle last evening at the (almost) mould-free Pete Palangio Arenas. Final score: Thrashers 5, Killer Strawberries 2.
While the arena may have been mould-free, some of the Strawbs certainly were not. Shiny Shone Brightly had rust growing on his mould. He claimed his skates were too loose, owing to the fact that his new skate tightener was still learning the ropes. The Ice Marshal, considered the most handsome man on the team in a recent poll of B list movie starlets, played like an elderly sloth emerging from a happy-ending massage transacted in a high-class opium den. He blamed his lackluster performance on the shortness of his hockey stick which Gawdawful Gumby has been describing as a hatchet handle with no ambition. Never one to be short on useless advice, Gawd suggested to the weary team icon, saint and boulevardier, that perhaps when he cuts down his next tripod-like device, he might want to first put on his skates, stand on a chair, measure the stick to his chin and add 2 inches. “Keep your mind off my stick” was the Ice Marshal’s terse reply.
Also mouldy and turkey-brained, was the Butcher, fresh from a debilitating sojourn with the sabbaticaled Freight Train 444 at the Aloha Baby Compound West in Oahu. When he left on his excursion, the Butcher was a svelte 185 pounds of pulsating manhood. In the hands of his travelling companions, the most dangerous of whom was Freight Train, he obviously succumbed to every available vice, temptation and donut within a forty mile radius of the Compound and returned to his beloved team a corpulent gallimaufry of unintended consequences. Not pretty…not pretty at all.
Quite a few of the Strawbs must have taken in Elvis Stoyko’s “Thunder On Ice “show over the holidays. Unfortunately, it was not Elvis they decided to emulate, but rather the chorus of nine year girls who skated in public for the first time to the strains of “Feelings”, that excellent up-tempo rock tune made famous by Barry Manilow or Perry Como or maybe it was Frosty The Snowman…who knows. Among the imitating chorus were Archilles Perron, who played The Jilted Butterfly, Slickery Mac, who played the Butterfly’s handmaid, MagBoy, who played The Overdosing Valium Boy, and The Vice, who played himself.
On the plus side, newly called-up Shifty Drouin added some spark to the team and has been instructed to stay by the phone in case the Executive asks him to come out to the next game, perhaps to even play in that game. The real star of the game, it hurts to say, was the Marquis DeSave. The Marquis spent his Christmas hiatus snowbathing on the beaches of Nunavut and counting the number of feral dogs eaten by polar bears. “ It was lot cheaper than Cancun and not nearly as crowded” mumbled he through lips so frostbitten that he has been asked by the makers of Botox to be their 2011 poster boy. Fortunately the whole misadventure did no slow him down between the pipes, and but for his heroics, the score could easily have been 2-1 for the Strawbs.
After the game, most team members scampered off to the Terminal Tavren to top themselves back up with turkey substitutes and libations with a high caloric value. MagBoy announced that the team’s new beer, to be unveiled at a later date, is almost ready for sampling. Cries of “Hale Fellow Well Met, Jolly Good Fellow and You Da Man joyously rang through the entire watering hole, thereby obliterating any feelings of mouldiness that may have followed the team to its post ice-combat haunt.
2 Guinness, a pant load of Lake of Bays India Pale Ale, an ill-advised Grasshopper, 2 Bud, 5 pounds of chicken wings in lemon pepper sauce and the wet dreams of budding brew masters were consumed.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Strawberry pictures from Aloha Compound
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| Successful completion of 10,023 ft. Volcano run, in record 54:57 minutes. (Big Hawaii in background) |
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| "Aloha Compound training exercises, jog up 10,023 feet to the top of the dry Haleakala volcano, just to build a thirst." |
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| "Secret never seen before photos inside Aloha Compound" |
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| "Three Strawberries after a night on the town. The two jerseyed Strawberries are reminiscing with the naked Strawberry in jail on how successful the re-hydryation exercises the night before went." |
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"Old Strawberry put out to pasture" |
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"Discreet pictures of the Olsen twins teaching core building exercises for Strawberries. They send their love to the Ice Marshall." |
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| "Two Strawberries, higher than normal" |
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| " Aloha Compound wet training area, to develop the core muscles." |
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"Warm Strawb travelers Visit Aloha compound Dehydration cured" |
Monday, January 10, 2011
Killer Strawberry Blonde Ale
Preparing to brew Killer Strawberry Blonde Ale
http://www.burnthelmets.ca/2011/01/off-season-training-beer.html
http://www.burnthelmets.ca/2011/01/off-season-training-beer.html
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Killer Strawberries Participate in Annual Road Hockey Ball Tourney
The Ice Marshal, The Vice, Freight Train and G.A.W.D. participated in the Annual Walpole Road Hockey Tourney on Boxing Day at the Aloha Baby Compound East on Boxing Day.Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Sir Cumference
Game Report
December 2, 2010
Killer Strawberries 2 Thrashers 4
It was very tight game, with the score 2-2 right up to the final 2 minute mark. It was then that the Thrashers squeezed just over the Strawbs goaline. The Strawbs were forced to pull their goalie and came within microns of tying the match. But the gods of hockey were smiling elsewhere and the Thrashers were able to pot an empty netter to secure the victory. To a man, the Killer Strawberries much enjoyed the encounter, so much so that they have requested of the league Big Foreheads that they be put in the competitive division with CCCP, the Longshafts and the Thrashers once the post-Christmas alignment is completed.
On the evening, the best of the Strawbs was certainly Shiny, who, at long last, has shaken off the terrible lethargy of his autumn “hibernation”. Perhaps it was finding a handleless and battered suitcase outside his front door which snapped him to attention. No matter the cause, the result was sheer coaching genius.
The team’s replacement goalie, Braden Whatshisname, was superb between the pipes and it is hoped that his performance will not cause the Executive to consider putting the Marquis on waivers after Christmas. The Marquis has been absent the last 2 games, having claimed that his employer was requiring him to visit some mineshaft in Atawapisqat. Wethinks that he must have done something quite horrible to deserve such a fate.
The third best contribution on the evening started with the unpolished yet insightful wit of Magboy, a player who fondles puns for pleasure. Having noticed that his buddy, Sir Gawd, has been playing with the enthusiasm of a bored Russian aristocrat on yet another factory tour, Magboy mentioned that the Executive might consider drafting another “Sir” of his acquaintance, a Sir Cumference, whom he complimented as an all round player he had met through his circle of friends. His only problem was that he liked to eat Pi. Unfortunately, the rest of the Strawbs could not resist joining the tasteless punditry thus begun. Someone mentioned that MagBoy was always going off on some crazy tangent, especially when he found himself within a 5 metre radius of another Strawb. The Ice Marshal noted that we might be able to sine Sir Cumference and that he would give him a ring later to see if he would like to play in our loop. Not to be outdone, the Butcher stated that he would cosine Sir Cumference’s contract if necessary. “If you’re going to do that, you’d better take the circuitous route”,volunteered the Vice. From there on, the discussion deteriorated, with Buzz Charm, the third favourite son of the Ice Marshal doing his coop with the team’s management, adding “With your Strawbs'luck, if you signed him, he would die-a-metre from the goal crease”. Mercifully, the rink janitor intervened and kicked everyone out of the building.
The team recovened at the Terminal Tavren to dissect the match and to plan an attack upon the league championship. Puns were shunned and grammatical civility was temporarily restored.
10 Guinness, 3 jugs of Bud, 2 jugs of Stella , 3 jugs of Trad, and 15 pounds of Christmas style chicken wings,served in silver bowls and smothered in Hollandaise sauce, were consumed. It was all delicious because, as everyone knows, there’s no plate like chrome for the Hollandaise.
December 2, 2010
Killer Strawberries 2 Thrashers 4
It was very tight game, with the score 2-2 right up to the final 2 minute mark. It was then that the Thrashers squeezed just over the Strawbs goaline. The Strawbs were forced to pull their goalie and came within microns of tying the match. But the gods of hockey were smiling elsewhere and the Thrashers were able to pot an empty netter to secure the victory. To a man, the Killer Strawberries much enjoyed the encounter, so much so that they have requested of the league Big Foreheads that they be put in the competitive division with CCCP, the Longshafts and the Thrashers once the post-Christmas alignment is completed.
On the evening, the best of the Strawbs was certainly Shiny, who, at long last, has shaken off the terrible lethargy of his autumn “hibernation”. Perhaps it was finding a handleless and battered suitcase outside his front door which snapped him to attention. No matter the cause, the result was sheer coaching genius.
The team’s replacement goalie, Braden Whatshisname, was superb between the pipes and it is hoped that his performance will not cause the Executive to consider putting the Marquis on waivers after Christmas. The Marquis has been absent the last 2 games, having claimed that his employer was requiring him to visit some mineshaft in Atawapisqat. Wethinks that he must have done something quite horrible to deserve such a fate.
The third best contribution on the evening started with the unpolished yet insightful wit of Magboy, a player who fondles puns for pleasure. Having noticed that his buddy, Sir Gawd, has been playing with the enthusiasm of a bored Russian aristocrat on yet another factory tour, Magboy mentioned that the Executive might consider drafting another “Sir” of his acquaintance, a Sir Cumference, whom he complimented as an all round player he had met through his circle of friends. His only problem was that he liked to eat Pi. Unfortunately, the rest of the Strawbs could not resist joining the tasteless punditry thus begun. Someone mentioned that MagBoy was always going off on some crazy tangent, especially when he found himself within a 5 metre radius of another Strawb. The Ice Marshal noted that we might be able to sine Sir Cumference and that he would give him a ring later to see if he would like to play in our loop. Not to be outdone, the Butcher stated that he would cosine Sir Cumference’s contract if necessary. “If you’re going to do that, you’d better take the circuitous route”,volunteered the Vice. From there on, the discussion deteriorated, with Buzz Charm, the third favourite son of the Ice Marshal doing his coop with the team’s management, adding “With your Strawbs'luck, if you signed him, he would die-a-metre from the goal crease”. Mercifully, the rink janitor intervened and kicked everyone out of the building.
The team recovened at the Terminal Tavren to dissect the match and to plan an attack upon the league championship. Puns were shunned and grammatical civility was temporarily restored.
10 Guinness, 3 jugs of Bud, 2 jugs of Stella , 3 jugs of Trad, and 15 pounds of Christmas style chicken wings,served in silver bowls and smothered in Hollandaise sauce, were consumed. It was all delicious because, as everyone knows, there’s no plate like chrome for the Hollandaise.
Thursday, December 02, 2010
A Senior Moment
Killer Strawberries 4 Those Guys 1
Game Report
November 29, 2010
The Killer Strawberries gave their best imitation of an 80 year old Lothario last evening at Pete Palangio Arenas where they faced a squad of long haired ice skating deer calling themselves Those Guys. It took the Strawbs a very long time to get aroused, but once their interest peaked,they quickly did what they came to do and then proceeded to fall asleep for the rest of the game, sleeping the blissful sleep of a dream fulfilled.
The loquacious Warrin’ Peace returned to the team after a prolonged absence. When asked by the Strawbs’ Attendance Monitor where he had been for the last 3 games he simply uttered the word “uh”, which apparently means “ none of your business” in Ojibway. This was the only excitement he offered on the evening.
The calendar challenged Dr. Thug also returned to the fold and was back to his old self, screaming on the bench every time the Strawbs beat the opposing netminder. He told the team he had missed the last few outings because he had fallen into an upholstery machine and it took him quite a while before he was fully recovered. As well, he delivered some shocking news. Someone somewhere has hired him to teach Microbiology and Bio-infomatics to unsuspecting Korean Nationals in a barn just outside Pickering, commencing January 2011. He has promised to make the weekly commute to the play hockey but, given his driving record, poor eyesight and propensity to fall asleep just after supper, the Executive considers his promise to be an empty one.
Pyjama Man also returned to the squad. He had hurt his coccyx and elbow at a bowling tournament in his girlfriend’s basement and had to undergo emergency surgery. He had his whole left side cut off but he is all right now.
Freight Train 444’s brief stint with the Strawbs, although spectacularly modest, did not include this match, having ended with his appearance on November 25. On this evening he was making his way, via Winnibego, to Florida as part of Phase 2 of his never ending sabbatical. He intends to visit every shopping centre along the way. He will soon learn that once you’ve seen one shopping centre, you’ve seen a mall.
Sir Gawdawful reinforced the appropriateness of his moniker by putting a performance which would have made Cheech and Chong look like overachievers. He gamboled across the frozen surface accompanied by self-generated snippets of the Nutcracker and visions of sugar plums fairies dancing in his head. The team has tried him at defence, offence and it would seem that the best place for him might be elsewhere, until he decides to rejoin the real world. Maybe Freight Train could pick him up a nice piece of Loius Vuitton on his way down south.
The Butcher was up to his old tricks and only got caught twice in his attempts to perform various unauthorized swaps of the internal organs of his opposition. In one particularly beautiful case, he managed to move #7’s spleen to #11’s anal sphincter and damn near wrecked him.
Final score: Killer Strawberries 1 spleen, 2 sphincter and 4 goals (scorers forgotten)
Those Guys 1
After the game, Bootsey MagGirl drove the team to the Terminal Tavren and regaled the Strawbs with stories of strange body rashes, morning sickness and absolutely fascinating accounts of her most recent ultrasounds. The boys were so enthralled, they barely had time to needle each other.
4 jugs of swill, 8 pounds of chicken wings and some very colourful descriptions of toilet bowl contents were consumed.
Game Report
November 29, 2010
The Killer Strawberries gave their best imitation of an 80 year old Lothario last evening at Pete Palangio Arenas where they faced a squad of long haired ice skating deer calling themselves Those Guys. It took the Strawbs a very long time to get aroused, but once their interest peaked,they quickly did what they came to do and then proceeded to fall asleep for the rest of the game, sleeping the blissful sleep of a dream fulfilled.
The loquacious Warrin’ Peace returned to the team after a prolonged absence. When asked by the Strawbs’ Attendance Monitor where he had been for the last 3 games he simply uttered the word “uh”, which apparently means “ none of your business” in Ojibway. This was the only excitement he offered on the evening.
The calendar challenged Dr. Thug also returned to the fold and was back to his old self, screaming on the bench every time the Strawbs beat the opposing netminder. He told the team he had missed the last few outings because he had fallen into an upholstery machine and it took him quite a while before he was fully recovered. As well, he delivered some shocking news. Someone somewhere has hired him to teach Microbiology and Bio-infomatics to unsuspecting Korean Nationals in a barn just outside Pickering, commencing January 2011. He has promised to make the weekly commute to the play hockey but, given his driving record, poor eyesight and propensity to fall asleep just after supper, the Executive considers his promise to be an empty one.
Pyjama Man also returned to the squad. He had hurt his coccyx and elbow at a bowling tournament in his girlfriend’s basement and had to undergo emergency surgery. He had his whole left side cut off but he is all right now.
Freight Train 444’s brief stint with the Strawbs, although spectacularly modest, did not include this match, having ended with his appearance on November 25. On this evening he was making his way, via Winnibego, to Florida as part of Phase 2 of his never ending sabbatical. He intends to visit every shopping centre along the way. He will soon learn that once you’ve seen one shopping centre, you’ve seen a mall.
Sir Gawdawful reinforced the appropriateness of his moniker by putting a performance which would have made Cheech and Chong look like overachievers. He gamboled across the frozen surface accompanied by self-generated snippets of the Nutcracker and visions of sugar plums fairies dancing in his head. The team has tried him at defence, offence and it would seem that the best place for him might be elsewhere, until he decides to rejoin the real world. Maybe Freight Train could pick him up a nice piece of Loius Vuitton on his way down south.
The Butcher was up to his old tricks and only got caught twice in his attempts to perform various unauthorized swaps of the internal organs of his opposition. In one particularly beautiful case, he managed to move #7’s spleen to #11’s anal sphincter and damn near wrecked him.
Final score: Killer Strawberries 1 spleen, 2 sphincter and 4 goals (scorers forgotten)
Those Guys 1
After the game, Bootsey MagGirl drove the team to the Terminal Tavren and regaled the Strawbs with stories of strange body rashes, morning sickness and absolutely fascinating accounts of her most recent ultrasounds. The boys were so enthralled, they barely had time to needle each other.
4 jugs of swill, 8 pounds of chicken wings and some very colourful descriptions of toilet bowl contents were consumed.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Dull As Dishwater
Killer Strawberries 11 ALU Warriors Quite A Bit Fewer
Game Report
November 25, 2010
As November 25 dully dragged its way through its final hour of tedium, the Killer Strawberries mercilessly pounded an understaffed ALU team with all the enthusiasm of a bored Emperor at a routine slaughter of Christians and other unfortunates. As a contagion of stifled yawns infected the Strawbs’ bench in waves of unbridled ennui, the seconds langourously erased themselves from the arena clock, in the vain hope of never ever being reset again. The Zamboni driver went home early, leaving well before the game ended and asking that the last person kindly locks the doors on his way out. The pinball machines in the lobby pulled their own plugs from the sockets. The ice started to melt just so that it wouldn’t have to support one more half-hearted effort at aimless propulsion.
Mayor Maynot broke out of his torpor long enough to pot 6 goals so meaningless that the scorekeeper refused to add them to the scoreboard. Sir Gawdawful Gumby was lost in his land of warm milk and cookies, soft blankets and naps as he serenaded himself to sleep with the whisper of his blades against the dying ice. The Marquis DeSave couldn’t be bothered to take a warmup, preferring to remain supine in the dressing room until the last possible moment. During the whole of the match, his catching glove did not rise above his waist, nor did his knees bend in any perceptible fashion: MagBoy could have done better, but just couldn’t bring himself to try.
Newton theorized that every action results in an equal and opposite reaction. In last night’s game, the Laws of Entropy were temporarily suspended for lack of sufficient action to cause a reaction. Even the Laws of the Universe were anesthetized. All in all the game was so dull, that……….zzzzzzzzzzzz.
Game Report
November 25, 2010
As November 25 dully dragged its way through its final hour of tedium, the Killer Strawberries mercilessly pounded an understaffed ALU team with all the enthusiasm of a bored Emperor at a routine slaughter of Christians and other unfortunates. As a contagion of stifled yawns infected the Strawbs’ bench in waves of unbridled ennui, the seconds langourously erased themselves from the arena clock, in the vain hope of never ever being reset again. The Zamboni driver went home early, leaving well before the game ended and asking that the last person kindly locks the doors on his way out. The pinball machines in the lobby pulled their own plugs from the sockets. The ice started to melt just so that it wouldn’t have to support one more half-hearted effort at aimless propulsion.
Mayor Maynot broke out of his torpor long enough to pot 6 goals so meaningless that the scorekeeper refused to add them to the scoreboard. Sir Gawdawful Gumby was lost in his land of warm milk and cookies, soft blankets and naps as he serenaded himself to sleep with the whisper of his blades against the dying ice. The Marquis DeSave couldn’t be bothered to take a warmup, preferring to remain supine in the dressing room until the last possible moment. During the whole of the match, his catching glove did not rise above his waist, nor did his knees bend in any perceptible fashion: MagBoy could have done better, but just couldn’t bring himself to try.
Newton theorized that every action results in an equal and opposite reaction. In last night’s game, the Laws of Entropy were temporarily suspended for lack of sufficient action to cause a reaction. Even the Laws of the Universe were anesthetized. All in all the game was so dull, that……….zzzzzzzzzzzz.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Shorthanded
Killer Strawberries 3 Turbo Beavers 1
Game report
November 22, 2010
With Dr. Phelonius Thug incapacitated by a terrible, terrible case of the sniffles, with Warrin’ Peace grounded for not properly vacuuming his man cave, and with Pyjama Man unable to play because of some sudden syphilitic recrudescence, the Killer Strawberries still managed to defeat a determined Turbo Beaver squad by a score of 3-1.
Once again, Freight Train 444, still recuperating from his latest grueling 10 week vacation, joined the team, and, despite the extra 34 pounds of winter insulation stretching the skin of his midriff to the point of bursting, played a fine game on defence. He was called upon frequently to cover up the aggressive play of his D mates, the Packer-besotted Shiny Shone Brightly, the penalty-addicted Butcher and the senescent Vice.
Up front, the forwards almost achieved hockey respectability, except for Slickery Mac, who, while the Butcher rested his sorry ass in the Sin Bib, scored 2 shorthanded markers in a span of 57.232 seconds (approx.). Of course, the Butcher attributed it all to the motivation he gifted to the team by selflessly taking a penalty with the score 1-0 in the opposition’s favour.
Mr. Mayor Maynot, who ,without consulting the Monicker Committee , changed his nickname to Yo-Yo, completed the scoring late in the last period, the recipient of a brilliant 2 on 1 saucer pass from the IMW, a saucer pass so sublime in its execution that a small bronze statue will be erected in the arena lobby next week in the wily veteran’s honour. “ I really don’t need another statue” commented the humble team leader. “I wish the erections would stop.”
In goal, the Marquis DeSave put in another stellar outing. On one occasion, the Vice delivered a perfect no-look pass onto the waiting stick of a streaking opponent. The Marquis coolly followed the 405 attempted feints and dekes, and finally stopped the clearly frustrated attacker by jamming his pad neatly against the far post….just another great play in a typical Strawbs’ victory.
After the game, the New Terminal Tavren was invaded by the victors. Good plays were recounted in terms which made the originals seem ordinary and glaring mistakes were sloughed off as bad luck. Backs were slapped and the tight-jeaned torsos of the service staff were admired.
5 Keiths, 7 Steamwhisltles, 4 Buds, 13 pounds of chicken wings and some stories of glorious shorthanded goals past were consumed.
Game report
November 22, 2010
With Dr. Phelonius Thug incapacitated by a terrible, terrible case of the sniffles, with Warrin’ Peace grounded for not properly vacuuming his man cave, and with Pyjama Man unable to play because of some sudden syphilitic recrudescence, the Killer Strawberries still managed to defeat a determined Turbo Beaver squad by a score of 3-1.
Once again, Freight Train 444, still recuperating from his latest grueling 10 week vacation, joined the team, and, despite the extra 34 pounds of winter insulation stretching the skin of his midriff to the point of bursting, played a fine game on defence. He was called upon frequently to cover up the aggressive play of his D mates, the Packer-besotted Shiny Shone Brightly, the penalty-addicted Butcher and the senescent Vice.
Up front, the forwards almost achieved hockey respectability, except for Slickery Mac, who, while the Butcher rested his sorry ass in the Sin Bib, scored 2 shorthanded markers in a span of 57.232 seconds (approx.). Of course, the Butcher attributed it all to the motivation he gifted to the team by selflessly taking a penalty with the score 1-0 in the opposition’s favour.
Mr. Mayor Maynot, who ,without consulting the Monicker Committee , changed his nickname to Yo-Yo, completed the scoring late in the last period, the recipient of a brilliant 2 on 1 saucer pass from the IMW, a saucer pass so sublime in its execution that a small bronze statue will be erected in the arena lobby next week in the wily veteran’s honour. “ I really don’t need another statue” commented the humble team leader. “I wish the erections would stop.”
In goal, the Marquis DeSave put in another stellar outing. On one occasion, the Vice delivered a perfect no-look pass onto the waiting stick of a streaking opponent. The Marquis coolly followed the 405 attempted feints and dekes, and finally stopped the clearly frustrated attacker by jamming his pad neatly against the far post….just another great play in a typical Strawbs’ victory.
After the game, the New Terminal Tavren was invaded by the victors. Good plays were recounted in terms which made the originals seem ordinary and glaring mistakes were sloughed off as bad luck. Backs were slapped and the tight-jeaned torsos of the service staff were admired.
5 Keiths, 7 Steamwhisltles, 4 Buds, 13 pounds of chicken wings and some stories of glorious shorthanded goals past were consumed.
Monday, November 22, 2010
While The Cats Were Away
While The Cat Was Away
Killer Strawberries 1 Those Guys 40
Game report
November 18, 2010
On Thursday last, the Executive had to make an unexpected trip to the Moon Cafe at the Playboy Mansion in Los Angeles to receive, along with Valdy, several important humanitarian awards from Hugh and his bevy of beautiful babelicious babes. The party lasted for 4 days and the Executive returned to North Bay exhausted but happy. Happy until they learned that in their absence, the Strawbs were utterly hopeless in the game against Those Guys on the very night they were being feted. Despite being bolstered by the return of Gawdawful Gumby, who had been vacationing high in the Rockies and by Freight Train 444, who had just completed his 3rd circumnavigation of the world in this last year alone, the squad stunk. The goalie stunk. The defence stunk and the forwards stunk. The fans also stunk. Even their stinkiness stunk.
Why is it that when the leadership is away, the team takes a vacation to Stinkidom? Just asking.
Nothing was consumed but odiferous olfaction.
Killer Strawberries 1 Those Guys 40
Game report
November 18, 2010
On Thursday last, the Executive had to make an unexpected trip to the Moon Cafe at the Playboy Mansion in Los Angeles to receive, along with Valdy, several important humanitarian awards from Hugh and his bevy of beautiful babelicious babes. The party lasted for 4 days and the Executive returned to North Bay exhausted but happy. Happy until they learned that in their absence, the Strawbs were utterly hopeless in the game against Those Guys on the very night they were being feted. Despite being bolstered by the return of Gawdawful Gumby, who had been vacationing high in the Rockies and by Freight Train 444, who had just completed his 3rd circumnavigation of the world in this last year alone, the squad stunk. The goalie stunk. The defence stunk and the forwards stunk. The fans also stunk. Even their stinkiness stunk.
Why is it that when the leadership is away, the team takes a vacation to Stinkidom? Just asking.
Nothing was consumed but odiferous olfaction.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
The Killer Strawberries Do Valdy
The Ice Marshal and The Vice entertain Valdy at the Aloha Baby Compound Moon Cafe.Friday, November 12, 2010
Spanked
Game Report
November 11, 2010
CCCP 8 Killer Strawberries 2
The Strawbs knew before the game that they would get spanked by CCCP, most of whose players toil for the Canadore Varsity team. Sometimes, you need a good spanking, although not quite as often MagBoy likes one.
The CCCP players are young, swift, talented and mild mannered…oh, yeah, did I mention young? Nevertheless, the Strawbs held in for the first period, with the score 2-1 in favour of the speedsters. The poor Marquis DeSave must have felt like a burger at a Rottweiler convention, what with the relentless biting attacks upon him. Eventually, the assaults took their toll and CCCP put a further 6 markers behind him before the final buzzed was mercifully buzzed. Shiny thought that one period would have been enough for us to mount a comeback..but realistically I don’t think any of the Strawbs could have mounted anything, let alone a comeback.
At the other end of the ice, the Strawbs produced quite a few excellent scoring opportunities, with Pyjama Man and the Ice Marshal assuring the team was not shutout. TheIMW l played like Teeter Kennedy, or rather, played like Teeter Kennedy would have played had he been alive today at the ripe old age of 105. To say that his skills have deteriorated would be like saying Mama Cass has put on a little weight…. a small understatement.
It did not help the team’s cause that Warrin’ Peace, Pyjama Man and the recently lauded Butcher showed up late for the game. Warrin’ had an excuse…he can’t tell time. Pyjama Man had to tuck in his daughters (and girlfriend, the lovely Loans Jones) before screeching to the rink. But the Butcher? His excuse: impaired cognitive judgment caused for overheated brain circuits. Mind you, that’s his normal state. He should have stayed home and flossed. Observant readers will recall that His Bropheyness was recently demoted to Buttface and returned from the ordeal on Monday last. His Monday performance was publicly lauded. Seems he doesn’t do too well when praised. Well, he won’t be praised again, the puerile wad of tardy Sheitzhiemerwurst.
Despite the beating, the Strawbs were jovial after the match and several of them (and the lovely Loans Jones) met up for some post game imbibing at the New Terminal Tavren, home of Fat Boy chicken wings, named after an unnamed Strawb who is less than lean and wears #3.
2 jugs of Keith’s Dark (yuk!), 2 jugs of Stella, 2 Bud Light, 2.5 hubs of chicken wings and some bawdy tales of memorable spankings were consumed.
November 11, 2010
CCCP 8 Killer Strawberries 2
The Strawbs knew before the game that they would get spanked by CCCP, most of whose players toil for the Canadore Varsity team. Sometimes, you need a good spanking, although not quite as often MagBoy likes one.
The CCCP players are young, swift, talented and mild mannered…oh, yeah, did I mention young? Nevertheless, the Strawbs held in for the first period, with the score 2-1 in favour of the speedsters. The poor Marquis DeSave must have felt like a burger at a Rottweiler convention, what with the relentless biting attacks upon him. Eventually, the assaults took their toll and CCCP put a further 6 markers behind him before the final buzzed was mercifully buzzed. Shiny thought that one period would have been enough for us to mount a comeback..but realistically I don’t think any of the Strawbs could have mounted anything, let alone a comeback.
At the other end of the ice, the Strawbs produced quite a few excellent scoring opportunities, with Pyjama Man and the Ice Marshal assuring the team was not shutout. TheIMW l played like Teeter Kennedy, or rather, played like Teeter Kennedy would have played had he been alive today at the ripe old age of 105. To say that his skills have deteriorated would be like saying Mama Cass has put on a little weight…. a small understatement.
It did not help the team’s cause that Warrin’ Peace, Pyjama Man and the recently lauded Butcher showed up late for the game. Warrin’ had an excuse…he can’t tell time. Pyjama Man had to tuck in his daughters (and girlfriend, the lovely Loans Jones) before screeching to the rink. But the Butcher? His excuse: impaired cognitive judgment caused for overheated brain circuits. Mind you, that’s his normal state. He should have stayed home and flossed. Observant readers will recall that His Bropheyness was recently demoted to Buttface and returned from the ordeal on Monday last. His Monday performance was publicly lauded. Seems he doesn’t do too well when praised. Well, he won’t be praised again, the puerile wad of tardy Sheitzhiemerwurst.
Despite the beating, the Strawbs were jovial after the match and several of them (and the lovely Loans Jones) met up for some post game imbibing at the New Terminal Tavren, home of Fat Boy chicken wings, named after an unnamed Strawb who is less than lean and wears #3.
2 jugs of Keith’s Dark (yuk!), 2 jugs of Stella, 2 Bud Light, 2.5 hubs of chicken wings and some bawdy tales of memorable spankings were consumed.
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
Triumphant Return
Game Report
November 8, 2010
Strawbs 8 Longshafts 5
Sometimes as a Killer Strawberry all you’ve got left is handsome. And sometimes that handsome is simply not enough. Just ask the Butcher who spent the past weekend laundering other mens’ intimates. Perhaps it was a little harsh of the Executive to send him to Alaska for rehabilitation. Fortunately, the Executive, while cruel when necessary, is always fair. And the Butcher certainly benefited from the cruel/fair treatment recently meted out to him.
In last night’s tussle with the very speedy Longshafts, the good Doctor was on top of his game. He performed a series of unforgettable, fully legal muggings on every corner of the ice. He was ornery. He was belligerent. He was motivated. He was so sneaky and effective that, by game’s end, he had an amazing secret collection of Longshaft organs tucked away inside his equipment, organs the Longshafters did not even know they were missing. Welcome back Butcher…we missed ya.
The match started out well for the opposition. By the end of the first period they were ahead 2-0. It took a full team defence to keep the score so low. Special kudos to the D and to the Marquis, all of whom struggled valiantly to keep the rubber outside the cage. Despite the slim margin, the Longshafts were so confident they were about to crush the Strawbs that they kept hooting constantly, and when they did score, their celebratory rituals were overdone, bordering on taunts.
Alas, their ejaculations were premature. Dr. Thug quickly popped in 2 goals early in the second period, lovely markers he continued to describe in terms which became more unbelievable which each quaff of Guinness at the post game soiree. The Stawbs then took a 3-2 lead, as Slickery, Warrin’ Peace and Mayor Maynot combined to shove a stiletto up the Longshafts’ (insert missing body part here)…… From then on, the game seesawed back and forth, as Slickery exacted revenge on his opposition on four more occasions, for an incredible total of 5 goals in the game. Pyjama man added the coup de grace with 16 seconds left. Final score Strawbs 8 Longshafts 5.
In the dressing room at the end of the game, the Butcher was officially welcomed back with a gift of Gentleman Jack, a fine Tennessee Bourbon presented to him in a makeshift suitcase on the occasion of his 56th birthday. Although no gentleman on the ice this glorious evening, the Butcher’s sharing of the loot was a welcome magnanimous gesture.
After the match, most Strawbs slogged home exhausted. The others, thumbing their noses at the lateness of the hour, reassembled at the New Terminal Tavren to celebrate a well earned victory and to toast the return of the dirtiest SOB in the league.
2 Grasshoppers, 3 Guinness, 3 Keiths, 2 pounds of chicken wings and the warm inner glow of some illegally ingested Gentleman Jack were consumed.
November 8, 2010
Strawbs 8 Longshafts 5
Sometimes as a Killer Strawberry all you’ve got left is handsome. And sometimes that handsome is simply not enough. Just ask the Butcher who spent the past weekend laundering other mens’ intimates. Perhaps it was a little harsh of the Executive to send him to Alaska for rehabilitation. Fortunately, the Executive, while cruel when necessary, is always fair. And the Butcher certainly benefited from the cruel/fair treatment recently meted out to him.
In last night’s tussle with the very speedy Longshafts, the good Doctor was on top of his game. He performed a series of unforgettable, fully legal muggings on every corner of the ice. He was ornery. He was belligerent. He was motivated. He was so sneaky and effective that, by game’s end, he had an amazing secret collection of Longshaft organs tucked away inside his equipment, organs the Longshafters did not even know they were missing. Welcome back Butcher…we missed ya.
The match started out well for the opposition. By the end of the first period they were ahead 2-0. It took a full team defence to keep the score so low. Special kudos to the D and to the Marquis, all of whom struggled valiantly to keep the rubber outside the cage. Despite the slim margin, the Longshafts were so confident they were about to crush the Strawbs that they kept hooting constantly, and when they did score, their celebratory rituals were overdone, bordering on taunts.
Alas, their ejaculations were premature. Dr. Thug quickly popped in 2 goals early in the second period, lovely markers he continued to describe in terms which became more unbelievable which each quaff of Guinness at the post game soiree. The Stawbs then took a 3-2 lead, as Slickery, Warrin’ Peace and Mayor Maynot combined to shove a stiletto up the Longshafts’ (insert missing body part here)…… From then on, the game seesawed back and forth, as Slickery exacted revenge on his opposition on four more occasions, for an incredible total of 5 goals in the game. Pyjama man added the coup de grace with 16 seconds left. Final score Strawbs 8 Longshafts 5.
In the dressing room at the end of the game, the Butcher was officially welcomed back with a gift of Gentleman Jack, a fine Tennessee Bourbon presented to him in a makeshift suitcase on the occasion of his 56th birthday. Although no gentleman on the ice this glorious evening, the Butcher’s sharing of the loot was a welcome magnanimous gesture.
After the match, most Strawbs slogged home exhausted. The others, thumbing their noses at the lateness of the hour, reassembled at the New Terminal Tavren to celebrate a well earned victory and to toast the return of the dirtiest SOB in the league.
2 Grasshoppers, 3 Guinness, 3 Keiths, 2 pounds of chicken wings and the warm inner glow of some illegally ingested Gentleman Jack were consumed.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Get A Grip
Butcher Bombs Badly. Buttface Beckons
Killer Strawberries 7 Free Agents 2
Game Report
November 4, 2010
It was something the Executive had been worried about for more than a year. As aficionados of all Things Killer Strawberry know, Dr. Butcher Brophey took a sabbatical from his beloved team in 2009-2010, in order to spread to the world his vast knowledge of the topic “Innovating Innovationary Innovation Techniques Innovatively: An Innovator’s Perspective” . His educational victims included some of the unwashed masses of Europe and a few fascinated Bedouins seeking to expand their markets for camel dung.
The good Doctor lectured to great acclaim at The Milan Academy of Blind Donkey Raisers, held open air brainstorming session with the self-flagellating Sisters of Perpetual Suffering and Bleeding in Padua, and, in an unprecedented audience with the Pope, instructed His Most Holy Bigness on the idea of using Catholic confession as a source of Church revenue. He even met up in Giza with his buddy, the also-sabbaticalled Freight Train 444, who, together, turned 3 of the pyramids into to thriving Tim Horton’s Falafel franchises.
But let’s get back to the worrisome part. For any true hockey player, a year spent away from the frozen pond is an awful lot like diving naked into a humming beehive. It’s eventually gonna hurt a lot and for a long time afterward. For a player of the Butcher’s caliber and mental capacity, the result was sure to be especially bad. Turns out the Executive had much to fear.
At the start of the season, the Butcher was eased back into the lineup by placing him on the wing opposite the Ice Marshal. It was much like Edmonton’s experiment of placing the stone-handed Dave Semenko on a line with Gretzky… a gift really. But noooooooo!. The move was a disaster. Brophey was not only underwhelming, he was below sub-underwhelming. His performance, combined with a sullenness so infantile that his sulky lower lip had to be popped with a safety pin, forced the Executive to retreat from its strategy of slow integration and to put the said sulky sulker back among the blueline pigeons for game 2 of the season.
In his defence, it must be noted that the Butcher was less awful at his old position than anticipated. For the next couple of matches, he struggled mightily to bring his game up to its previous level of mediocrity. Unfortunately, hecould not even hurdle that low bar.
In last night’s game, a fresh nadir of Bropheyesque ineptitude was reached. While his teammates performed magnificently in the 7-2 victory over the Turbo squad, the Butcher was abysmal. The breaking point was reached when, in the early moments of the final period, he carelessly tossed a fat, lazy, ill-timed pass right up the middle onto the surprised stick of Turbo’s best player. As the Strawbs’ bench gasped in disbelief, that best player moved in alone on the Marquis, mesmerized him with dazzling feats of legerdemain and casually popped the biscuit into the net.
Mercifully, the game came to an end, and, after the customary shaking of hands, the Killer Strawberries retired to their dressing room for the first round of ribbing and witty repartee. None of the gentlemen on the team mentioned the gaffe for what seemed to be an eternity. The elephant in the room remained unacknowledged until the moment a meek Butcher asked “Ice Marshal, I feel really bad about tonight. What do you recommend?” “A suitcase oughta come in handy” he tersely volunteered.
For the upcoming weekend, Dr. Bonehead Butcher Brophey will be hand laundering jock straps for the Strawbs’ farm team, the Nasty Cupcakes, as well as getting some valuable ice time with farm team’s farm team, the Buttface Bottom Feeders, a team so awful, that Miss White Go Go Boots, whose concept of morality defies imitation, still refuses to entertain any member of that sorry organization.
Post game, most of the boys and Cuddles McMillan resurfaced at the New Terminal Tavren to quaff some wet stuff and to wish the Butcher well on his short rehabilitation stint.
A free 120 ounce pitcher of Bud, 2 not-so-free Grasshoppers, 10 Steamwhisltles, 3 Keiths Dark, 4 Bud Light, 1 Stella , 17 pounds of chicken wings a little Louis Vuitton Whine were consumed.
Killer Strawberries 7 Free Agents 2
Game Report
November 4, 2010
It was something the Executive had been worried about for more than a year. As aficionados of all Things Killer Strawberry know, Dr. Butcher Brophey took a sabbatical from his beloved team in 2009-2010, in order to spread to the world his vast knowledge of the topic “Innovating Innovationary Innovation Techniques Innovatively: An Innovator’s Perspective” . His educational victims included some of the unwashed masses of Europe and a few fascinated Bedouins seeking to expand their markets for camel dung.
The good Doctor lectured to great acclaim at The Milan Academy of Blind Donkey Raisers, held open air brainstorming session with the self-flagellating Sisters of Perpetual Suffering and Bleeding in Padua, and, in an unprecedented audience with the Pope, instructed His Most Holy Bigness on the idea of using Catholic confession as a source of Church revenue. He even met up in Giza with his buddy, the also-sabbaticalled Freight Train 444, who, together, turned 3 of the pyramids into to thriving Tim Horton’s Falafel franchises.
But let’s get back to the worrisome part. For any true hockey player, a year spent away from the frozen pond is an awful lot like diving naked into a humming beehive. It’s eventually gonna hurt a lot and for a long time afterward. For a player of the Butcher’s caliber and mental capacity, the result was sure to be especially bad. Turns out the Executive had much to fear.
At the start of the season, the Butcher was eased back into the lineup by placing him on the wing opposite the Ice Marshal. It was much like Edmonton’s experiment of placing the stone-handed Dave Semenko on a line with Gretzky… a gift really. But noooooooo!. The move was a disaster. Brophey was not only underwhelming, he was below sub-underwhelming. His performance, combined with a sullenness so infantile that his sulky lower lip had to be popped with a safety pin, forced the Executive to retreat from its strategy of slow integration and to put the said sulky sulker back among the blueline pigeons for game 2 of the season.
In his defence, it must be noted that the Butcher was less awful at his old position than anticipated. For the next couple of matches, he struggled mightily to bring his game up to its previous level of mediocrity. Unfortunately, hecould not even hurdle that low bar.
In last night’s game, a fresh nadir of Bropheyesque ineptitude was reached. While his teammates performed magnificently in the 7-2 victory over the Turbo squad, the Butcher was abysmal. The breaking point was reached when, in the early moments of the final period, he carelessly tossed a fat, lazy, ill-timed pass right up the middle onto the surprised stick of Turbo’s best player. As the Strawbs’ bench gasped in disbelief, that best player moved in alone on the Marquis, mesmerized him with dazzling feats of legerdemain and casually popped the biscuit into the net.
Mercifully, the game came to an end, and, after the customary shaking of hands, the Killer Strawberries retired to their dressing room for the first round of ribbing and witty repartee. None of the gentlemen on the team mentioned the gaffe for what seemed to be an eternity. The elephant in the room remained unacknowledged until the moment a meek Butcher asked “Ice Marshal, I feel really bad about tonight. What do you recommend?” “A suitcase oughta come in handy” he tersely volunteered.
For the upcoming weekend, Dr. Bonehead Butcher Brophey will be hand laundering jock straps for the Strawbs’ farm team, the Nasty Cupcakes, as well as getting some valuable ice time with farm team’s farm team, the Buttface Bottom Feeders, a team so awful, that Miss White Go Go Boots, whose concept of morality defies imitation, still refuses to entertain any member of that sorry organization.
Post game, most of the boys and Cuddles McMillan resurfaced at the New Terminal Tavren to quaff some wet stuff and to wish the Butcher well on his short rehabilitation stint.
A free 120 ounce pitcher of Bud, 2 not-so-free Grasshoppers, 10 Steamwhisltles, 3 Keiths Dark, 4 Bud Light, 1 Stella , 17 pounds of chicken wings a little Louis Vuitton Whine were consumed.
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