Canadian Idyll

Game Report

Strawberries 6 Thrashers 5

January 31, 2008


Serendipity is full of fine surprises. The world could use a lot more of it; that and single malt Scotch...neat… in a crystal tumbler...with your favourite girl at your side running her fingers through your hair while she ignores all of your faults and lauds you cooingly for that one redeeming thing you take home to her after every game: your stinking, testosterone soaked equipment.

Well, ideal worlds are a lot like the impossible fantasy above. After all, that’s part of what makes them ideal. But sometimes, nature, in its inscrutable wisdom, grants to us mere mortals those evanescent glimpses of perfection which make life worthwhile. Now, dear reader, you may be wondering just how much single malt is fuelling this ramble. The answer is: none. This ramble is entirely fuelled by the idyllic memories of last night’s game.

In all previous encounters, the Strawbs had dominated the Thrashers. Despite their tenacity, they could not slow the red-socked Strawb juggernaut facing them. But this encounter was different. The Thrashers were a born-again team: lively, creative, feisty and fast. Every time the Strawbs would take the lead, they refused to fold, repeatedly clawing their way back into the game. No lead was safe until, at the 20 minute of the last period, the buzzer declared the Strawbs winners by a micron.

Ask any aficionado of the game what makes for memorable hockey. Invariably she will tell you it involves a tight-knit match seasoned with artistry from unexpected quarters and with more than just a little grit in the Vaseline. The Vice Marshall, with a move he hasn’t used since hid dad used to tie his skates, grabbed the puck in his own zone, dusted off a pesky Thrasher with his bad arm and launched a glorious stretch pass to a streaking Ice Marshall who had been hiding under the opponents’ blue line, waiting for just such a pass. The team’s Spiritual Leader and Shining Example of Misspent Youth caressed the offering with his stiff shafted Koho, spun around twice to indicate his approval, rocketed into the opponents’ zone and dipsydoodled a delicious Dopplerdogger into the microscopic opening between the left post and the Leviathan who guarded it. Tears flowed from all fans present as cries of “Pump Up The Jam, Strawberries” rang from the rafters.

Once all the discarded lingerie was lifted from the littered surface, the game resumed with both sides exhibiting the kind of play they remember in Montreal when the forum eclipsed the Vatican in importance and revenues. Sir Gawdawful Grumpy continually outmaneuvered his determined attackers with guile and legerdepied ( the foot equivalent of the legerdemain). Shiny Sean was magnificent as he jumped into the play on several occasions to create and finish off glorious scoring chances. Dr. Boneheaded Butcher Brophey briefly released himself from the debilitating memories of domestic woes which plague his very essence to play a game characterized by nasty compassion and applied cunning.

Archilles Perron continued his torrid scoring pace which he attributes to Feng Shui, his diet of Brussels Sprout Smoothies and to the notes his inamorata, the beautiful Glasglow Glamour, packs into his athletic protector before each game. Freight Train Laronde, fresh from adding 2 new lines to his PhD thesis earlier in the day, legally or illegally toppled at least one unsuspecting Thrasher at every face off, using the only hockey stick in the league measuring over 8 feet in length. Warrin’ Peace, spurred on by the 3 fans he imported from the Island just for the occasion (including the constant Samara Desert), did not disappoint his adoring throng. He dashed, feinted, spun and twisted just like he did when he was first spotted by the Executive dancing the Fandango on a moonlit beach in Oahu, in perfect time to the waves lapping the shore at his feet.

All of which brings us to Jesse The Leak, whom many had predicted would end up unceremoniously tossed onto the dust heap of hockey history once he began to study under the aforementioned Dr. Butcher Brophey. Fortunately for the Strawbs, The Leak has not heard or heeded a word of what passes for wisdom in the Butcher’s classes. Instead, he has focused on what truly counts in this unpredictable universe: stopping the puck so that his team mates can brag about their on ice victories and get fingers run through their hair practically at will.

The last word must be left for our opponents on the evening who made the game the pleasure it was. They played like gentleman and gentleladies, showed class and tenacity and virtuosity but more important than any of that, contributed meaningfully to the creation on an on ice joie de hockey which is rarely paralleled in any universe.

After the match, the team reassembled at the terminal Tavren where the beer was cold, the wings were hot, faults ignored and hair was mussed.

4 Stella, 5 Guinness, 3 Blue Light, 2 Keiths, 2 Kilkenny, 1 Shirley Temple smelling suspiciously like Aqua Velva, 2 lbs of chicken wings and the visions of future on ice idylls were consumed.

A Dubious Victory

Game Report

Strawberries 11 Titans 5

January 28, 2008


Last evening, the Strawberries managed to eke out an 11-5 win over an understaffed Titan squad whose collective hockey abilities would not normally fit into the spaces between the electrons of a denatured Plutonium atom. This is not a slight upon the Titans who usually put up a good fight. We admire their enthusiasm and effort. We adore their girlfriends. Hell, we’d even have shared beer with them if they had brought some to our dressing room. No, the first statement above is a wake up call to the Strawberries who performed with a complacency not seen since George Bush famously said: “Iraq, I don’t lose any sleep over that backwater. Hey Condi, pass the pretzels.”

The marginally remarkable performances on offence will be mentioned only briefly. Archilles Perron, fresh from a trip to the discounted stick section at Canadian Tire, potted 4 goals, most of which were intentional. The Vice contributed 3 tallies, none of which had enough mustard or ambition to leave the ice surface. But as he always says” a goal is a goal is a lovely goal”. Shiny Sean Brightly, despite smelling of freshly soiled diapers and projectile baby vomit, found the back of the net on 2 occasions, unworried that nobody was covering for him defensively.

So much for the plus side. From a defensive point of view, it was the ugly side of repulsive. Jesse The Leak was as shaky as a neophyte drug smuggler running the gauntlet through Canada Customs. Butcher Brophey fell back into his wicked ways, taking an early penalty for, SURPRISE!, hooking, because “ he was saving his energy for later”. Why he would want to save any of himself only close relatives could possibly know. Sir Gumby, the new poster boy for nonchalance, watched blithely as the Titans took shot after feeble shot at his donkless goaltender. “I would have tried a little harder but why? We were winning. Besides, my defence work is never recognized.” Oh, his work is recognized alright, but not for the reasons he’d like to attribute to his game.

The rest of the Strawbs were unremarkable. It was so bad that Samara Desert, the game’s only fan, was busily calling her friends as early as 3 minutes into the match to see if they had any paint that she could watch dry. In the dressing room following the engagement, the mood was somber. The team knew that it had played disgracefully. Post game, no one bothered to set a rendezvous for the Terminal Tavren. Everyone went home grumpy but fortified by the knowledge that this Thursday excellence on ice will once again prevail. We are hopeful it will be Strawberries’ excellence.

0 beer ordered, 1 beer consumed

Here's a photo worth probably less than 1000 words. It's the one mentioned in the dressing room this evening. Notice the attacking dark team, and then notice the IM turn away from all 3 opponents. I do think he was correct, for he was probably bailing out and heading for the refreshment cooler.

Thug-less Strawbs Batter Blades

Strawberries 5 Blades of Steel 0

Game Report

January 24, 2008


For the third consecutive game or so, the Killer Strawberries were forced to weave their on ice magic without the services of the inimitable Dr. Thelonius Thug, who has been whiling away the hours at home, nursing his 435th career concussion. To pass the time in as pleasant a manner as possible, he has been correcting his son’s university Physics assignments and knitting small booties for the Tse-Tse flies he keeps in his basement lab. Since Dr. Thug’s recent incapacitation, ugly trade rumours have been swirling about the team, most of them originating from the Machiavellian mind of the scheming Warrin’ Peace who is salivating at the thought of a continued increase in his ice time. Mr. Peace has been cautioned by the Executive and by his first wife, and the squad’s biggest fan, the enchanting Samara Desert, a woman who has dedicated her life to fostering harmonious relations in her own home and in households worldwide. In a press release on Friday morning, Mr. Peace was quoted as saying “Dr. Thug, despite his deepening senescence, is an integral part of the Strawbs’ march to a second consecutive Cup. We need him in the lineup. If anything I said could be construed as derogatory, I must have been misunderstood or been quoted out of context. Either that or something else”.

Even though rumours of this proportion can sometimes disrupt a team, such was not the case last evening. Jesse The Leak, fresh from intense training sessions at the Britney Spears School of Goaltending and Child Rearing, was spectacular between the pipes as he repeatedly frustrated the Blades with his cat-like reflexes and horseshit luck. The “Last Steamer in Service”, Freight Train Laronde had his best game of the year, scoring two goals which will be featured this weekend on either Sportsnet or his Mom’s Show and Tell session scheduled for this coming Sunday morning in her church’s basement.

Also playing his best game since his elevation to Knighthood was Sir Gawdawful Gumby. While it is true that it would not have taken much to elevate his normally anemic play, Sir Gumby was awarded the game’s 14th star, as huge an accomplishment for him as anything he has accomplished since being booted out of high school a the age of 32.

Some concern was being expressed, post game, by those stalwart Strawberries assembled just outside the shower doors about the spotty performance of the usually reliable Whoahorny Richardson, the only Strawb with both a suppository line AND a hemorrhoid cream named after him. On at least two occasions, he rounded his own net, gathered what was for him a huge head of steam, only to ungracefully topple himself into a physically impossible heap, barely five feet from his own goal line. There was ample speculation on the bench that he had once again been guilty of over-imbibing one of the toxic brews he routinely creates in his bathtub. ”Didn’t touch a thing before the game” he sheepishly declared. “ My wife does not allow it.” The only problem with his denial is that his wife left him for a lisping Peruvian pig farmer eight months ago to the day. Apparently, Whoahorny missed the team’s public relations session where all players were advised to keep their lies plausible.

Butcher Brophey is to be commended for his unusual contribution to victory. For the second consecutive match, he has failed to get a penalty of any description. In light of his newfound pacifism, the Executive is worried that something may be amiss at home. The normally truculent and obstreperous defenceman has not been his self lately, a fact noticed by everyone including the Zamboni driver at Palangio Arenas. His main squeeze, the delectable and mesmerizing Miss White Go Go Boots has not attended a game since just before Christmas. The only information related to her inexplicable absence has been speculatively gleaned by the team’s only reader, Ice Marshall Walpole who regularly scans the local newspaper for the titillating tidbits he uses to regale his fellow players. “I’ve been reading the North Bay Disser and Slammer closely for the last couple of months, especially to see if my name appears in the obituaries. So far so good on that front. But I did notice that in the Local Improvements section it was mentioned that someone named Miss Green Dancing Shoes was moving to Buttface, Alaska, home to Strawbs’ farm team’s farm team, the Nasty Cupcakes. Could it be that Miss Green Dancing Shoes and Miss White Go Go Boots are one and the same personage? If so, why did she leave? For me, the whole affair is a mystery wrapped in an enigma swaddled in a riddle.”

Despite the controversies which surround the august Strawberries, a victory over their arch-rivals was recorded nonetheless. Everyone forgave everyone else for any minor transgression which may or may not have been perpetrated. In the spirit of togetherness, the team re-assembled post game at the Terminal Tavren to laud each other’s accomplishments and to salve any remaining misunderstandings. Miss White Go Go Boots’ health was toasted and the desire for her return wholeheartedly professed.

1 bottle of Blue, 3 Keiths, 3 Black and Tan, 4 Stella, 2 legal Scotch , 6 illegal Scotch poured surreptitiously from Sir Gumby’s belated 49th birthday present from the Vice and the absent Madame LaChaise Lounge, 1 Bass, 4 Guinness, a plate of lo-cal nachos, and fond memories of a recently departed siren were consumed.

Dam That Leak

Strawberries 5 Blades of Steel 4

Game Report
January17, 2008

They say it is good defence that wins cups: good defence which includes backchecking forwards, stalwart defencemen and stellar goaltending. Last night, the Strawberries provided 33.3% of the winning formula, sufficient for victory but also in such quantity as to cause worrisome headsmacking among the large foreheads stationed at Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu.

Jesse The Leak turned into a veritable dam for the occasion. Using cat-like reflexes, uncanny anticipation, the full width of the goalposts and crossbar as well as his thickening skull, The Leak stymied the surging Blades repeatedly, causing them to curse and swear and slam their sticks to the ice with the surliness of spoiled babies temporarily denied access to their mothers’ soothing breasts.

To say that the defence was porous would be an understatement. On 4 occasions, the Blades skated in on The Leak unobstructed, only to be denied the pleasure of a flashing red light. It is a mystery how this could happen to a team which normally prides itself on its defensive discipline. The Ice Marshall has a theory, not easily dismissed. He has noted that since Sir Gumby’s ascension to knighthood, he has taken to reading Adam Smith’s essays on laissez-faire economics. Sir Gumby has purchased copies of the essays and has been surreptitiously distributing them among his defence mates. As any student of history will tell you, there is no discipline in “laissez-faire” anything. And a lot of discipline is exactly what the team didn’t get last night. Shame on you and your ilk, Sir Gumby.

The defensive side of the offence’s game went missing too. Most egregious were the hockey stylings of the Vice (Rob The Torch to his insurance adjuster). He wandered the frozen wasteland as if it were his first Mormon tent revival. To say that he played aimlessly would be charitable indeed. Fortunately, the team’s overall poor play was more than adequately made up by a couple of Strawberries, most notably by Pyjama Man who has recently moved out of his car into real lodgings. As nimbly as a surpised Casanova leaving his married paramour’s boudoir seconds before the arrival of a suspicious and unexpected husband, Pyjama Man scored and ran, frequently, successfully and totally self-satisfied with his performance. It is a standard to which all Strawbs aspire (on the hockey front only, of course).

Once again, Freight Train Laronde, the last “Steamer in service” according to the irreverent MagBoy, set himself up for a huge expense and barely escaped the evening with his wallet intact. With the score 4 to 3 for the Strawbs and 4:44 left in the last period, the Strawberries took a penalty. Less than a minute later, Freight Train was caught illegally tenderizing a Blade found loitering at the side of our net. Able mathematicians among readers of this drivel will have computed a 2 man advantage for the Blades with just over 3 minutes remaining. A score of 4-4 would have cost Freight Train 4 jugs of draft at the local imbibery. Luckily for all concerned, Pyjama Man was able to steal the puck from a hapless opposition defender. He took the puck down the ice and promptly yet unceremoniously deposited it into the yawning netting behind an astonished Blades’ goalie. Strawbs 5, Blades of Steel 3. The old Steamer off the hook. Victory assured.

As was, is and ever shall be customary, the Strawberries gathered at the Terminal Tavren for a hearty debriefing. With the help of poor short term memories and vivid imaginations, the victory was turned into a rout and the Vice’s on ice performance lauded for the tour de force it never was. All attendees spent the rest of the evening warmly enveloped in happy thoughts, secure in the knowledge that more victories loomed in the offing.

4 Guinness, 2 Stella, 3 Budlight, 7 Keith’s, 2 Bass, 3 Blue and a lot of laissez faire were consumed.

Catatonia Cakewalk

Strawberries 6 Thrashers 2

Game Report
January 10, 2008


Psychiatrists would label the performance “post-holiday catatonia”. Hockey aficionados would summarize it by its more common description: “shitty hockey with dashes of brilliance”.

In last night’s tussle with the chick-intensive Thrashers, the Strawbs approached the first match of the new year with visions of cakewalk dancing in their heads. And a cakewalk it was, complete with high scoring and a mind-numbing lack of mental and physical intensity. It was apparent from the get-go that there would be a price to be paid for too many Strawberries having spent too much time too close to the bonbon bowl during the Christmas break. Management apologizes profusely to its fan for the all round dearth of effort.


Let’s start with the shitty part: periods one and two. Now, let’s move on to the brilliance. The Vice finally broke out of his 4 season slump to score another of his gravity defying goals. Summoning all the strength that remained in his tortured torso, he sauntered into the slot, picked up an errant pass from his knitting bee partner, Sir Gawdawful Gumby, and with the casual ease of one born to a life of comfort and debauchery, launched the biscuit on a five foot high, 10 foot long arc which somehow, after an eternity in the thin air of ice pad #2, found its way 7 microns across the goal line: a listless goal by a listless man in a listless game.

The Vice was not the only one to minimize the use of energy on the evening. Archilles Perron, himself mired in a season of sub-par performance, broke out of his shell to score three times on the night, 2 of them beauties. On all three occasions, he did not expend more energy than could be found in a room cooled to 1 degree Kelvin. While management congratulates the recovering great on his recent achievement, it is hoped that the spark which made him Rookie of the Year in 1977 returns soon.

In his own inimical way, Freight Train Laronde contributed to high level of languorousness which characterized the match. In a pickup match earlier in the week, he was involved in a train wreck with Dr. Thug, who was just recovering from the 43rd concussion of his checkered career. As Freight Train was chugging down the ice, dreaming of completing the doctoral dissertation which has dogged him for the last 5 years, he crushed the unsuspecting Dr. Thug with the unintended body check of a lifetime. Down went Dr. Thug, just like a Kennedy, with concussion #44. As everyone knows, Dr. Thug brings a lot of “je ne sais quoi” and “Boeuf Bouillabaisse” to rink every night. Last night, the Bouillabaisse went missing.

Speaking of big French words, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, Monsieur Le Docteur Boucher Brophey was absent by his presence. Not one holding call against him, not a trip nor a slash nor a ceremonial beheading to mark his return from a vacation filled with Hostess Twinkies, cheap vodka and insalubrious encounters in the snow bank at the end of his driveway. He played unemotionally, seemingly lost in a cloud of self-doubt, painted with radium and smacked with a flyswatter. Hope he comes back soon.

Whoahorny Richardson, normally a stalwart on defence and often a sneaky offensive threat, was woeful. Three times he was set up alone in the enemy’s slot by the smooth passing Ice Marshall, only to unleash anemic attempts which barely reached the goaltender’s breadbasket. His shots made the Vice’s look like rockets in comparison. It is suspected that, over the holidays, Whoahorny was concocting a new batch of hooch in his basement lair and that, due to over-imbibing, has worked himself into a month long coma. Time to shape up mister.

A new year’s resolution to quit smoking appears to have taken the wind out of Warrin’ Peace’s game. He was much better when he was emulating his glorious hero, Smokie Hill, former Strawberry Extraordinaire, who regularly smoked 2 cigarettes, a cheap Cuban cigar and the contents of a small hookah between shifts, yet managed to contribute stellarly every time he hit the ice sober. It was noticed that the same lethargy was affecting Warrin’s first wife, the gorgeous Samara Desert, who was in attendance on this forgettable occasion. The Desert barely managed a “Go Warrin’ Go” or a “you suck, ref” all evening. There will certainly be carton of unfiltered CancerStick Mild awaiting him and her in the arena lobby prior to the start of the next match.

Shiny Sean Brightly can possibly be forgiven his lack of contribution. Over the holidays, he self-reportedly became a father for the second time: a boy apparently with an appendage the size of Florida on a warm day. He is to be called Carmen or Carswell or Crimson Tide or something of that ilk. Since no cigars or photos were offered for general consumption, the jury is still out on whether he was just lying to cover his poor showing.

After waving hello to a soft goal early in the second period, Jesse The Leak settled down enough to stop the surging Thrashers for the remainder of the game. Fortunately his spectacular saves outnumbered his spectacular flubs and he will be allowed to start the next match against the Blades of Steel, the only team between the Strawbs and another championship ring.

MagBoy, despite being elevated to a place of honour on a line with Messrs. Peace and Marshall, was ineffective, obstructionist and mono-syllabic. Perhaps he was tired from ironing and starching MagGirl’s unmentionables. It doesn’t really matter. He needs to bring his C+ game or better to the rink next time.

What can be said about Gumby that hasn’t already been said? Plenty. But we’ll stick to just one thing for now. One would have guessed that, being knighted Sir Gawdawful Gumby at the Annual I Know What Women Don’t Want Convention at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu, our brave new knight would have come out with some gusto. He did not. Apparently, the title was wasted, as was he at the ceremony.

Fortunately enough gumption was mustered by a sufficient number of Strawberries to make it a worthwhile post game encounter at the Terminal Tavern. Lethargy was toasted enthusiastically and the victory sealed with beers from around the world. All sluggards were temporarily forgiven and bonhomie reigned again.

2 Guinness, 4 Guinness/Stella aberrations, 2 Bud Light, 2 Keiths and a carton of CancerStick Unfiltered were consumed.

Strawbs visit the Nasty Cupcakes Ice Complex

Dr. Thug, Gawdawful Gumby and the Ice Marshall take a break between shifts while at the Nasty Cupcake's Ice Complex during a recent re-conditioning stint.

Happy Holidays!

Barnburner

Strawbs 4 Blades of Steel 4

Game Report
December 3, 2007


The Strawbs started out the game slowly which, in fact, is how they usually play the whole game. Archilles Perron set the tone early with his elegant listless swoops, his devil-may-care forechecking and a plethora of lethargic and aimless passes he had dreamed up in the off-season while langourously sunning himself naked in his own backyard. The Blades, intent on teaching old dogs new tricks, quickly shot out to a 3-1 lead and began celebrating their good luck and superior talent long before the first period had ended. Unfortunately for them, it turned for them out to be a bad case of celebratus interruptus.

During the terribly short break between periods, the Ice Marshall swiftly sized up the situation. Butcher Brophey had to be stopped. In the first period, he picked up 2 (and I know this will sound redundant) boneheaded penalties for holding and, surprise!, holding. Dr. Thug was chugging along on one lung, having coughed up the other in the dressing room just before game time. MagBoy was in an ornery mood, having been forced by the gorgeous MagGirl to iron and starch all her lacy underthings before he was allowed to play. His truculent mood translated into a series of 3 minute siestas in the sin bin, bosom companion to the resident Butcher. What were MagBoy’s sins? Bad wrestling and unscheduled knee surgery on an unsuspecting opponent.

In the face on these seemingly intractable problems and deleterious behaviours, the Ice Marshall promoted Whoahorny to centre, relegated a battered and forlorn Rob The Torch to defence, partially benched the Butcher and sent MagBoy home to finish his ironing. What a masterful stroke of hockey engineering. The Strawbs pounced on the unsuspecting Blades and took a 4-3 lead with less than 10 minutes remaining. The play moved back and forth, an on-ice poem stuffed with grace and lyricism.The Leak and his counterpart at the other end of the rink exhibited stellar work. One on one battles were fought with grit and determination. The titanic struggle continued until an unsupervised Butcher, miffed at his benching, snuck onto the ice to replace a dog-tired Shiny Shone Brightly. Within nanoseconds, he lay one of his errant mitts upon a charging Blade and was called for …… HOLDING. At this point, there were but 33 seconds left in the game. The Blades pulled their tender and had 6 skaters on the ice versus 4 for the Strawbs. The Ice Marshall took the faceoff, pulled the puck to a spot between his legs and knelt on the frozen biscuit in an effort to run down the clock. The opposing meathead centre took offense to this stategy and started cross-checking the IM across the skull. An incensed Gumby, guardian angel to all his teammates, physically advised the meathead of the inappropriateness of his actions and both he and the meathead were escorted to the penalty box. Because the penalties were off-setting, the man advantage for the Blades was now 6 men to 3, with 30 seconds remaining. Despite the Strawbs’ valiant efforts, the Blades somehow managed to tuck one in behind a sprawling Leak. Game tied 4-4. Game ended 4-4.

Now 4-4 is a good score for one reason only. It has become tradition that upon such a score, Freight Train becomes responsible for buying a whole lot of beer at the Terminal Tavren (yes, tavren). This is as a result of a poor decision on his part over 2 years ago. We won’t go into details. Let’s just say he is still rueing his musing.

So off to the drinking hole went the team (minus the banished Butcher), suffused with contentedness at having made a noteworthy comeback and delirious with the thought that the beer would be free, Freight Train having once again been hoist on his own petard.

Shoulders were slapped, bums pinched (by Samara Desert and the well-subattired MagGirl). Freight Train’s unintended generosity was toasted and those absent were slagged. And, as usual, peace reigned in an unpredictable universe.

4 jugs of Keiths, 4 Guinness, 2 Budlight, 1 Stella, 2 pounds of chicken wings and the warm afterglow of a barnburner were consumed.

See, Over There ...

The Butcher points out to the IM where he thinks the new practice facility for the Strawbs should go.

The IM had different thoughts.

IM: That's Siberia over there.

BB: Ya. I know.

IM: That's where you'll be practising next if you don't stop killing us with your stupid penalties.

BB: What stupid penalties?

IM: Are your bags packed?

MagBoy Rues His Performance

Last Monday, November 26, 2007, MagBoy weaved his magic in the Strawbs' net, surrendering 6 soft goals on 7 shots. Here he is pictured on Wednesday, November 29, 2007 at the Terminal Tavren seeking solace in the only object in the universe empathetic to his plight.

Failed Experiment A Huge Success

Game Report
November 26, 2007


Thrashers 6 Strawbs 3


Machiavelli once said “Tutti fan tutti, dar es saalam” which, in English, translates roughly to either “Your hair is on fire” or, what is more likely, “ Set the bar low enough and your success is guaranteed.” Well, last night, the bar was set so low, it was buried under a sea of barely visible expectations.

After an earlier thrashing of the Thrashers by the Strawbs this month, The Vice, in his infinite wisdom, autocratically appointed himself Interim Supreme Tactician For The Advancement of Mediocraty in Hockey and came up with a game plan to make last evening’s tilt a more interesting one: to wit, put MagBoy in nets, let Jesse The Leak patrol the right wing, move the best offensive players to defence and switch the hapless Dmen to forward. This was, on paper, a brilliant strategy worthy of John Ferguson Junior. Yet….

Disaster ensued. Of the 3 goals scored by the Strawbs, 2 came from off the sticks of relocated forwards playing defence under the Vice’s master plan. Pyjama Man and Warrin’ Peace, normally hard-nosed, hard-drinking centers, both found the back of the Thrashers’ net from their new positions. The only recently promoted forward of any consequence on the evening was Shiny Shone Brightly who tallied the Strawbs’ first goal of the game on a superb screen shot from the top of the circle. The rest of the offence was truly offensive.

In nets, MagBoy, despite giving it his all, looked like a beached whale on bad coke. He did more writhing on his back than Xaviera Hollander at an out of town Shriners’ convention. Each of the 6 goals he allowed was less spectacular than the last. He might have done better had he bothered to stop constantly ogling his girlfriend, the coquetish MagGirl, every 10 or 15 seconds, desperately seeking her stingy approval, which approval never did come. Historians of the Killer Strawberries will certainly recall that it was only 2 short years ago that MagBoy was banned from skating within 10 feet of his own net as a punishment for his shoddy substitute goaltending in a game of consequence at the time. The Vice, one of the most forgiving of men on the planet (thanks mostly to a very poor memory), wanted to give MagBoy a chance last night to redeem himself. MagBoy did not. The 10 foot ban is now a lifetime ban.

For weeks now, Gumby has been pleading his case to play forward where, in his opinion, he would outshine anyone else on the ice, even if he were forced to play using only half his brain. While he was moved to forward for the tilt and allowed to play on his full brain, he failed to live up to his own self-inflated press. At the 10 minute and 37 second mark, he was unceremoniously tossed from the match for his third boneheaded infraction, thereby eclipsing Butcher Brophey’s dubious record setting penalty performance perpetrated earlier in the season. Hooking, unsportsmanlike conduct and slashing were all he shinily contributed on this evening. “I didn’t do nothin’” he whined on his way out the door. “It’s gotten so you can’t even tell a referee to go screw himself with his girfriend’s strap-on without the dimwit getting upset. The game ain’t what it used to be.” Gumby was so incensed by the whole affair that, rather than take his lumps and an unnecessary shower, he found himself a perch in the stands so that he could continue to berate the zebras in his own inimitable fashion. He was summarily asked to leave the arena by both referees, his own teammates, and the Zamboni driver.

Now, an astute reader might ask how this ill-conceived experiment could be termed a success. Here is how the Vice spun it in the dressing room after the game.
“What I was looking for tonight was to have everyone gain an appreciation for the difficult job each of us has in our regular positions. I also wanted to make the game more interesting. I think both objectives were met.” Since most of the Strawbs are acutely aware of the futility of arguing with faulty logic put forward by a faulty mind, they all agreed wholeheartedly with the Vice. To his face. Unfortunately, it was the Ice Marshall who had to contend with the disgrutled Guinea pigs at the Terminal Tavren. He managed to smooth the ruffled feathers by promising that the Vice’s team duties in future will be limited to party planning and ordering new hats, two tasks at which he excels. Tutti fan tutti indeed.

The only winner on the evening was the sagacious Dr. Thug who, upon learning of the proposed game strategy, suddenly developed a temporary case of epilepsy, dipthteria and Aids, rendering him unavailable for the horror show which was to come. Get better soon, you friggin’ baby!

6 Guinness, 4 Stella, 1 Kilkenny, 2 Bass, 2 Bud Light, some lame Zowie wings and some low expectations were consumed.

Starting Line Up to Tonight's Game

If all Strawbs attend, here is the starting line up. If there are some absent players, there will be a juggling act.

GOALIE - Mag Boy

DEFENSE - Ice Marshall & Dr. Thug

Warrin' Peace & Archilles

CENTERS - 444 Freight Train & Whoarny

WINGERS - The Leak & Shiney

Butcher & Gumby

Pajama Man & Vice

Sominex on Ice

Game Report
November 22, 2007

Strawbs 8 Thrashers 3


As Billie Shakespeare, the Strawbs' publicist, scandal extinguisher and poet laureate, so aptly put it after dozing through last night’s yawner : “ It was a tale told by an idiot, unfull of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” The game was so dull, so lifeless, so excrutiatingly stultifying that the puck left the ice after the first shift. The referees refused to blow their whistles under any circumstances and instead spent most of their energies imploring the timekeeper to remove all but 2minutes from the official game clock. The opposition yawned and lazily braided each other’s hair while the Strawbs listened half-heartedly to the Ice Marshall as he tried to rouse them with selected excerpts from Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. The narrowcasting of the match to the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu did not reach its intended destination because the electrons carrying the signal gave up just outside Vancouver, paralyzed, like Buren's Ass, between Apathy and Indifference.

The air stagnated under the unbearable weight of the overbearing boredom. Planets ceased moving and Lindsay Lohan checked into the Betty Ford for the seventh time this week, her will sapped by an uncaring universe. Aqualung, our friend, started away uneasy. Supertramp took the long way home. It was the day the mu…sic died.

The Strawbs profoundly apologize to its fan, the constant Samara Desert, victim of icehockeynarcolepsy, who had to be revived after the game by using a Stunner 500, the cardiac zapper recently installed in the lobby of Pete Palangio arenas for just such an eventuality.

At the Terminal Tavren, 2 kegs of Guinness refused to be tapped. The preternaturally irritating Mair, Devil’s Spawn,Brat Extraordinaire and Waitress From Hell, could not even be bothered to curl her upper lip. Management shut the lights out at 11pm without so much as a “by your leave”. The team went home sober for the first time in Strawbs’ history. But who cares?

Los Lost Hombres

Saw these wayward directionally challenged misfits hitchiking down a dead end street yesterday; what the heck does that tell you!

Freight Train Feted On His 50th

A handsome bunch of Strawberries guide Freight Train 444 into his second half century. If he had stopped talking so much, he might actually have benefitted from some really good advice from his elders and juniors.

Thanks to Warrin' Peace and the beautiful Samara Desert for letting us desecrate the Garage of Bad Ideas.

Gumby Gives Notice

Game Report
November 19, 2007

Strawbs 6 Jet Rangers 2


It was a question which occupied over 3 hours of intensive, and at times, heated debate at the recent Executive retreat at the beautiful Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu. As all interested fans are acutely aware, there has been a recent rash of goals scored by careless Strawberries on their own goaltender, the puck-smacked Jesse The Leak, a man who does not need any more stress in his pathetic little life. In last night’s tussle with a chippy team of Jet Rangers, Gawdawful Gumby served notice that he has set his sights on catching up to Shiny Shone Brightly, the Strawbs’ current leader in goals against his own team. Not only did the pumpkin-socked picaroon put the puck into his own net, thus putting his team down 1-0 early in the game, he did it with such reckless vehemence that his follow-through almost decapitated his own pipetender. Shiny Shone 2, Gumby 1.

There were various theories propounded and examined in an attempt to understand this less-than’stellar behaviour. While all theories had merit, especially those which questioned the dubious psychological makeup of the 2 players involved, the Executive has concluded that, in all likelihood, the errant behaviour can be attributed to presence of Whoahorny in the lineup. The evidence is damning. All goals scored by Strawbs against themselves have occurred when Whoahorny deigns to show up for a match. The team’s physician and astrologist, Dr. Ura S. Hole, MD, PhD, XYZ, is of the opinion that Whoahorny’s pre-game self- prescribed combination of A535, nitroglycerin and orally ingested Aqua Velva is reacting to produce a little understood noxious gas, CH4CH4NO7. This gas, known colloquially on the street as “The Stupifactor”, causes long-term dementia in people of low self-esteem who sit too closely to its source. Whoahorny, whenever he has shown up, has always been flanked closely by the wayward goal scorers. Dr. Hole has proposed several antidotes to the problem. The most likely to be adopted is to have Whoahorny dilute the Aqua Velva with one part vinegar and 2 parts Smarten Up before each match.

The evidence and its concomitant theory may also explain the continued on-ice shenanigans of the once dependable Butcher Brophey. In the previous game, the good doctor was tossed for getting 3 penalties in 11 minutes. In this game, he quickly picked up 2 penalties, which in his objectively subjective opinion, he did not deserve. With one more infraction, he would be sent to the showers once again. As he served his second penalty of the evening, he leaned over to the Strawbs’ bench and pleaded to be put up to forward. “I can’t play defence with these referees” he vociferously proclaimed. “They’re calling me for phantom infractions. I gotta play forward or I won’t make it to the end of the game.” What a dilemma for the coaching staff: keep The Butcher in the game at a position he can’t even begin to comprehend or let him stay back and get tossed. The staff chose to get him tossed; a wise decision which resulted in victory.

There were a couple of other instances of note. The Vice, slugged unexpectedly at center ice by a misbehavin Ranger, performed an emergency sphincterectomy on the offender, thereby depleting the opposition ranks by one asshole. Dr. Thug, who self-concusses for the advancement of science, once again became inexplicably mesmerized by the puck. As soon as the biscuit hits his stick, he stops, looks skyward, invokes some kind of weird Sanskrit chant and then lets the other team skate away with an unearned scoring chance. CH4CH4NO7? Dr. Hole is looking into it.

After the game, most Strawbs ventured home to finish the day’s dusting and to clean up the supper dishes. Freight Train 444 and the puck-challenged Dr. Thug repaired to Leo’s, Freight Train’s preferred pre-class imbibery. What they discussed is anyone’s guess.

1 shared Stella and some very strange chants were probably consumed.

The Garage of Bad Ideas

Game Report
November 15, 2007
Blades of Steel 2 Strawbs 1

As usual, Dr. Bonehead Butcher Brophey set the tone early. Not only was he late arriving, he also managed to compound his poor start with matching poor play. At around the 5 minute mark of the first period, he sauntered up the stairs leading to the ice surface, Slurpy in one hand and a scalpel in the other. As leisurely as Bhudda groovin’ on a hookah, he surveyed the rink, scratched his nether regions and somehow managed to convince himself that it was time to make his way to the Strawbs’ bench. On his first shift, he was called for holding. On his second shift, he was called for holding. On his third shift, he was called for holding and much to the satisfaction of his own team mates, was summarily tossed from the game. Eleven minutes of game time, 9 of them penalty minutes: a new personal record of ineptitude. “I have no idea why he bothered to show up” said an exasperated Ice Marshall. “I know things aren’t great at home or at work or in any part of his sordid life for that matter, but one does expect a certain level of professionalism, even from our weaker-minded players.”

Speaking of weaker-minded players, how about Jesse The Leak? How anyone can go from brilliant to abysmal in the span of 1 minute is anyone’s guess. The hapless tender went from robbing a Bladed Steeler on a sure goal to handing one to the opposition on a platter. The Leak will be spending the coming week in the company of the Butcher as the Butcher teaches him how to properly manipulate a hockey stick, for carving and for moving the puck.

Fortunately, there was little lamenting of the tough loss. After all, Freight Train Laronde would be turning 50 at midnight. In the dressing room post game, Freight Train was presented with a fine bottle of 10 year old Aberlour to mark the occasion. Before you could say “open it”, the nectar was making its way down the aging veteran’s gullet. A tasting lineup formed in front of him and the libation soon suffered serious volume depletion. Cans of Labatts 50 mysteriously appeared in everyone’s hands and the party was on. Not wishing to break any more rules than absolutely necessary, the team quitted the arena fashionably early and set out for a rendezvous at the home of the perpetually partying Warrin’ Peace. And a good party it was. The team was not allowed to actually enter Warrin’s house, on the orders of his new spousal unit, the gorgeous Samara Desert, the team’s #1 fan of all-time. “It’s not that I don’t like you boys” she noted “but I haven’t had time to dust since June, what with Warrin’s libido and my penchant for laying about.” It mattered not. The garage had already been meticulously prepared for the continuing festivities.

Freight Train was toasted at every available opportunity or, rather, between the jibberish-infused rants of the team’s self-appointed sage, Mr. Gawdawful Gumby. For a guy who can barely tie his own skates without instruction, he sure has a lot of opinions, which, of course, he is compelled to share ad nauseum, ad infintum and ad shutupum. It’s not that his observations are worthless. They are. It’s just that their value is almost always surpassed by the vehemence with which they are delivered. Thank G*d we can all turn a deaf ear when needed.

The best moment of the evening occurred at 11:45, 15 minutes before Freight Train was to begin life in his sixth decade. Somehow, the 40 gallons of hooch ingested to that point by Freight Train had made its way to the exit end of his digestive system. In an effort to heed his screaming bladder, our soon-to-be quintagenerian left the garage to make a liquid deposit in the backyard. The ever-alert MagBoy, immediately started a very loud countdown to midnight, in the full knowledge that Freight Train would be in mid-stream, unable to stop the inevitable flow he had started, thus making him unavailable at the magic moment when he crossed the half century mark. “30..29..28..27..26..……..4..3..2..1…Happy Birthday!” we yelled, a full 14 minutes before the birthday boy really turned 50 and way before he could make his way back to the inner sanctum. As he busted his way through the garage door, a full 10 seconds after countdown ended, he looked absolutely crestfallen that he had missed his own birthday milestone. After the boys stopped peeing themselves with laughter, Freight Train was let in on the joke and properly feted as the true midnight arrived. To mark his entry to the downside of life, he booted Gumby off his soapbox, and launched into what can only be described as the “One Hundred Worst Ideas of All-Time” tirade. There were more gaps in his logic that a Bryan McCabe-led defence or a Vice Marshall’s grammar lecture. It did not matter. With Gumby’s shrill diatribes and Freight Train’s oral performance, the garage was christened, for time eternal, “The Garage of Bad Ideas”. We’ll be back.

1 bottle of Aberlour, 50 Labatts 50, 24 Bud-Lite, 3 Guinness, 4 Groelsch, a mountain of nachos and cheese and some really really bad ideas were consumed.

A select group of Strawberries, guests of the executive, relax at the East Aloha Baby Compound.

Blades Bend Then Break Under Strawberry Barrage

Strawberries 6 Blades of Steel 0
Game Report

November 8, 2007

It was the fastest of times, it was the slowest of times, it was a day of incredulity, it was a night of wondrous belief, it was the season of scintillation, it was an epoch of hope, it was the winter of despair, it was the era of blissful incompetence. We had the whole schedule before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to the OHL Cup, we all going direct to the standings cellar. There was a godless gypsy on defence and a true disciple on left wing-in short, the game was so far like a dream, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on it being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of exposition only. We, of course, will be nothing but totally objective.

While some of the Strawbs players were ramping up their games, others continued to be mired in the muck of their own lassitude. Let us begin with the Ramper-Uppers. Freight Train 444, demoted to defence for previous offensive infractions best left undescribed, brought his game up 3 notches, scoring twice from the point using a modified version of the wristshot he perfected as a shy yet petulant 6 year old in the slums of Sudbury. He could have scored more goals ...many more goals… but discretely chose instead not to embarrass his bosom buddy, the taciturn Archilles Perron who, for the last 336 games, has been struggling to find the form which first endeared him to the Executive. Goal-less since 1998, and precariously positioned on a secret trade bubble, Archilles broke out his slump. What must have been going through his head as he streaked magisterially down the left wing, his manly mane struggling to keep up with the rest of his speeding frame? We’ll probably never know but we can only imagine what daemons he must have shrugged off as he broke loose across the Blades’ blueline, deked left, then right, then left again, stopped to tie his lace and smooth back his late arriving hair. Refreshed, he carried on unmolested to the net which must have seemed to him smaller than the shadow cast by Gumby’s current bundle of morals. With great precision and care, Archilles whistled the rubber toward the minuscule opening to the goaltender’s left. The puck hesitated for a moment, gathered courage and thus fortified, rammed itself ecstatically into the mesh.

Freight Train and Archilles were not the only ones to distinguish themselves on this night of nights. The Vice Marshall, hobbled at home by the unrelenting demands for perfection perpetrated upon his august self by the beautiful Madame LaChaise Lounge, dug deeply into his checkered past to regale his unsuspecting team mates with a move he had only used once before, inadvertently, in a championship PeeWee hockey game against the Losers of Zwiebrucken, Germany, captained at the time by the redoubtable and diarrheatically prolix Kernal Grant, retired. (More about the dubious Kernal later). Now, some players travel at the speed of light. Not the Vice. Not his style. He prefers to go with his strengths, one of his strengths being deception. On this evening, he was at his deceptive best. As he floated aimlessly between the blue and red lines, humming obscure Bob Dylan tunes to himself, the puck suddenly presented itself at his feet. Immediately, he sprung to half-life, and entered his snake charmer mode. While slowly weaving back and forth, cuddling the puck in successive long sweeps of his hockey stick, he bored into submission the only Blades’ defenceman between him and the net. Moving at warp slowness, he moved the biscuit forward between the somnabulant defender’s legs, picked it up again about a day later on the other side of the blueline, and made a beeline for the net. With the dexterity of a young Houdini, the Vice slid the puck under the goaltender, much to the delight of a screaming Dr. Thug. The whole affair was like watching a slow motion Swahili version of “Waiting For Godot” . Painful to watch but good for the soul.

Speaking of Houdini, there was more legerdemain to be had. Well, not exactly legerdemain…more like “What-the-hell-is-doing-now-demain”. Our air-conditioned hippy gypsy, Gawdawful Gumby once again distinguished himself by scoring on a breakaway. How did it happen?

There was a faceoff in the Strawbs’ end. The Vice gained control of the puck as it was dropped and flipped it to center ice to a waiting Gumby, whose real job it was to remain in his own end until it was safe for him and his defence partner to leave. He left the zone early to pursue one of his inexplicable whims. He whimmed himself to center ice, grabbed the Vice’s offering and deposited it smugly into the Blades’ net. With his best “I could do this all the time” look, he glided blithely past his team mates as they lined up to congratulate him, grunted a few syllables of reluctant thanks and took his place at the end of the bench, as content as a wild mouse in an abandoned catnip factory.


It would seem inappropriate, in the light of the excellence noted above, to point out the low points in the game. There were a few. But then again, too few to mention. Most could be attributed to the lack of support the Strawbs have been receiving in the stands lately. True, the reliable Samara Desert was in her usual post, willing her new husband and slave, the slick Warrin’ Peace, to greatness. Unfortunately, there was no hide nor hair to be found belonging to Magnesium Girl, Miss White Go Go Boots, Madame La Chaise Lounge, Pamdaemonium, Glasgow Glamour or Mrs. Lucky, current squeeze of the Ice Marshall himself. What will it take to secure their fickle affection?

Elated by the victory and disappointed by the dearth of adulation, the team met up after the game at the usual watering hole. Backs were patted, egos stroked and mild oaths uttered. Brilliant plays were described with the greatest care. It was the best of times.

6 black and tans, two “here’s what your getting”, 4 Budlight, 7 Stella, 2 jugs, 2 pounds of wings and the best, most excellent, superlative and acme scratching comraderie was had.