Here are the Tequila swillers prior to defeating the defending champions, the Killer Strwberries.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Tequila Thrashers March 2008
Here are the Tequila swillers prior to defeating the defending champions, the Killer Strwberries.
Killer Strawberries March 2008
Here are the Strawbs prior to their heart breaking loss to the Tequila Thrashers. Missing from the photo, but not from the game is Warren Peace.Killerstrawberries in Germany
Attention Germans: Here is the german version of this site.
Die strawbs waren fast un-besiegt (The strawbs were almost un-defeated)
http://translate.google.com/translate?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.killerstrawberries.com&langpair=en%7Cde&hl=en&ie=UTF8
Die strawbs waren fast un-besiegt (The strawbs were almost un-defeated)
http://translate.google.com/translate?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.killerstrawberries.com&langpair=en%7Cde&hl=en&ie=UTF8
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Jugger….Not!
Tequila Thrashers 3 Strawbs 2
Final Game Report 2008
Last night, a peevish lesser god of sports, a god who probably just scraped his way into the Pantheon, beaned the Strawberries with a knuckleball so vicious, it may take weeks for the team to recover. It was the last game in a double elimination format. In game 1, the Thrashers won 5 to 4 in an overtime shootout. In game 2, the Strawbs replied with a 5-4 victory of their own. All the marbles in the schoolyard were at stake in game 3 and both teams came prepared to cart off the booty.
The betting line in Vegas had the Killer Strawberries favoured by 1.5 goals. To ensure the predicted victory, the Strawbs’ Executive and coaching staff had spent the previous week formulating a winning strategy at the Aloha Baby Compound East in Oahu. Unfortunately, Scotch, late night partying, Cuban cigars and a mind sapping addiction to Dionysian revelry, normally a fine combination if one doesn’t have to get up the next day, proved to be a toxic cocktail in this instance. What looked good on paper didn’t pan out so well on the ice.
The Strawbs struck early. By the 4 minute mark they were leading 2-0. Sadly, MagBoy, poorly versed in the concepts of premature counting of chickens and hubris, made the bald faced assertion that a cakewalk was about to happen. A shocked gasp shook the Strawberries’ bench. If the team’s unified wisdom has one major tenet, it is that cockiness will inevitably get whacked mercilessly with the Sledgehammer of Humiliation, which comes in many disguises. And arrive the Sledgehammer did, in the form of a dancing knuckleball to the squad’s collective skull. The Thrashers clawed their way back into the game, scoring the winning goal with a mere 1 minute and 48 seconds left to run on the clock. After having allowed absolutely no breakaways the whole game, a rare defensive brain fart left a good looking, nattily attired Thrasher of the female persuasion alone with the puck in front of Jesse The Leak, whose performance to that point in the match was deserving of induction into the Canadore Intramural Hockey Hall of Fame. Without hesitation, Tequila Sheila slammed the puck into the yawning mesh, thus emasculating, with one swing of a stick, a whole team of shocked hockey veterans. Despite a furious assault on the opposition’s net during the remaining seconds, The Strawbs could not pierce the Thrasher armour. A malicious god chuckled in glee as the final buzzer sounded. If a middle finger could make a noise, it would have been that noise.
Like the true gentlemen they are, the Killer Strawberries screwed up their internal fortitude, bit their bottom lips, donned the best smiles they could muster and lined up to congratulate the deserving victors.( Sir Gumby hugged the winning goal scorer and managed to get her grandmother's e-mail address.) Slowly, the Strawbs made their way to the dressing room, with each player repeatedly going through Kubler-Ross's 5 stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance swirled about the arena until the Vice put it all into perspective. “Although I too am crestfallen in light of the victory which has eluded us, I am proud of they way everybody played. Warrin’ Peace and Freight Train were selfless in shutting down the Rocket Man who scored 10 of the Thrashers’ 12 goals in this series. The Butcher played like a man half his weight and twice his IQ. Whoa.Horny didn’t drink for 3 whole days before tonight’s tilt. Shiny Sean was a much smaller liability on defence than the Executive predicted. Gumby showed up with his teeth brushed and his hair finely combed, each and every night. Dr. Thug fought his own demons and played like a young 56 year old, despite the fact that he is soon to enter his seventh decade of unchecked debauchery. Archilles played through his mediocrity with the determination of a dog attacking a bone. The Ice Marshall led us to courageous defeat even though his left ankle and right elbow were broken. Pyjama Man fought off the effects of lascivious and relentless pre-game sex to put in a couple of semi-solid shifts. MagBoy embarrassed himself much less than usual and often put his Crackberry away in time to take his turns on the ice. Jesse was so effective in shutting down the Thrashers, maybe we should change his name from Jesse The Leak to Jesse The Drip.” The Vice continued his inane yet enlightened prattling and finally summed the whole affair in the way only he can. “Winning is for losers” he philosophied. That kind of wisdom is priceless.
As this will be the last game report for the year, perhaps forever (given the whispers of forced retirement which have been emanating from the impatient younger players on the team), it would be an egregious oversight not to write a few words about the Strawbs’ loyal following. Thank you Miss White Go Go Boots for inspiring us with your sartorial splendour and the tireless work ethic which caused you to miss the most important game in Strawberries’ history. Thank you Madame LaChaise Lounge for allowing your man to travel freely back and forth between Aloha Baby Compound East and your home at the centre of the Compound For Minor Vice. You might want to install a couple of surveillance cameras to keep you better informed of the “strategy sessions” held during your lengthy absences. Thank you Pandaemonium for skulking out of town in the middle of the night after making us addicted to your less-than-undying support. Thank you MagGirl for cheering us on, despite the burden of the “umarried” label you are forced to carry around. Thank you Loans Jones and the Pyjama Man Spawn (Dora & Flora) for cheering on #74, even if he played like a dying Toller Cranston. Thank Lazily LaMoan for coming out to your first game in 6 years in order to see the Freight Train mow down little girls in the fashion taught to him by Dr. Thug. And a final big Merci to Samara Desert who continues to hope beyond hope that Warrin’ Peace will be elevated to the team Executive, based on his hockey skills alone. For being voted #1 Killer Strawberries Fan for 2008, the team hereby upgrades your moniker to Samara Dessert. You are now fully qualified to launder our equipment and attend, unescorted, all level 2 team functions.
Post-game, the Strawbs continued the grieving at the Terminal Tavren. Backs were slapped in commiseration, tears dried with dirty napkins and egos soothed with copious libation. 7 Guinness, 3 Steamwhistle, 4 largemouth Bass, 22 Stella, 4 Bud Light, 2 girlie drinks which looked suspiciously like sour apple martinis, 2 Blue, 41 Kilkenny, 5 pounds of wings with extra cholesterol, and a pile of Kubler-Ross were consumed.
Final Game Report 2008
Last night, a peevish lesser god of sports, a god who probably just scraped his way into the Pantheon, beaned the Strawberries with a knuckleball so vicious, it may take weeks for the team to recover. It was the last game in a double elimination format. In game 1, the Thrashers won 5 to 4 in an overtime shootout. In game 2, the Strawbs replied with a 5-4 victory of their own. All the marbles in the schoolyard were at stake in game 3 and both teams came prepared to cart off the booty.
The betting line in Vegas had the Killer Strawberries favoured by 1.5 goals. To ensure the predicted victory, the Strawbs’ Executive and coaching staff had spent the previous week formulating a winning strategy at the Aloha Baby Compound East in Oahu. Unfortunately, Scotch, late night partying, Cuban cigars and a mind sapping addiction to Dionysian revelry, normally a fine combination if one doesn’t have to get up the next day, proved to be a toxic cocktail in this instance. What looked good on paper didn’t pan out so well on the ice.
The Strawbs struck early. By the 4 minute mark they were leading 2-0. Sadly, MagBoy, poorly versed in the concepts of premature counting of chickens and hubris, made the bald faced assertion that a cakewalk was about to happen. A shocked gasp shook the Strawberries’ bench. If the team’s unified wisdom has one major tenet, it is that cockiness will inevitably get whacked mercilessly with the Sledgehammer of Humiliation, which comes in many disguises. And arrive the Sledgehammer did, in the form of a dancing knuckleball to the squad’s collective skull. The Thrashers clawed their way back into the game, scoring the winning goal with a mere 1 minute and 48 seconds left to run on the clock. After having allowed absolutely no breakaways the whole game, a rare defensive brain fart left a good looking, nattily attired Thrasher of the female persuasion alone with the puck in front of Jesse The Leak, whose performance to that point in the match was deserving of induction into the Canadore Intramural Hockey Hall of Fame. Without hesitation, Tequila Sheila slammed the puck into the yawning mesh, thus emasculating, with one swing of a stick, a whole team of shocked hockey veterans. Despite a furious assault on the opposition’s net during the remaining seconds, The Strawbs could not pierce the Thrasher armour. A malicious god chuckled in glee as the final buzzer sounded. If a middle finger could make a noise, it would have been that noise.
Like the true gentlemen they are, the Killer Strawberries screwed up their internal fortitude, bit their bottom lips, donned the best smiles they could muster and lined up to congratulate the deserving victors.( Sir Gumby hugged the winning goal scorer and managed to get her grandmother's e-mail address.) Slowly, the Strawbs made their way to the dressing room, with each player repeatedly going through Kubler-Ross's 5 stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance swirled about the arena until the Vice put it all into perspective. “Although I too am crestfallen in light of the victory which has eluded us, I am proud of they way everybody played. Warrin’ Peace and Freight Train were selfless in shutting down the Rocket Man who scored 10 of the Thrashers’ 12 goals in this series. The Butcher played like a man half his weight and twice his IQ. Whoa.Horny didn’t drink for 3 whole days before tonight’s tilt. Shiny Sean was a much smaller liability on defence than the Executive predicted. Gumby showed up with his teeth brushed and his hair finely combed, each and every night. Dr. Thug fought his own demons and played like a young 56 year old, despite the fact that he is soon to enter his seventh decade of unchecked debauchery. Archilles played through his mediocrity with the determination of a dog attacking a bone. The Ice Marshall led us to courageous defeat even though his left ankle and right elbow were broken. Pyjama Man fought off the effects of lascivious and relentless pre-game sex to put in a couple of semi-solid shifts. MagBoy embarrassed himself much less than usual and often put his Crackberry away in time to take his turns on the ice. Jesse was so effective in shutting down the Thrashers, maybe we should change his name from Jesse The Leak to Jesse The Drip.” The Vice continued his inane yet enlightened prattling and finally summed the whole affair in the way only he can. “Winning is for losers” he philosophied. That kind of wisdom is priceless.
As this will be the last game report for the year, perhaps forever (given the whispers of forced retirement which have been emanating from the impatient younger players on the team), it would be an egregious oversight not to write a few words about the Strawbs’ loyal following. Thank you Miss White Go Go Boots for inspiring us with your sartorial splendour and the tireless work ethic which caused you to miss the most important game in Strawberries’ history. Thank you Madame LaChaise Lounge for allowing your man to travel freely back and forth between Aloha Baby Compound East and your home at the centre of the Compound For Minor Vice. You might want to install a couple of surveillance cameras to keep you better informed of the “strategy sessions” held during your lengthy absences. Thank you Pandaemonium for skulking out of town in the middle of the night after making us addicted to your less-than-undying support. Thank you MagGirl for cheering us on, despite the burden of the “umarried” label you are forced to carry around. Thank you Loans Jones and the Pyjama Man Spawn (Dora & Flora) for cheering on #74, even if he played like a dying Toller Cranston. Thank Lazily LaMoan for coming out to your first game in 6 years in order to see the Freight Train mow down little girls in the fashion taught to him by Dr. Thug. And a final big Merci to Samara Desert who continues to hope beyond hope that Warrin’ Peace will be elevated to the team Executive, based on his hockey skills alone. For being voted #1 Killer Strawberries Fan for 2008, the team hereby upgrades your moniker to Samara Dessert. You are now fully qualified to launder our equipment and attend, unescorted, all level 2 team functions.
Post-game, the Strawbs continued the grieving at the Terminal Tavren. Backs were slapped in commiseration, tears dried with dirty napkins and egos soothed with copious libation. 7 Guinness, 3 Steamwhistle, 4 largemouth Bass, 22 Stella, 4 Bud Light, 2 girlie drinks which looked suspiciously like sour apple martinis, 2 Blue, 41 Kilkenny, 5 pounds of wings with extra cholesterol, and a pile of Kubler-Ross were consumed.
Friday, March 14, 2008
The Juggernaut Wobbles But Does Not Break
The Leak prepares to face down another breakwaway
Killer Strawberries 5
Tequila Thrashers 4 (SO)
Game Report
March 13, 2008
The Killer Strawberries came perilously close to self-destruction last evening in its playoff tilt against a surprising Thrashers’ squad. By the time game was a minute and 33 seconds old, the Strawbs’ were already down 2-0, thanks to some handsome play by the normally reliable Butcher Brophey. The Butcher had obviously spent himself and his afternoon frolicking in his new “One Guy-Four Chicks” hot tub. He showed up to the arena smelling of bromine, scotch, expensive perfume and burnt latex. He was glassy-eyed, unsteady on his feet and his breath was so bad he was asked to dress in the washroom. He must have lost a little blood as well, as evidenced by the host of festering hickeys which adorned his Adonis-like frame. To say that he came unprepared and remained unprepared would be an understatement. All night long, he skated like he had tied the laces of one hockey boot to another. He looked like Beelzebub shrinking from a pyx every time the puck came within 20 feet of his confused being. Not even the presence of his main squeeze, the incredibly beautiful and talented Miss White Go Go Boots (she was also giving off olfactory hintsof a misspent afternoon) could move him from atrocious to mediocre on the hockey playing scale. The team is hopeful his post game demotion to the Nasty Cupcakes will serve as the wakeup call needed to get him back into fighting form.
By the 10 minute mark, the score had increased to 3-0. The Thrrashers had scored on 2 of its 3 breakaways and potted another on a screen shot. Fortunately, the Strawbs’ remained undaunted, knowing full well they had the manpower and cunning to get back into the game. In one of the best Machiavellian moves of the season, the Strawberries Executive, watching a live game feed to the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu had the Butcher paged to a pay phone in the lobby of the arena. The Butcher had to take off his skates and walk over to take the call. By the time he returned to the bench, the game was virtually over. With its cancer thus excised, the Killer Strawberries notched up its play. Freight Train 444, using a Dr. Thug-like scream, convinced the zebras that a puck stuck against the opposition’s post had actually crossed the line. Archilles Perron, after repeatedly smashing his head against the back wall to wake himself from his stupour, slipped a beauty into the high left hand corner of the net: score 3-2 Thrashers.
With just 10 minutes to play, the feisty Tequilers took off on another breakaway and beat a disheartened Jesse The Leak with a fancy deke. Thrashers 4, Strawbs 2. A lesser team would have folded at this time. But not the murderous fruit. With Whoahorny going hoarse on the bench screaming obscenity-filled encouragement to his teammates, the Strawbs fought back to 4-3 with just under 5 minutes remaining. Painfully, the clocked ticked down as the Strawberries unsuccessfully swarmed the Thrasher battlements. Then, with a scant 67 seconds left til golf time, Shiny Sean emerged from his coma. Over the opponent’s blueline he swooped. Inside the opponent’s blueline he wheeled. At the top of the circle, he glanced forward and spotted Archilles picking his nose, alone at the side of the Tequila net. He fed the nasally occupied Perron with a pass so lovely it has been sent to the Smithsonian for display alongside George Bush Junior’s sole remaining brain cell. The astonished Archilles made no mistake with the biscuit. With 58.5 seconds showing on the clock, he drove the puck to very back of the net, tying the score 4-4. The fans went wild, with some of them baring many of their intimate body parts, while others were content to make proposals of marriage and no-string-attached romps in the Zamboni Room.
The Butcher, who had just returned to the bench still wondering who had tried to call him on the arena’s only public telephone, pleaded to be allowed to redeem himself on-ice. A swift chorus of “screw you, hot tub head” quickly squelched any hope he may have been harbouring. The team finished out the game and headed to the overtime shootout.
And what a shootout it was. Everyone was in a state of high anticipation as the Ice Marshall doled out the shooting privileges. Whoahorny was to go first on the strength of his well trimmed beard. Shiny Sean would follow, and Pyjama Man would close the deal. Whoahorny shot and missed. Thrasher 1 was stymied by the wily Leak. Next, Shiny Sean cut left, dropped his right shoulder, spun around, stopped to blow his nose and surreptitiously deposited the puck deep into the upper mesh of the net. The Leak slammed closed his five hole and thwarted Thrasher 2. Finally, Pyjama Man, looking a lot like a banshee on speed, screamed in, launched a rocket to the goalie’s shoulder and watched helplessly as the puck careened of the crossbar, then the post, the goalie’s leg, back to the post and out into the stands. Thrasher 3 didn’t stand a chance. The Leak blew himself up to 5 times his size and allowed not a sliver of the space-time continuum to be seen anywhere behind him. STRAWBS WIN! STRAWBS WIN!
The next game promises to a dilly. All fans are requested to attend. History is to be witnessed.
At the post game assembly, Sir Gumby congratulated the squad on its persistence, fortitude, determination and overall good luck. He raised his glass and his 5 iron, exclaiming, “It ain’t golf season yet!”
4 Bass, 5 Stella, 4 half and half, 3 Bud, 3 Bud Light, 7 Guinness, 6 Kilkenny, 4 pounds of chicken wings and some shootout euphoria were consumed.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Juggernaut Jitterbug
Killer Strawberries 13 Blades of Steel 1
Game Report
March 10, 2008
The instructions from the coaching staff and Sir Gumby were simple…”Bury them early”.
And bury them they did. Last night, the Strawbs continued their march to the Cup with a convincing 13 to 1 victory over a disheartened and shell shocked squad of befuddled Blades. It was the team’s concensus that the score would have been a lot closer had the Vice, Archilles and Warrin’ Peace bothered to show up. Fortunately, they had unfinished business elsewhere and their snubs only served to energize the juggernaut.
Except for a small 30 second let up half way through the second period, the team kept up a relentless barrage of offensive hockey not seen since the days of Moses McLean, a once glorious Strawb now gone to seed. For those of you who never had the privilege of witnessing Moses in action (Moses inaction?), suffice it to say that he was probably the most offensive player ever to toil for the Strawbs.
MagBoy, playing on a line with Pyjama Man and the Ice Marshall, was the leading scorer on the evening, potting 4 lovely markers under the adoring watch of his long time girlfriend, the swooning, unmarried, post-nasal dripping MagGirl, the only fan to witness the determined squad in action, despite the litany of health woes which currently ail her. MagBoy’s linemates contributed 5 more goals, some of which will be remembered for years to come because of the grace, beauty and wizardry they embodied. By whom they will be remembered is anybody’s guess.
The second line of Whoahorny, Dr. Thug and Freight Train were but a grain less spectacular than the top line. That they were pumped for the game is undeniable. Dr. Thug had so much adrenaline coursing through his tired veins that he missed scoring into 6 feet of open net. The expletive he screamed as he shot wide is still reverberating through the universe, having caused a significant earthquake on Mars around 10pm last night. You’ve gotta love the enthusiasm.
The D was solid. After having given up 12 breakaways 2 games ago, they were determined to atone. Not once was The Leak left alone to fend for himself. Shiny, Gumby and the Butcher (who continued his uninterrupted 456 consecutive game parade to the penalty box) were so effective, they have been asked to anchor the team next Thursday when the Killer Strawberries play for all the marbles against the surging Thrashers.
Jesse The Leak was a veritable Berlin Wall between the pipes. Not even the breeze off passing Blades could make it past him. He promises to repeat the performance in the finals, a promise he will be called upon to keep.
Post game, Freight Train 444 presented each of Whoahorny and the Ice Marshall with a bottle of birthday Scotch. It took about 14 seconds for the first bottle to disappear and about 24 seconds for the next… a Killer strawberry consumption record! Winning makes you thirsty and winning big makes you ravenous.
After all the dressing room back slapping, burping, towel snapping and toasting, the team made its way to the Terminal Tavren to gloat, prevaricate and scheme. Gumby promised to bring his 5 iron to the rink one more time, a subtle reminder to the squad that it’s either the Cup or golf. Dr Thug promised to scream louder every time he or a teammate scores. Freight Train advised that he would ensure there was more Scotch on Thursday, whatever the cost to his limited household budget. The Butcher promised spleen-on-a-stick for everyone. MagBoy said he would continue his torrid scoring pace. MagGirl promised to recruit at least one more fan for the championship final. Shiny promised to be handsomer and the Ice Marshall more debonnair (as if that were possible). Let the juggernaut roll!
5 Guinness, 2 Bud, 4 Bass, 2 Stella, 1 Kilkenny, 2 girlie drinks, 2 pounds of chicken wings and a gallon of optimism were consumed.
Game Report
March 10, 2008
The instructions from the coaching staff and Sir Gumby were simple…”Bury them early”.
And bury them they did. Last night, the Strawbs continued their march to the Cup with a convincing 13 to 1 victory over a disheartened and shell shocked squad of befuddled Blades. It was the team’s concensus that the score would have been a lot closer had the Vice, Archilles and Warrin’ Peace bothered to show up. Fortunately, they had unfinished business elsewhere and their snubs only served to energize the juggernaut.
Except for a small 30 second let up half way through the second period, the team kept up a relentless barrage of offensive hockey not seen since the days of Moses McLean, a once glorious Strawb now gone to seed. For those of you who never had the privilege of witnessing Moses in action (Moses inaction?), suffice it to say that he was probably the most offensive player ever to toil for the Strawbs.
MagBoy, playing on a line with Pyjama Man and the Ice Marshall, was the leading scorer on the evening, potting 4 lovely markers under the adoring watch of his long time girlfriend, the swooning, unmarried, post-nasal dripping MagGirl, the only fan to witness the determined squad in action, despite the litany of health woes which currently ail her. MagBoy’s linemates contributed 5 more goals, some of which will be remembered for years to come because of the grace, beauty and wizardry they embodied. By whom they will be remembered is anybody’s guess.
The second line of Whoahorny, Dr. Thug and Freight Train were but a grain less spectacular than the top line. That they were pumped for the game is undeniable. Dr. Thug had so much adrenaline coursing through his tired veins that he missed scoring into 6 feet of open net. The expletive he screamed as he shot wide is still reverberating through the universe, having caused a significant earthquake on Mars around 10pm last night. You’ve gotta love the enthusiasm.
The D was solid. After having given up 12 breakaways 2 games ago, they were determined to atone. Not once was The Leak left alone to fend for himself. Shiny, Gumby and the Butcher (who continued his uninterrupted 456 consecutive game parade to the penalty box) were so effective, they have been asked to anchor the team next Thursday when the Killer Strawberries play for all the marbles against the surging Thrashers.
Jesse The Leak was a veritable Berlin Wall between the pipes. Not even the breeze off passing Blades could make it past him. He promises to repeat the performance in the finals, a promise he will be called upon to keep.
Post game, Freight Train 444 presented each of Whoahorny and the Ice Marshall with a bottle of birthday Scotch. It took about 14 seconds for the first bottle to disappear and about 24 seconds for the next… a Killer strawberry consumption record! Winning makes you thirsty and winning big makes you ravenous.
After all the dressing room back slapping, burping, towel snapping and toasting, the team made its way to the Terminal Tavren to gloat, prevaricate and scheme. Gumby promised to bring his 5 iron to the rink one more time, a subtle reminder to the squad that it’s either the Cup or golf. Dr Thug promised to scream louder every time he or a teammate scores. Freight Train advised that he would ensure there was more Scotch on Thursday, whatever the cost to his limited household budget. The Butcher promised spleen-on-a-stick for everyone. MagBoy said he would continue his torrid scoring pace. MagGirl promised to recruit at least one more fan for the championship final. Shiny promised to be handsomer and the Ice Marshall more debonnair (as if that were possible). Let the juggernaut roll!
5 Guinness, 2 Bud, 4 Bass, 2 Stella, 1 Kilkenny, 2 girlie drinks, 2 pounds of chicken wings and a gallon of optimism were consumed.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Special Exclusive Report
February 28, 2008
By: David Willms, Special Correspondent to the Daily Delusional
Frog Hollow, Upstairs Bathroom and Bar
I have seen the future of beer league hockey and it is humbly ensconced in the burbs and exotic waterfront abodes of North Bay's hockey elite. Yes sir, the mighty Killer Strawberries juggernaut dispatched the opposition with such swift and cruel precision that the visiting team actually killed and ate their own goalie.... 15 minutes into the second period. The bloodletting continued, unabated, throughout the entire phantasmagorical/brutally honest contest of will and skill.
To be completely fair, said " goalie " was an admitted xenophobe and never really stood a chance of fending off the constant stream of laser guided rubber bombs coming off of what must surely be neutron powered hockey sticks. So complete was the Strawberry drubbing that I wept for the shattered egos and the obviously indigenous paucity of talent these poor mokes dragged through the front door of the Pete Palangio arena.
I can't even pretend to give you a play by play of the brilliant contributions of this most august lineup of ice gods, as I was not paying that much attention, distracted as I was by the thankless task of photographing cloying, inarticulate children of all ages, trying to relive the glory years. What I can offer are some observations, hastily considered, about the few Strawberries that I actually know well enough to be honest with.
In spite of his propensity for painting people in their worst possible light, the Ice Marshal Walpole is a selfless contributor of goodwill and sage guidance to the betterment of team productivity. So much so that I'm sure I saw him on his back, between the pipes of the opposing teams goal, just to make sure the goalie was wearing legal equipment. Such sacrifice.
Gawd Awful Gumby Takes a lot of flack for his alleged lack of passion and skill on ice. What a load of thunderclap....all I saw last Thursday was Mercury on blades...... grinding it out on every shift, causing the other team to lose what little poise it had garnered after potting a few miserable, odious, fey handed one pointers. Little wonder the team called him Gawd...once!!
Vice Ice Marshal Greenfield's performance can be summed up with one word...perfunctory. Such overly ambitious ennui has to be seen to be believed. There is one thing I don't quite understand though...the final score was 14 to 3 for the Strawbs and yet the Vice claimed 16 assists. I guess he must have had a hand in two goals against his own net. Yikes!!!
The rest of the squad, gold platted amulets of taste and decorum that they were, performed just a bit above and beyond their abilities, ensuring a very comfortable afterlife for all concerned.
It should be mentioned that the one penalty on the night was not given to Butcher Brophy....is this a first?
All in all a stellar outing, of which, the Strawberries should be immensely proud. The only black mark on the evening has to be awarded to Mr Fkia for the very funny but politically incorrect Mennonite incest joke that he told apres game. Shame on me....shame on me!
In the above picture Jessie The Leak is showing some team members a piece of gum that somehow got stuck to his jock....ouch!
By: David Willms, Special Correspondent to the Daily Delusional
Frog Hollow, Upstairs Bathroom and Bar
I have seen the future of beer league hockey and it is humbly ensconced in the burbs and exotic waterfront abodes of North Bay's hockey elite. Yes sir, the mighty Killer Strawberries juggernaut dispatched the opposition with such swift and cruel precision that the visiting team actually killed and ate their own goalie.... 15 minutes into the second period. The bloodletting continued, unabated, throughout the entire phantasmagorical/brutally honest contest of will and skill.
To be completely fair, said " goalie " was an admitted xenophobe and never really stood a chance of fending off the constant stream of laser guided rubber bombs coming off of what must surely be neutron powered hockey sticks. So complete was the Strawberry drubbing that I wept for the shattered egos and the obviously indigenous paucity of talent these poor mokes dragged through the front door of the Pete Palangio arena.
I can't even pretend to give you a play by play of the brilliant contributions of this most august lineup of ice gods, as I was not paying that much attention, distracted as I was by the thankless task of photographing cloying, inarticulate children of all ages, trying to relive the glory years. What I can offer are some observations, hastily considered, about the few Strawberries that I actually know well enough to be honest with.
In spite of his propensity for painting people in their worst possible light, the Ice Marshal Walpole is a selfless contributor of goodwill and sage guidance to the betterment of team productivity. So much so that I'm sure I saw him on his back, between the pipes of the opposing teams goal, just to make sure the goalie was wearing legal equipment. Such sacrifice.
Gawd Awful Gumby Takes a lot of flack for his alleged lack of passion and skill on ice. What a load of thunderclap....all I saw last Thursday was Mercury on blades...... grinding it out on every shift, causing the other team to lose what little poise it had garnered after potting a few miserable, odious, fey handed one pointers. Little wonder the team called him Gawd...once!!
Vice Ice Marshal Greenfield's performance can be summed up with one word...perfunctory. Such overly ambitious ennui has to be seen to be believed. There is one thing I don't quite understand though...the final score was 14 to 3 for the Strawbs and yet the Vice claimed 16 assists. I guess he must have had a hand in two goals against his own net. Yikes!!!
The rest of the squad, gold platted amulets of taste and decorum that they were, performed just a bit above and beyond their abilities, ensuring a very comfortable afterlife for all concerned.
It should be mentioned that the one penalty on the night was not given to Butcher Brophy....is this a first?
All in all a stellar outing, of which, the Strawberries should be immensely proud. The only black mark on the evening has to be awarded to Mr Fkia for the very funny but politically incorrect Mennonite incest joke that he told apres game. Shame on me....shame on me!
In the above picture Jessie The Leak is showing some team members a piece of gum that somehow got stuck to his jock....ouch!
Monday, March 03, 2008
Frolic With Canines Ends
Killer Strawberries 14 Titans 3
Game Report
February 28, 2008
After having lost an unprecedented 3 games in a row, one of them an important playoff match, the Killer Strawberries finally managed to end its ugly frolic with canines by administering a perfervid paddling to the collective posterior of a perplexed Titan squad.
The astute coaching staff, intent on the future replication of the effort which culminated in last night’s victory, has compiled a list of potential reasons for the Strawbs’ just-in-time return to hockey excellence. The reasons are in no particular order, since disorderliness seems to be the one common factor which characterizes every Strawberry’s normal on-ice performance.
Last night marked the first time all season that the lowly papparazzi, which, in the past, had mercilessly plagued this team of too handsome specimens, was allowed to penetrate the squad’s pre-game inner sanctum. Fresh from pestering the horde of pantyless poseurs parading about Hollywood, Mister Davidson FKIA the Third, heir to the throne of Frog Hollow, weaved his voyeuristic magic in the dressing room, capturing the photographic essence of more than one startled Strawberry. He continued his superb work from various vantage points around the rink, with his best action shots coming from his unlikely perch high in the arena bar. The Killer Strawberries seemed to flourish under the attention lavished upon them by the talented Davidson, so much so that, at times, the referees had to stop the game so that some of the more vain could comb their hair and straighten their stockings before being photographed. Due to the tremendous success of his efforts, Mister FKIA has been appointed Official Team Photographer To The Killer Strawberries, a position which ensures he will be invited to all team and executive functions, including the Annual Mazzola Appreciation Day held each August 30th at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu, Hawaii. (Provided of course he passes the requisite physical).
He has been absent for most of the season, what with his terrible struggles with nicotine, cheap Scotch, cheaper wine, a mysterious lung fungus, an unhealthy devotion to the Toronto Maple Leafs and his inane propensity for slamming his skull into objects harder than Krytonite. Dr. Thug finally emerged from his stupor to contribute meaningfully to the victory. He amassed an all-time team record 6 assists and possibly a goal or two. Because there was no league-sanctioned paper trail for the match, the team had to rely on his unquestionable integrity and extremely poor memory in order to confirm his remarkable performance. Just to be safe, the squad’s official statiscian rounded down Dr. Thug’s assist claim from 14 to 6 but did not tamper with his self-reported 2 goal tally. “I really did get 14 assists” he peevishly declared. “I assisted twice on each of my own goals alone.” Apparently, he is using the New Math to stroke his own ego.
Bonehead Butcher Brophey also emerged as a force to be reckoned with. Tired of lollygagging at home alone in his new Four Chicks-One Guy hot tub, allegedly in an effort to speed the healing to a shoulder he claims to have separated in 18 places, the team’s surgeon played like a pony snorting his first scent barnyard pheremone. His pugnacious play was greatly welcomed, as he continued to slash, hack, chop, carve and mutilate his way further into the Canadore Intramural Hockey League record books. It his hoped we have not seen the last of his awe inspiring outings.
The rest of the scoring was evenly spread out. Somebody got one and so did another few somebodies. It was unimously agreed that the most beautiful goal of the evening was notched by the Ice Marshall who had landed at Jack Garland Airport in North Bay only an hour before game time. Unshowered, unshaven and unmodest, IMW was whisked to the arena in a private limo driven by Miss White Go Go Boots herself who is seeking to supplement her unreported income with legitimate revenue. After paying her in both modes, IMW quickly dressed and was ready to go by the second shift. On this second shift, he skulked about the opposition’s blue line until he was spotted by the eagle-eyed Shiny. Shiny laid out a beautiful stretch pass which caught IMW in full stride, 3 metres behind the closest defender. Made stupid with an unwelcome surge of testosterone, epinephrine and seritonin, IMW did his best “deer on slippery ice” imitation, tripped over the blue line and careened, full speed ahead, into the oppostion’s goal, sending the net and a frightened goaltender through the back of the boards and into the parking lot. Because he had presciently lodged the puck into the small opening between his skate blade and his hockey boot only a moment before crossing the goal line, the goal was allowed to stand. Unfortunately, Mister Davidson FKIA the Third did not get any photos of the goal. He claimed later that he had run out of digital film for his digital camera. What a liar!
Post-game, the team, minus Whoahorny, Archilles and Jesse The Leak, each of whom were told earlier by their wives/girlfriends to be home right after the match, re-assembled at the Terminal Tavren to celebrate the occasion. Dr. Thug’s record was toasted, Samara Desert complimented on her new front teeth, and Mister FKIA’s camera stolen. A good time was had by all.
5 Stella, 4 Kilkenny, 4 Bud Light, 2 nice Bass, 4 pounds of chicken wings, 17 Guinness and 1 Guinness Book of Strawberry Records were consumed.
Game Report
February 28, 2008
After having lost an unprecedented 3 games in a row, one of them an important playoff match, the Killer Strawberries finally managed to end its ugly frolic with canines by administering a perfervid paddling to the collective posterior of a perplexed Titan squad.
The astute coaching staff, intent on the future replication of the effort which culminated in last night’s victory, has compiled a list of potential reasons for the Strawbs’ just-in-time return to hockey excellence. The reasons are in no particular order, since disorderliness seems to be the one common factor which characterizes every Strawberry’s normal on-ice performance.
Last night marked the first time all season that the lowly papparazzi, which, in the past, had mercilessly plagued this team of too handsome specimens, was allowed to penetrate the squad’s pre-game inner sanctum. Fresh from pestering the horde of pantyless poseurs parading about Hollywood, Mister Davidson FKIA the Third, heir to the throne of Frog Hollow, weaved his voyeuristic magic in the dressing room, capturing the photographic essence of more than one startled Strawberry. He continued his superb work from various vantage points around the rink, with his best action shots coming from his unlikely perch high in the arena bar. The Killer Strawberries seemed to flourish under the attention lavished upon them by the talented Davidson, so much so that, at times, the referees had to stop the game so that some of the more vain could comb their hair and straighten their stockings before being photographed. Due to the tremendous success of his efforts, Mister FKIA has been appointed Official Team Photographer To The Killer Strawberries, a position which ensures he will be invited to all team and executive functions, including the Annual Mazzola Appreciation Day held each August 30th at the Aloha Baby Compound in Oahu, Hawaii. (Provided of course he passes the requisite physical).
He has been absent for most of the season, what with his terrible struggles with nicotine, cheap Scotch, cheaper wine, a mysterious lung fungus, an unhealthy devotion to the Toronto Maple Leafs and his inane propensity for slamming his skull into objects harder than Krytonite. Dr. Thug finally emerged from his stupor to contribute meaningfully to the victory. He amassed an all-time team record 6 assists and possibly a goal or two. Because there was no league-sanctioned paper trail for the match, the team had to rely on his unquestionable integrity and extremely poor memory in order to confirm his remarkable performance. Just to be safe, the squad’s official statiscian rounded down Dr. Thug’s assist claim from 14 to 6 but did not tamper with his self-reported 2 goal tally. “I really did get 14 assists” he peevishly declared. “I assisted twice on each of my own goals alone.” Apparently, he is using the New Math to stroke his own ego.
Bonehead Butcher Brophey also emerged as a force to be reckoned with. Tired of lollygagging at home alone in his new Four Chicks-One Guy hot tub, allegedly in an effort to speed the healing to a shoulder he claims to have separated in 18 places, the team’s surgeon played like a pony snorting his first scent barnyard pheremone. His pugnacious play was greatly welcomed, as he continued to slash, hack, chop, carve and mutilate his way further into the Canadore Intramural Hockey League record books. It his hoped we have not seen the last of his awe inspiring outings.
The rest of the scoring was evenly spread out. Somebody got one and so did another few somebodies. It was unimously agreed that the most beautiful goal of the evening was notched by the Ice Marshall who had landed at Jack Garland Airport in North Bay only an hour before game time. Unshowered, unshaven and unmodest, IMW was whisked to the arena in a private limo driven by Miss White Go Go Boots herself who is seeking to supplement her unreported income with legitimate revenue. After paying her in both modes, IMW quickly dressed and was ready to go by the second shift. On this second shift, he skulked about the opposition’s blue line until he was spotted by the eagle-eyed Shiny. Shiny laid out a beautiful stretch pass which caught IMW in full stride, 3 metres behind the closest defender. Made stupid with an unwelcome surge of testosterone, epinephrine and seritonin, IMW did his best “deer on slippery ice” imitation, tripped over the blue line and careened, full speed ahead, into the oppostion’s goal, sending the net and a frightened goaltender through the back of the boards and into the parking lot. Because he had presciently lodged the puck into the small opening between his skate blade and his hockey boot only a moment before crossing the goal line, the goal was allowed to stand. Unfortunately, Mister Davidson FKIA the Third did not get any photos of the goal. He claimed later that he had run out of digital film for his digital camera. What a liar!
Post-game, the team, minus Whoahorny, Archilles and Jesse The Leak, each of whom were told earlier by their wives/girlfriends to be home right after the match, re-assembled at the Terminal Tavren to celebrate the occasion. Dr. Thug’s record was toasted, Samara Desert complimented on her new front teeth, and Mister FKIA’s camera stolen. A good time was had by all.
5 Stella, 4 Kilkenny, 4 Bud Light, 2 nice Bass, 4 pounds of chicken wings, 17 Guinness and 1 Guinness Book of Strawberry Records were consumed.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Stumblefest
Game Report
February 25, 2008
Thrashers 5 Killer Strawberries 4 OT/SO
With the Ice Marshall still out of the lineup and without the services of a discombobulated Gumby and a malingering Butcher Brophey, the Strawbs managed to extend its losing streak to an embarassing all-time high of 3 games. What is unfortunate about the streak extension is the fact that it comes as a playoff loss. To win the coveted Intramural Hockey Crown, the Strawberries will have to win all its remaining games. This is something it can do, provided a little effort is put forward by certain underperforming parties who shall remain nameless (unless, of course, there is another defeat before the end of the season, in which case the slammin’ will be happenin’).
First, let’s deal with the absences. As noted in the previous game report, the Ice Marshall has been in Stockholm. Currently, he finds himself at the tail end of this Swedish trip on which he picked up another humanitarian award. On this game day, he was suffering a much deserved post award hangover. When reached by phone after the match at his hotel on the Hoodaloodagoodastrasse, he was quoted as saying “I’m surprised and disappointed this time. I think I leave the team in good hands and still they mess up. I’ll be cutting my trip short to get this Titanic off the iceberg. Crap…my head hurts. Kate and Ashley, can we get an earlier flight.”
As for Gumby’s absence, there really was no excuse. Apparently he had cut his fingertip on a can of smoked oysters while ice fishing in the nude with the cheerleading squad from Mamma Poon’s School For Misguided Misfits and, consequently, lost a lot of blood; 3 or 4 drops according to some shady but reliable eyewitnesses. Luckily, the Bandaid took and he will, according to his publicist, be gracing the team with his august presence at the next hockey encounter. Even flimsier was the reason proferred by the Butcher to explain his no-show. “My new hot tub was coming in. Miss White Go Go Boots was coming over to help me test it out. You understand, I hope.” No, the team does not understand and steadfastly refuses to understand your self-centeredness. Show up to the next game, you post-pubescent, angst-ridden, testosterone besotted slacker!
Now to the game itself. What a mess. While it is true that the Killer Strawberries peppered the Thrashers goaler with more than 50 shots which it converted to 4 anemic goals, it was the defence who contributed above and beyond to the thrashing. After an opposing team manages to score on an early breakaway, the other team usually adjusts so that such an occurrence does not happen again. Not so with the Strawbs’ defence. As blithely as a crack addict contemplating the beauty of his own genius, the Strawberry defenders refused to change their wayward approach. Time after time, the defencemen, led by a mentally derailed Freight Train, pinched in from the blueline to chase loose pucks behind the opposition’s net. The defencemen were not content to do this crazy, out-of-position digging alone. Like bladder-challenged high school girls at a sock hop skitting off to the bathroom in pairs, the Strawberry defenders made frequent in-tandem forays into territory, far from the spots they should have been in. The culprits, which included The Vice, who should have known better, Shiny Sean Brightly, who should have known better, Whoahorny, who should have known better, and the aforementioned Freight Train, allowed an unprecedented 12 breakaways resulting in 4 goals. One would have guessed that by, say, breakaway #7, a light would have come on. Apparently, there was a power outage in certain helmets.
In their defence, the offence played well, but were plagued with shotus weakus and a very hot goalie. The tottering Dr. Thug, MagBoy, Pyjama Man and Archilles Perron managed to pierce the Thrasher’s armour in a valiant yet insufficient effort. Of the plus 50 shots on net, Archilles had 32 of them, as he was set up repeatedly by the out of position Freight Train Laronde. One hopes Archilles' conversion rate climbs out of the abyss in which it currently languishes. Is everything okay at home, Monsieur Archilles?
To round out the performance appraisal of the forwards, it should be mentioned that Warrin Peace’s contribution was just north of mediocre. He skated like he was carrying Plutonium in a lead valise. He performed thus, even though he was being cheered on by the team’s #1 fan, the bodacious Samara Desert, who showed up to the game in her best squirrel skin jacket, a jacket which Warrin’ made for her in remembrance of their first sock hop together at Wiki High in 1999.
One truly strong point in an otherwise dismal match was the play of the Strawbs' hapless goaltender, Jesse The Leak. He stopped 8 of 12 breakaways and 2 of 3 shootout attempts. “ Man, I sure felt alone out there tonight” he understated. “Was this some kinda test or something? I can’t wait for the Ice Marshall to come back to instill a little discipline, a lot of discipline really. I always knew he was the glue that kept us going.”
After the game, most Strawbs slithered to the Terminal Tavren, their tails firmly ensconced between their legs. While a lot of lamenting accompanied the first round, by round 10, optimism creeped through the door and insinuated itself into all psyches present. Future victories were toasted and the team rededicated itself to winning the Crown which hangs so tantalizingly before its eager grasp.
16 Guinness, 41 Stella, 3 Kilkenny, 2 pounds of chicken wings (seasoned) and some dreams of future glory were consumed.
February 25, 2008
Thrashers 5 Killer Strawberries 4 OT/SO
With the Ice Marshall still out of the lineup and without the services of a discombobulated Gumby and a malingering Butcher Brophey, the Strawbs managed to extend its losing streak to an embarassing all-time high of 3 games. What is unfortunate about the streak extension is the fact that it comes as a playoff loss. To win the coveted Intramural Hockey Crown, the Strawberries will have to win all its remaining games. This is something it can do, provided a little effort is put forward by certain underperforming parties who shall remain nameless (unless, of course, there is another defeat before the end of the season, in which case the slammin’ will be happenin’).
First, let’s deal with the absences. As noted in the previous game report, the Ice Marshall has been in Stockholm. Currently, he finds himself at the tail end of this Swedish trip on which he picked up another humanitarian award. On this game day, he was suffering a much deserved post award hangover. When reached by phone after the match at his hotel on the Hoodaloodagoodastrasse, he was quoted as saying “I’m surprised and disappointed this time. I think I leave the team in good hands and still they mess up. I’ll be cutting my trip short to get this Titanic off the iceberg. Crap…my head hurts. Kate and Ashley, can we get an earlier flight.”
As for Gumby’s absence, there really was no excuse. Apparently he had cut his fingertip on a can of smoked oysters while ice fishing in the nude with the cheerleading squad from Mamma Poon’s School For Misguided Misfits and, consequently, lost a lot of blood; 3 or 4 drops according to some shady but reliable eyewitnesses. Luckily, the Bandaid took and he will, according to his publicist, be gracing the team with his august presence at the next hockey encounter. Even flimsier was the reason proferred by the Butcher to explain his no-show. “My new hot tub was coming in. Miss White Go Go Boots was coming over to help me test it out. You understand, I hope.” No, the team does not understand and steadfastly refuses to understand your self-centeredness. Show up to the next game, you post-pubescent, angst-ridden, testosterone besotted slacker!
Now to the game itself. What a mess. While it is true that the Killer Strawberries peppered the Thrashers goaler with more than 50 shots which it converted to 4 anemic goals, it was the defence who contributed above and beyond to the thrashing. After an opposing team manages to score on an early breakaway, the other team usually adjusts so that such an occurrence does not happen again. Not so with the Strawbs’ defence. As blithely as a crack addict contemplating the beauty of his own genius, the Strawberry defenders refused to change their wayward approach. Time after time, the defencemen, led by a mentally derailed Freight Train, pinched in from the blueline to chase loose pucks behind the opposition’s net. The defencemen were not content to do this crazy, out-of-position digging alone. Like bladder-challenged high school girls at a sock hop skitting off to the bathroom in pairs, the Strawberry defenders made frequent in-tandem forays into territory, far from the spots they should have been in. The culprits, which included The Vice, who should have known better, Shiny Sean Brightly, who should have known better, Whoahorny, who should have known better, and the aforementioned Freight Train, allowed an unprecedented 12 breakaways resulting in 4 goals. One would have guessed that by, say, breakaway #7, a light would have come on. Apparently, there was a power outage in certain helmets.
In their defence, the offence played well, but were plagued with shotus weakus and a very hot goalie. The tottering Dr. Thug, MagBoy, Pyjama Man and Archilles Perron managed to pierce the Thrasher’s armour in a valiant yet insufficient effort. Of the plus 50 shots on net, Archilles had 32 of them, as he was set up repeatedly by the out of position Freight Train Laronde. One hopes Archilles' conversion rate climbs out of the abyss in which it currently languishes. Is everything okay at home, Monsieur Archilles?
To round out the performance appraisal of the forwards, it should be mentioned that Warrin Peace’s contribution was just north of mediocre. He skated like he was carrying Plutonium in a lead valise. He performed thus, even though he was being cheered on by the team’s #1 fan, the bodacious Samara Desert, who showed up to the game in her best squirrel skin jacket, a jacket which Warrin’ made for her in remembrance of their first sock hop together at Wiki High in 1999.
One truly strong point in an otherwise dismal match was the play of the Strawbs' hapless goaltender, Jesse The Leak. He stopped 8 of 12 breakaways and 2 of 3 shootout attempts. “ Man, I sure felt alone out there tonight” he understated. “Was this some kinda test or something? I can’t wait for the Ice Marshall to come back to instill a little discipline, a lot of discipline really. I always knew he was the glue that kept us going.”
After the game, most Strawbs slithered to the Terminal Tavren, their tails firmly ensconced between their legs. While a lot of lamenting accompanied the first round, by round 10, optimism creeped through the door and insinuated itself into all psyches present. Future victories were toasted and the team rededicated itself to winning the Crown which hangs so tantalizingly before its eager grasp.
16 Guinness, 41 Stella, 3 Kilkenny, 2 pounds of chicken wings (seasoned) and some dreams of future glory were consumed.
Blades Slice Strawberries
Game Report
February 14, 2008
Blades of Steel 5 Strawbs 2
It should have been a joyous farewell gift for devoted fans Madame LaChaise Lounge and Pamdaemonium. Neither Madame nor her sister, the world’s greatest ditherer, will be attending another game this year. Each has her own selfish reasons. Madame LaChaise will be pursuing self-fulfillment on a beach in Costa Rica as she studies the use of indigenous fruits in local cocktails. Pamdaemonium will continue changing her mind in a climate more suited to her langourous lifetstyle. The team will miss their enthusiasm and cleavage.
Unfortunately, the Strawbs failed to deliver the goods and lost to an outmanned, outskated but not outscored squad of desperate Blades, keen on proving that youth can outperform age and treachery if it really sets its heart upon victory. One possible reason for the loss could have been the absence of leadership and other je ne sais quoi normally provided by the Ice Marshall who was in Stockholm (until February 26) to receive yet another award for his ceaseless contributions to world peace and harmony. “I am disappointed but not surprised” stated the team’s spiritual leader upon learning of the defeat. “These guys can be like a bunch of unsupervised teenagers with a blowup doll. Without proper guidance, they think they know what to do but usually end up screwing themselves instead.”
The loss leaves the Strawberries entering the playoffs on a rare 2 game losing streak. One can only hope that a better effort is made to ensure a second consecutive Intramural Hockey Crown. Sadly, this will will have to accomplished without the support of 2 of its top 3 fans.
After the game, the Strawbs reassembled at the Terminal Tavren to give Pam and Madame a proper send off. At least in this regard, the team was successful. Speeches were given, hugs exchanged, best wishes uttered and much alcohol poured down greedy gullets. Good luck ladies. We will miss you sorely.
73 Stella and an industrial size bottle of Tums were consumed.
February 14, 2008
Blades of Steel 5 Strawbs 2
It should have been a joyous farewell gift for devoted fans Madame LaChaise Lounge and Pamdaemonium. Neither Madame nor her sister, the world’s greatest ditherer, will be attending another game this year. Each has her own selfish reasons. Madame LaChaise will be pursuing self-fulfillment on a beach in Costa Rica as she studies the use of indigenous fruits in local cocktails. Pamdaemonium will continue changing her mind in a climate more suited to her langourous lifetstyle. The team will miss their enthusiasm and cleavage.
Unfortunately, the Strawbs failed to deliver the goods and lost to an outmanned, outskated but not outscored squad of desperate Blades, keen on proving that youth can outperform age and treachery if it really sets its heart upon victory. One possible reason for the loss could have been the absence of leadership and other je ne sais quoi normally provided by the Ice Marshall who was in Stockholm (until February 26) to receive yet another award for his ceaseless contributions to world peace and harmony. “I am disappointed but not surprised” stated the team’s spiritual leader upon learning of the defeat. “These guys can be like a bunch of unsupervised teenagers with a blowup doll. Without proper guidance, they think they know what to do but usually end up screwing themselves instead.”
The loss leaves the Strawberries entering the playoffs on a rare 2 game losing streak. One can only hope that a better effort is made to ensure a second consecutive Intramural Hockey Crown. Sadly, this will will have to accomplished without the support of 2 of its top 3 fans.
After the game, the Strawbs reassembled at the Terminal Tavren to give Pam and Madame a proper send off. At least in this regard, the team was successful. Speeches were given, hugs exchanged, best wishes uttered and much alcohol poured down greedy gullets. Good luck ladies. We will miss you sorely.
73 Stella and an industrial size bottle of Tums were consumed.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Wilted and Betrayed
Game Report
February 11, 2008
Thrashers 6 Strawbs 2
It was barely 3 minutes to game time as Sir Gumby, The Leak, the Ice Marshall, Shiny Sean and Warrin’ Peace sat peacefully in Dressing Room #10, hoping than no other Strawbs would show up to the game, thus allowing the squad to forfeit with dignity.
Alas, luck was running the other way. MagBoy, soon followed by Pyjama Man, came sauntering through the door, unfortunately giving the Strawberries enough manpower to have but one spare on the bench. Faced with this dearth of players, the team still pressed on as best it could against fourteen determined Thrashers, aged 19 or less. Youth won out on this evening, kicking Age’s butt with its ice skate versions of Doc Martins and Jimmy Chus.
After the final whistle, the bedraggled Strawbs’ squad hit the showers without a word being spoken. All present knew they had just witnessed a case of grand betrayal. If Sir Gumby with his temporarily shattered ego, The Leak with his failing eyesight, the Ice Marshall with his double pneumonia, Shiny Sean with his recent sleep deprivation, Warrin’ Peace with his bad haircut, MagBoy with his gingivitis and uncontrolled flatulence and Pyjama Man with his excessive sperm back up could make it through minus 40 degree weather to carry the Killer Strawberries' banner, the rest of the team could at least have sent regrets.
Nothing was consumed, as the wilting process was utterly complete by the end of the game.
February 11, 2008
Thrashers 6 Strawbs 2
It was barely 3 minutes to game time as Sir Gumby, The Leak, the Ice Marshall, Shiny Sean and Warrin’ Peace sat peacefully in Dressing Room #10, hoping than no other Strawbs would show up to the game, thus allowing the squad to forfeit with dignity.
Alas, luck was running the other way. MagBoy, soon followed by Pyjama Man, came sauntering through the door, unfortunately giving the Strawberries enough manpower to have but one spare on the bench. Faced with this dearth of players, the team still pressed on as best it could against fourteen determined Thrashers, aged 19 or less. Youth won out on this evening, kicking Age’s butt with its ice skate versions of Doc Martins and Jimmy Chus.
After the final whistle, the bedraggled Strawbs’ squad hit the showers without a word being spoken. All present knew they had just witnessed a case of grand betrayal. If Sir Gumby with his temporarily shattered ego, The Leak with his failing eyesight, the Ice Marshall with his double pneumonia, Shiny Sean with his recent sleep deprivation, Warrin’ Peace with his bad haircut, MagBoy with his gingivitis and uncontrolled flatulence and Pyjama Man with his excessive sperm back up could make it through minus 40 degree weather to carry the Killer Strawberries' banner, the rest of the team could at least have sent regrets.
Nothing was consumed, as the wilting process was utterly complete by the end of the game.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Mount Olympus Sends a Messenger
Game Report
February 7, 2008
Killer Strawberries 9 Titans 6
Just prior to last night’s match against the Titans, Sir Gawdawful Gumby, recently knighted in a secret ceremony at the Aloha Baby Compound West, held a press conference in the lobby of the beautiful Pete Palangio Arenas, home to the Killer Strawberries and other lesser juggernauts. While the presser was at times long, rambling and seasoned with more than a dash of false humility (not unlike the self-appointed subject of the press conference), its purpose was never in doubt. Sir Gumby made it clear to the gathered throng that, while he was flattered to have been elevated to the ranks of hockey nobility, it was certainly not his intention to sit on his laurels or hardys. To the amazement of all within earshot, he proclaimed that “henceforth, I wish only to be known as Gawd.” “Please just capitalize the G,” he conceded. “I think some people might find full capitals a tad pretentious. That is most assuredly not what I’m all about”. As he left a rather odiferous trail of what he is all about to linger in the air of the lobby, Gawd, using a slight wave of his hand to part the throng, made his way to the team’s dressing room to take his place on the small throne he had earlier erected in his own honour. From the heights of his newfound Olympus, he held forth on what he considered to be the most egregious of the Strawbs’ weaknesses. Because no one was listening anyway, there is no record, oral or otherwise, of the profundities which emanated from Gawd's Stool of Hubris.
Despite the 3 ring circus in which they found themselves performing, The Killer Strawberries played an excellent game, once their fickle goaltender decided for whom he was going to play that evening. Unbeknownst to management, The Leak took it upon himself to promise another team he would play for them at the same time in another venue in order to allow one his friends to tend goal for the Strawbs against the Titans. The only problem with his hare-brained scheme was that his friend had been, earlier in the week, suspended from another league for verbally abusing a zebra. Oddly enough, the besmirched zebra in question was about to referee the Strawbs-Titans game. As the Leak’s replacement placed his first foot upon the ice surface, he was accosted by the aggrieved party and summarily told to leave. Fortunately, the embarassed Leak was still in the arena and, faster than a Vice’s slapshot, got dressed for the game. By the time he made it to his crease, the Strawberries were down 2-0, no thanks to some shoddy goaltending by MagBoy. From then on, the momentum shifted and the squad kept it date with destiny, outscoring the Titans by a score of 9 to 6.
The Strawberries won the match without the services of Butcher Brophey, Dr. Thug, Whoa.Horny and Shiny Sean Brightly. Apparently, the Butcher has had a separated shoulder for the last 7 months and did not realize it until he had to open up his wallet recently to pay for some post game beer, always a painful exercise for him. Dr. Thug continues to nurse the concussion he suffered when he ran into the immovable object we call Freight Train. Whoa.Horny, now on sabbatical from his last sabbatical, was studying Peyote Poppers in some Arizona desert and Shiny Sean had no real excuse beyond a limp claim that he is still hurting mentally and psychically from the playoff loss suffered by the Packers earlier in January.
It should be noted here that Archilles Perron, 30 pounds lighter than he was at the start of the season, continued his torrid scoring streak, adding 4 more goals to his illustrious hockey resume. The Kate Olsen Binge & Vomit Diet seems to be working and has been recommended to some of the other Strawberries who are, ill-advisedly, patterning their physiques on that of Jabba The Hut.
As a result of his impressive showing, Archilles was spared the acid tongue of Gawd after the game. Without so much as a glance into his own mirror, Sir Gawd found time to lambaste anyone who would listen to his tirades. The Vice’s shot was too limp, Freight Train was derailing too often from the tracks of his inattention, Pyjama Man played like he didn’t care if Up were Down or vice versa, MagBoy was too coy with the puck, The Leak didn’t know how to handle rebounds and the Ice Marshall’s hair gel was too stiff. It was almost a certainty that he would have continued in this vein had not the messenger Nemesis arrived unexpectedly from Mount Olympus to stanch the vitriol and open a small can of WhoopAss . Without warning, Sir Gawd found himself sprawled on the floor, wallowing in the remains of his tattered Stool, the capital G of his new self-prescribed moniker firmly ensconced in his nether regions. As he pulled himself from the floor, he did manage enough dignity to say:” Just call me Sir from now on.”
After the game, the team reconvened at the Terminal Tavren to discuss the righteousness of Olympians and the sorry state of its fan base. The Strawberries, save for one humbled Sir, rarely if ever complain about anything. But it must be noted that more than a modicum of disappointment was expressed about the recent lack of fan support. Has anyone seen Miss White Go Go Boots or MagGirl or She Who Must be Obeyed, or Glasgow Glamour or Madame la Chaise Lounge or Pamdaemonium or The Evil Spawn or even the most constant of our hangers-on, the beguiling Samara Desert? Please come back. We miss the adoration.
4 Guinness, 5 Stella, 2 Blue Light, 1 Kilkenny, 3 Black and Tan, 1 God-sized goblet of Ambrosia, and a discarded capital G were consumed.
February 7, 2008
Killer Strawberries 9 Titans 6
Just prior to last night’s match against the Titans, Sir Gawdawful Gumby, recently knighted in a secret ceremony at the Aloha Baby Compound West, held a press conference in the lobby of the beautiful Pete Palangio Arenas, home to the Killer Strawberries and other lesser juggernauts. While the presser was at times long, rambling and seasoned with more than a dash of false humility (not unlike the self-appointed subject of the press conference), its purpose was never in doubt. Sir Gumby made it clear to the gathered throng that, while he was flattered to have been elevated to the ranks of hockey nobility, it was certainly not his intention to sit on his laurels or hardys. To the amazement of all within earshot, he proclaimed that “henceforth, I wish only to be known as Gawd.” “Please just capitalize the G,” he conceded. “I think some people might find full capitals a tad pretentious. That is most assuredly not what I’m all about”. As he left a rather odiferous trail of what he is all about to linger in the air of the lobby, Gawd, using a slight wave of his hand to part the throng, made his way to the team’s dressing room to take his place on the small throne he had earlier erected in his own honour. From the heights of his newfound Olympus, he held forth on what he considered to be the most egregious of the Strawbs’ weaknesses. Because no one was listening anyway, there is no record, oral or otherwise, of the profundities which emanated from Gawd's Stool of Hubris.
Despite the 3 ring circus in which they found themselves performing, The Killer Strawberries played an excellent game, once their fickle goaltender decided for whom he was going to play that evening. Unbeknownst to management, The Leak took it upon himself to promise another team he would play for them at the same time in another venue in order to allow one his friends to tend goal for the Strawbs against the Titans. The only problem with his hare-brained scheme was that his friend had been, earlier in the week, suspended from another league for verbally abusing a zebra. Oddly enough, the besmirched zebra in question was about to referee the Strawbs-Titans game. As the Leak’s replacement placed his first foot upon the ice surface, he was accosted by the aggrieved party and summarily told to leave. Fortunately, the embarassed Leak was still in the arena and, faster than a Vice’s slapshot, got dressed for the game. By the time he made it to his crease, the Strawberries were down 2-0, no thanks to some shoddy goaltending by MagBoy. From then on, the momentum shifted and the squad kept it date with destiny, outscoring the Titans by a score of 9 to 6.
The Strawberries won the match without the services of Butcher Brophey, Dr. Thug, Whoa.Horny and Shiny Sean Brightly. Apparently, the Butcher has had a separated shoulder for the last 7 months and did not realize it until he had to open up his wallet recently to pay for some post game beer, always a painful exercise for him. Dr. Thug continues to nurse the concussion he suffered when he ran into the immovable object we call Freight Train. Whoa.Horny, now on sabbatical from his last sabbatical, was studying Peyote Poppers in some Arizona desert and Shiny Sean had no real excuse beyond a limp claim that he is still hurting mentally and psychically from the playoff loss suffered by the Packers earlier in January.
It should be noted here that Archilles Perron, 30 pounds lighter than he was at the start of the season, continued his torrid scoring streak, adding 4 more goals to his illustrious hockey resume. The Kate Olsen Binge & Vomit Diet seems to be working and has been recommended to some of the other Strawberries who are, ill-advisedly, patterning their physiques on that of Jabba The Hut.
As a result of his impressive showing, Archilles was spared the acid tongue of Gawd after the game. Without so much as a glance into his own mirror, Sir Gawd found time to lambaste anyone who would listen to his tirades. The Vice’s shot was too limp, Freight Train was derailing too often from the tracks of his inattention, Pyjama Man played like he didn’t care if Up were Down or vice versa, MagBoy was too coy with the puck, The Leak didn’t know how to handle rebounds and the Ice Marshall’s hair gel was too stiff. It was almost a certainty that he would have continued in this vein had not the messenger Nemesis arrived unexpectedly from Mount Olympus to stanch the vitriol and open a small can of WhoopAss . Without warning, Sir Gawd found himself sprawled on the floor, wallowing in the remains of his tattered Stool, the capital G of his new self-prescribed moniker firmly ensconced in his nether regions. As he pulled himself from the floor, he did manage enough dignity to say:” Just call me Sir from now on.”
After the game, the team reconvened at the Terminal Tavren to discuss the righteousness of Olympians and the sorry state of its fan base. The Strawberries, save for one humbled Sir, rarely if ever complain about anything. But it must be noted that more than a modicum of disappointment was expressed about the recent lack of fan support. Has anyone seen Miss White Go Go Boots or MagGirl or She Who Must be Obeyed, or Glasgow Glamour or Madame la Chaise Lounge or Pamdaemonium or The Evil Spawn or even the most constant of our hangers-on, the beguiling Samara Desert? Please come back. We miss the adoration.
4 Guinness, 5 Stella, 2 Blue Light, 1 Kilkenny, 3 Black and Tan, 1 God-sized goblet of Ambrosia, and a discarded capital G were consumed.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Marinating In The Afterglow
Game Report
February 4, 2008
Strawberries 7 Blades of Steel 2
Sometimes, great performances proceed from unexpected quarters. Sometimes those quarters have been around for so long, they get taken for granted, buffed by familiarity to a soft hue of comfortable beige... Such a “sometimes” manifested itself in last night’s game against a determined but ultimately outgunned Blades of Steel squad.
After finally succeeding in escaping the claws of his inner tortoise, “sometimes” landed with a bang for the team’s spiritual leader in minor vice, the sybaritic Rob The Torch, also know as The Vice Marshall, Red Greenfield, Greenie and The Dictator By The Lake. For the second time in 3 games, The Vice potted a magnificent hat trick…6 goals in total, each entering the opponents’ net at speeds almost exceeding 5 miles per hour. He scored on a backhand low, a backhand high, a forehand low, a forehand high; on a deke with a flourish and through a scramble in a skirmish. It was a veritable smorgasbord of scoring techniques which he has been honing since rock first turned to dirt. As the little Red Hen used to say in his favourite piece of English literature “Hard work pays off”.
As the Strawbs marinated in the afterglow of the Vice’s unexpected yet highly welcomed performance, another “sometimes” almost came to fruition before crash landing on the unfortunate rocks of reality. Fresh from an invigorating week-long retox session somewhere in coastal Mexico, Magboy spent most of the game wreaking havoc on the Blades. He skated like a flatulent wind on speed, causing turnovers, scoring opportunities and the ejaculation of vituperative epithets from the mouths of his dazzled opponents. He notched 2 goals on the evening, each of which could have gone head to head in a beauty contest with any of those perpetrated by The Torch. When asked at game’s end to what he attributed his flashes of hockey brilliance, he was quick to point out the salutory effects of drinking Tequila out the dancing shoes of the senoritas he routinely encountered on his post sundown Tom Cat prowls.
Now an alert reader will have noticed that the “crash landing” portion of the description above has yet to be accounted for. That is the way it will stay. Suffice it to say that, when one is bragging about one’s prowess, it is best to do so outside the earshot of anyone waiting impatiently for a proposal in marriage.
There are only 2 more notes to make on the evening. This writer would like to confirm that Dr. Butcher Brophey did indeed receive a post-game phone call from the team’s Executive headquartered in Oahu. He was told that he is being considered for team tenure, mostly as a result of the sandpaper he added to his game against the Blades. For a match where contact is supposed to result in a penalty, this one was an anomaly. The Butcher battered the Blades at will with nary a humiliating visit to the sin bin to show for his actions. He played like the Butcher we know and love, and he should be congratulated for the covertness of his dastardly deeds.
And finally, just to prove there was a full moon last night, it must be reported that there was more than one board side sighting of She Who Must Be Obeyed (SWMBO) during the tussle between the Strawbs and their arch rivals. This is but the second time in 15 years that SWMBO has been seen in attendance at any her husband’s games. Normally, she spends quiet evenings at home, in her pink puffy slippers and matching Chenille nightgown, sucking on bonbons while reading Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary or other such sentimental tripe. It all seemed a mystery until it was pointed to her current husband, the handsome self-effacing Ice Marshall, that their son, Buzz Charm, was playing at the same time on the ice surface opposite and that SWMBO was simply trying to get the Ice Marshall to provide her with the $45 needed to get Buzz an after game snack worthy of his tastes, inclinations and desires.
Except for the wasted $45, it was a superb outing. The team’s hardiest revelers gathered later at a local imbibery to publicly acknowledge the Vice’s breaking out of his 51 year old hockey slump and to continue its glorious marination in all things hockey related.
1 Blue, 1 Keiths, 1 Canadian, 1 pale liquid resembling beer, 1 Coors Light, 1 banana daiquiri and 6 Patron Tequilas quaffed from a discarded red stiletto pump were consumed.
February 4, 2008
Strawberries 7 Blades of Steel 2
Sometimes, great performances proceed from unexpected quarters. Sometimes those quarters have been around for so long, they get taken for granted, buffed by familiarity to a soft hue of comfortable beige... Such a “sometimes” manifested itself in last night’s game against a determined but ultimately outgunned Blades of Steel squad.
After finally succeeding in escaping the claws of his inner tortoise, “sometimes” landed with a bang for the team’s spiritual leader in minor vice, the sybaritic Rob The Torch, also know as The Vice Marshall, Red Greenfield, Greenie and The Dictator By The Lake. For the second time in 3 games, The Vice potted a magnificent hat trick…6 goals in total, each entering the opponents’ net at speeds almost exceeding 5 miles per hour. He scored on a backhand low, a backhand high, a forehand low, a forehand high; on a deke with a flourish and through a scramble in a skirmish. It was a veritable smorgasbord of scoring techniques which he has been honing since rock first turned to dirt. As the little Red Hen used to say in his favourite piece of English literature “Hard work pays off”.
As the Strawbs marinated in the afterglow of the Vice’s unexpected yet highly welcomed performance, another “sometimes” almost came to fruition before crash landing on the unfortunate rocks of reality. Fresh from an invigorating week-long retox session somewhere in coastal Mexico, Magboy spent most of the game wreaking havoc on the Blades. He skated like a flatulent wind on speed, causing turnovers, scoring opportunities and the ejaculation of vituperative epithets from the mouths of his dazzled opponents. He notched 2 goals on the evening, each of which could have gone head to head in a beauty contest with any of those perpetrated by The Torch. When asked at game’s end to what he attributed his flashes of hockey brilliance, he was quick to point out the salutory effects of drinking Tequila out the dancing shoes of the senoritas he routinely encountered on his post sundown Tom Cat prowls.
Now an alert reader will have noticed that the “crash landing” portion of the description above has yet to be accounted for. That is the way it will stay. Suffice it to say that, when one is bragging about one’s prowess, it is best to do so outside the earshot of anyone waiting impatiently for a proposal in marriage.
There are only 2 more notes to make on the evening. This writer would like to confirm that Dr. Butcher Brophey did indeed receive a post-game phone call from the team’s Executive headquartered in Oahu. He was told that he is being considered for team tenure, mostly as a result of the sandpaper he added to his game against the Blades. For a match where contact is supposed to result in a penalty, this one was an anomaly. The Butcher battered the Blades at will with nary a humiliating visit to the sin bin to show for his actions. He played like the Butcher we know and love, and he should be congratulated for the covertness of his dastardly deeds.
And finally, just to prove there was a full moon last night, it must be reported that there was more than one board side sighting of She Who Must Be Obeyed (SWMBO) during the tussle between the Strawbs and their arch rivals. This is but the second time in 15 years that SWMBO has been seen in attendance at any her husband’s games. Normally, she spends quiet evenings at home, in her pink puffy slippers and matching Chenille nightgown, sucking on bonbons while reading Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary or other such sentimental tripe. It all seemed a mystery until it was pointed to her current husband, the handsome self-effacing Ice Marshall, that their son, Buzz Charm, was playing at the same time on the ice surface opposite and that SWMBO was simply trying to get the Ice Marshall to provide her with the $45 needed to get Buzz an after game snack worthy of his tastes, inclinations and desires.
Except for the wasted $45, it was a superb outing. The team’s hardiest revelers gathered later at a local imbibery to publicly acknowledge the Vice’s breaking out of his 51 year old hockey slump and to continue its glorious marination in all things hockey related.
1 Blue, 1 Keiths, 1 Canadian, 1 pale liquid resembling beer, 1 Coors Light, 1 banana daiquiri and 6 Patron Tequilas quaffed from a discarded red stiletto pump were consumed.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
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
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
Monday, January 28, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, January 21, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
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.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
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.
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