Howe Wood Be Prowed

Guess who’s back…back again.

Yes pole smokers, after a long hideous of three days, I have made my triumphant return with a fist full of furry (or at least a double cheeeseee burger from Pete’s drive in). This premature encore performance was ultimately the third this week, but this time was brought forth by the unexpected actions of yours truly last evening. Contrary to popular belief, (even though its Zimm’s life story) no one appreciates a chisel, so to be completely honest, I give all credit for this post to the Big Show. This brings his accomplishments for November 3, 2009 to a grand total of two. The other being waking up. Thanks buddy.

After a long night of beer drinking, bitch slapping and looking up old Wendel Clark and “The Rock” videos on youtube with “Grant” Buchanan, I felt the rage within my hairy and plump figure begin to reach a newfound height. Following the standard Sunday alcohol induced sleep, I awake with a strange (yet empowering) chip on my shoulder. To show my toast who is boss, I burn it. To disgrace the toilet, I piss on it. You know, one of those mornings where you feel like the 51st Legend of Chuck Norris is you. And to top things off, I had two classes at MRU (Mount Royal) that afternoon. Now, if you don’t know, MRU is known for three things, the third being the only problem:

1) Canada’s sexiest female student population as voted on by Maxim magazine

2) Kolby Kniel, because who else is the face of MRU golf?

3) Douchebags

We all know who they are. The “original” guys. The guys who wear long sleeve shirts under short sleeve shirts under long sleeve shirts – all V-necks. The guys who have fohawks yet long hair at the same time. The guys who are trying hard not to try hard. The guys who have a postmen’s carry bag slung diagonally across their chest (WHERE’S THE FUCKING MAIL!!!). The guys who tan. The guys who iron sweaters. The guys who pop collars. The guys who’s Gucci shoes, Louis Vuitton buckles, True Religion jeans, Sean John button ups and Prada shades are only over shadowed by their senseless overinflated ego and fear or mediocrity. You know, those guys. So as you can tell, walking the hallways in a place where 9 of every 10 dudes I would love to pull a glock on did not help my anger issues. Here is where Mr. Howe comes into play.

As is the tradition on Monday nights, I take off for an 8:30 game of ball hockey at MRU. I know what you are all thinking, ball hockey…sweet. No. This isn’t the ball hockey you all have come to know and love in Grande Prairie. This is MRU recreational ball hockey league with obstruction penalties, ZERO contact and lack luster play. Needless to say not very serious or competitive, just a way to pass a Monday evening. With all due respect to the other teams, we’re fucking awesome. 10-0 with a goal differential of +98, surprising from 10 golfers. So you now understand the competition we’re up against every week, but this was our toughest opponent yet. So it began. Being Luke, I take a holding penalty :29 into my first shift, (why run when you can latch on?) which puts my team down a safety after two minutes. Made of pure heart and guts, as golfers are, we tie it up at two just before the end of the second. 3rd Period. Streaking down the wing…at a slight jog, I paused and waited for the screen to set in front. I undress a 13 year old Asian (cuz thats what I meant guys…real mature), leaving his jock up in the rafters of the United Center with Pat Roy’s after game 3. I proceed to float that muffin top ched from the top of the circle (again…this takes me back to my younger days in Beaverlodge scoring 30 goals a season…when I was the same size then as I am now). 3-2. Next shift, a glorious cross seam pass via yours truly that would have made Adam Oats turn in his wheel chair…empty net. 4-2.

The seconds tick down to :29, and I yell for a change as our current defense looks like a Michelin man stuffed with a warm creamy filling. I stand on the red line as a teammate eats the clock in the offensive corner. As time expires, the two battling in the corner come to shoves, nothing major. They are quickly separated. Unfulfilled with his loss, the  5′5″ 180 lb tit takes a swing at my buddy, who drops on contact. Reminiscing of the Wendel Clark videos from the night prior, I yardsale my gloves and stick across the court. This was the full release of the past day and a half. Ding Ding. 5′11″ 220. I tear the birdcage off the tit, push him against the wall and land an uppercut and right hook. Game over. I kinda felt bad making a midget bleed his own blood when it was all said and done, but its been done before and will be done again I’m sure. There it was. The Gordie Howe hat trick in a 30 min recreational ball hockey game, the first of my career on any surface. I could not contain my excitement, and out came the patent pending Phil Mickelson grin from ear to ear. Turns out my buddy just got poked in the eye, lost his contact and fell down looking for it. Fighting in this league is automatic termination, costs my team a player, gets written up by MRU Recreation, reviewed by the Athletic Director and brought to the attention of the Dean. None the less, Howe wood be prowed.