Caps 7 St. Augustine Lions 0

On February 9th, 797 AD, at approximately nine minutes before eleven, King Sigmund IV of Denmark, known to his subjects as The Valiant, to his enemies as the elvish marked, abortive, rooting hog, and to his mother as Lil' Siggy, took a break from his Tuesday morning ritual of frozen troll head bowling, and had an idea; a great idea. Unfortunately while musing on this cerebral bolt from the blue he accidentally wandered into the firing line of his good friend Eric The Flatulent and was instantaneously blasted off his feet by the mighty anal tintinnabulations that gushed forth from this pestilent rear end with all the might and violence of Krakatoa on steroids. The gaseous tsunami launched him across several bowling lanes, finally depositing him on top of a brutally cold and rigid stack of recently harvested troll heads. When King Sigmund regained consciousness half an hour later the idea, alas, was gone. However he did wake up with another idea, and while it certainly lacked the scope and majesty of the one he'd lost it had the advantage of being completely foolproof. "Why not re-invade the peace loving, anti-war, weaponless and rich monks of the isle of Islay? I always beat them," the king thought to himself. And so at first light on the next day off went Sigmund and his merciless horde of war mongering pillagers to kick some monk ass. And so it was last Saturday morning when Caps once again took on and destroyed the St. Augustine Lions in a match that inadvertently paid homage to a Danish king of yore.
No matter the opposition, it is no mean accomplishment to score seven times in a game and Caps did it in style. Wilson, who is scoring like Casanova on Viagra, bagged a hat-trick; Shirley had a couple and Zeits and Meyer rounded out the goals. Howell assisted on all of them and did so with such ruthless elegance and efficiency that if this game was assisted suicide he would be Jack Kevorkian. Even Coghlan was less awful than usual though there needs to be a law banning him from ever removing his shirt at the end of a match. One could get snow blindness and perpetual nausea from looking at his pasty, so white it's blue, Austin Powers chest hair inspired body. It is not good; at all. What if children saw it?
The rest of the Caps team was a mix of the sublime and the ridiculous. Zub's mastery of Mike Reed was sublime; the amount of Corona seeping out of his pores, ridiculous. Hubble's second half performance in goal was sublime; his tolerance for dealing with drunk gob shites on a Friday night, ridiculous. DeMartini's inability to hit the target was tragically sublime; her claims of having difficulty scoring off the field, ridiculous. And last, but by no means least there was Meyers, whose back injury, caused by that always dangerous maneuver, bending over, was sublimely ridiculous.
And so Caps keep marching on, looking every inch the defending seven-a-side summer league champions. Can the Orange Crush be stopped? Only time will tell, but it cannot augur well for all future opponents that fun loving merciless dictator Robert Mugabe's favorite soccer team, the perennial champions of the Zimbabwean league, are also called Caps United! And we all know how in to losing Mr. Mugabe is.