I’ll
get to the A-Team in a minute, but first I need to fill you in on what’s
happened to me. I am writing to you from my hospital bed at Abbott Northwestern
while receiving hyperbaric oxygen therapy due to assfixiation last Thursday while
fishing on Lake Roosevelt. For all I know this could be the last blog post I
ever write. I’m in very poor to critical condition due to lack of breathable
air for the three hours that we fished. Let me fill you in on how I got here.
As
you all know, the guy that fishes with me is really only good for three things;
he pays my dues; he brings good snacks; and over the years he has become a good
net boy. Those are his redeeming factors. The strikes against him are; he uses
kiddy rods and reels; he drinks beer I wouldn’t serve the dead; he can’t tell
the difference between a weed and a fish; he gloats for months when he happens
to catch a keeper; he wears a kilt; his ass is deadly. It’s the ass part I’m
going to focus in on. Not because it’s cute, but because it’s deadly. I mean
his ass would have stopped Hitler’s army in its tracks if it would have been
alive back then. I looked up the Native American meaning of his last name, and
it turns out to be “Seeks His Inner Thoughts” or SHIT for short; or more
appropriately, shits in shorts. I’m not kidding when I say I was standing up
wind while it was blowing 20 mph on Thursday, and I could still smell the death
that came out of his ass. This net boy of mine is an ozone depleting, global
warming contributing, natural gas manufacturing, butt plug needing, underwear
track leaving, mouth coating*, dinosaur killing**, vulture calling***, fish
killing**** poor excuse for a human being. I’m sure it’s no coincidence, that
during the short time he stayed at the landing after we were done fishing,
there were no mosquitoes to be found. After he left, we were almost carried
away by them. Back in the day when I actually worked, I used to play and work
in bars when smoking was allowed. As soon as I got home, I had to put my smoke
laden clothes in the laundry right away. When I got home on Thursday, I had to
burn my clothes in the firepit; I didn’t have to use kindling or anything,
because they went up like they were soaked in gas when the match got within
five of them. Almost burned off all my hair when they exploded into flames. Not
only that, I had to bathe under a cold-water faucet outside before coming into
the house, and believe me when I say this, it was really hard trying to get
under that faucet. After my dog realized it was me and not some god-awful thing
she had never smelled before, I was allowed back into the house. It was during
the middle of the night that I woke up gasping for air, so I called 911. The
very first person to arrive on the scene was my son, because he’s a first
responder and he lives just around the corner. I could tell by the horrified
look on his face that I was in bad shape. The ambulance arrived shortly
thereafter, and after a quick evaluation, they called in the life support
helicopter. I had a crew of five people working to keep me alive as I was
transported by air to the trauma center here at Abbott. Thanks to the quick
actions of the trauma team, I was stabilized enough to be transferred to
intensive care, which is where I remain. If I’m at Woman tomorrow, I’ll be
wearing a mask (sorry I don’t have enough to go around). If I’m not there, you’ll
know I didn’t make it. Thanks for your prayers.
As
far as the A-Team goes, they aren’t very good fishermen after all. They really
sucked on Roosevelt, just like the rest of us. Which calls into question the
fish they have measured on the previous four lakes. Notice I didn’t say “caught”
on the previous four lakes, because it simply can’t be verified, they actually
caught them. It’s very telling that when daddy’s boat and Brett aren’t there, they
end up getting beat by the likes of me and shits in shorts net boy. How does
that happen? It might have something to do with the lake that night, because Paul
& Simon won with only 22 points. Hell, shits in shorts net boy and I came
in second with only 13! But among that 13, was the biggest fish of the night
(****) as shits in shorts net boy managed to net my 30-inch pike. Too bad for
the A-Team that their worst night of the year came on a rain out make up, because
by new rule made at the landing and voted in almost unanimously states, we
cannot throw out the points scored on a make up night. Sorry fellas; that
really sucks.
Woman
is tomorrow night, and the pike restriction is even tighter than the rest of
the state. (Steve & Brandon pay close attention) All Pike between 24 &
36 inches must be released, but since the state reg is also in place, that
means all pike between 22 & 36 inches must be released. Sets up an
interesting scenario that a 20 to 21 inch pike may be the biggest fish of the
night. That’s it. If I get out of this chamber that’s keeping me alive right now,
I’ll see you on Woman tomorrow night. We fish from 6-9:00.
For
updated standings, click HERE.
For
event detail, click HERE.
*Do
not stand close to the source with mouth open unless you want to also taste a
fart while gasping for air. This also causes another unpleasant side effect; while
gasping for a breath, air is forced into your stomach causing you to belch a
lot. Since it was fart air you sucked in, your belches now smell like shit
right under your nose. People have gone insane because of this side effect, so
by all means, stay away from the source.
**This
has yet to be tested since the dinosaurs are currently extinct.
***At
one-point vultures circled our boat looking for the source of death they
smelled in the air.
****We
actually didn’t catch the 30-inch pike; it floated to the surface belly up like
it would have after throwing a stick of dynamite into the water.
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