sympathy fish

The wind laughed through the grass and the sun convulsed as I repeatedly punched it in the back of it's stupid yellow head. The tall weeds giving me total privacy from the lesbian couple camped in the small dirt parking lot. Little golden eyes looked on in terror from the surface muck but said nothing. I leaned back and caught my breath before walking to the truck and inflating my pontoon boat.

Two hours prior I had been staring into the inky darkness of my bedroom ceiling when I had a thought: I could just go now... I blinked and felt what little potential there had been for sleep recede like a bastard wave. I got up and packed the truck.

I had planned to fish the afternoon/evening, but instead found my self standing in line at a gas station convenience store at 4:35AM listening to the weary-eyed clerk explain to the prostitute in front of me that they had no public restrooms, and she would have to wash the semen stains out of her shirt somewhere else.

I asked her if she wanted to go fishing. She said she didn't know what that meant but it would cost fifty dollars. I didn't have fifty dollars so I bought my gallon of water and left.

The morning bite should have been better. It would have been better, I am sure, if I weren't such a stubborn prick.

"Look that that frog, you little sonsabitches!" I screamed. "You should want to eat that. You should need to eat that. Look how awesomely it walks weedlessly around on the muck. What's wrong with you little slimy bastards?" They didn't seem to care and for a brief moment I thought about tying on a beadhead bugger, but my ego threw up a little in my mouth and I swallowed it back with a sip of turkey.

The morning took pitty on my pathetic face and gave me one sympathy fish which reluctantly slurped a small foam popper between the shadows and looked at me with hatred while I pushed the steel out of his lip.

The wind shit-talked through the tall trees and the sun glowed unconscious in a small clearing behind the tall weeds. I rowed back to the truck in shame.

I met an old man with a 4wt in the parking lot and lied to his face with a smile and gave him a foam popper.

-Alex who still hasn't learned his lesson.

Our state is on fire... can we come fish yours?

Everything, it seems, is burning in Arizona.

In northern AZ strong winds push the Wallow fire as it chews through the forests and prairies of the White Mountains. Belching smoke and ash and defecating destruction, it has consuming over 300,000 acres so far making it the second largest fire in AZ history. As of four hours ago it was 0% contained.

Out east the Horseshoe Two fire burns around Silver Peak. 106,000 acres. 50% contained.

To the southeast crews are cleaning up the last bits of the Arlene fire. 10,000 acres. 70% contained.

Down south the Murphy Fire wanders around the hills and rough peaks just east of Arivaca Lake, a sneaky bastard. 50,000 acres. 15% contained.

Well, what's a fat guy to do? Go fishing, of course.

Bullshit But Funny

Kyle- I know Aaron is going to try to do this to me someday

In Soviet Russia Blob Launches You!

Ha ha... Funny

How About Some Humpday Funnies

Searching through www.boner.com I cam across some super funny pictures that I would like to share with you all


Killer Vodka
No matter where I work you will never have this problem.
Mouse Necrophilia, or this problem.If the mice were not enough, how about a cat 3 some.

This guy is the first honest D&D freak I ever met

He said Colorado, but we have our doubts (a drawn-while-drunk post)

Kyle Googles a lot. Thats what he does. A few weeks ago Aaron and I stumbled upon Mr. Deneen searching for some place called Peter Island. He said he wanted to "fish" there, but Aaron and I had our doubts.

I dropped him off at the airport this morning and did not have to forethought to take a peak at his itinerary. I guess we will never know.

(Artist rendering of Peter Island by Aaron Dennett)

research...

The real reason we have a fish tank...

-Alex who is currently testing a super secret series of bass annihilation.

cattle tank

The deer ran, looking back towards the intruders wandering down the dirt road toward the small piddle of standing water that could not be found in any fishing book, on any blog, or even the Arizona Game and Fish website.

In the mid-summer fishing doldrums when the sun slaps you around and the bass down south refuse to look at anything popping around on the top sometimes you just have to take desperate measures and try not to step in cow shit or twist your ankle on the rough, dry used-to-be muddy banks of the place apparently known as Fagan Tank. I don't know how to feel about it. Probably a good place to dump a body, though.

lunker.

our savior!

'nuff said.

(starring Aaron's ass)

When the hatchery man cometh.

Nothing will ruin a good day of lazy-nothing-doing fishing like the damn hatchery truck.

I wanted to kick around the lake. I wanted to drink schnapps out of my plastic flask in the cool breeze and maybe catch a fish or two. No pressure. No cares. No three thousand stupid confused fresh-out-of-elementary-school stockers roaming around by the boat ramp.

The people on the shore, the people on the dock, the people parking cars, and the people thinking about leaving are now running balls-out towards the water, grabbing poles out of children's hands and pushing them crying to the ground as powerbait is slobbed onto treble hooks and bobbers are cast into the swimming mob around my feet.

As I start to back towards the shore the fish bounce into my legs, swimming in all directions and I have to try not to step on the little bastards as the casting and yelling from the nearby dock continues as the truck shakes out the last few stragglers and rumbles off to places unknown.

I want no part of this. I want to get back in the pontoon and row away. I want to pack everything up and drive back to the cabin and drink something strong followed by something stronger. But as I walk to my pontoon something goes wrong. Instead of packing up or pushing off I grab my dry rod.

What going on here? 

I am walking down to the water and pulling line through my guides.

No, we are not doing this.

I am wading out into the throbbing horde, dodging castmasters and skewered worms like rabid flying demons, cutting the lines as they flew to the angry screams and shouts of the bait-chuckers.

Whats happening to me?

I drown the caddis on the end of my leader and throw out about a rods length worth of line, let it sink into the 10-inch-frenzy and give it a twitch and watch it get eaten. I yank the infant out of the water and toss him back. Again and again, I stand knee-deep in some kind of trance while molesting the recently plated population. Dumb confused fish after dumb confused fish I trick into eating my bug to the scowls and under-breathed comments from the peanut gallery planted on the dock. This is wrong, and I know it.

I just wanted to be lazy. I just wanted to have a drink and sunburn myself in a laid back afternoon. But I also wanted to fish, and now I felt dirty and ashamed. But why? Was this not fishing? Was catching fish not the goal? Is it more prestigious to catch this fish tomorrow? Next week? When I don't know where the damn thing went and I have to kick all over the lake looking for his slimy little butt? Is this too easy? Is it because there is something inside my fly fisherman's mind that thinks this process should be hard? Maybe. But there I was, in the middle of it all. I guess at the end of the day a fisherman is a fisherman and just wants to catch fish.

-Alex who drank that night.

As if you weren't enough of a jerk already...

It's bad enough watching your friend beat the local piscatorial population like a red headed stepchild while you are picking weeds from your hook and tying the next crap thing on your tippet, but now when you splash your way back to the bank you know he will bring some brand of proof of how much of your ass he actually kicked.

It is probably bullshit, as most likely any number you have ever come up with when asked, but there is just something about seeing the lie as an actual number that might be just enough to push you over the edge toward uncontrolled strangulation.

I think I might just mount a ten-foot long ticker above my pontoon to make sure that everyone within an eighth of a mile knows how much of a douche I am.



-Alex who counts fish and lies about it in the traditional way.

This is what happens, Larry!

When you go three weeks without fishing, sometimes things can get a little stupid.

-Alex "Kitchen-Hero" Landeen