Abbrev. and Fishing (continued)

Naturally, the transition from "boy who had never caught a fish" to "boy who would now be responsible for scaling, gutting and filetting" was an interesting one to watch. I will say that, without the immediate help of Rack, we would have been stuck with several dead fish attached to several fishing poles (you know, because taking them off would be icky). I could see us catching fish, getting super excited and then being perplexed and disgusted at the idea of removing them from the line, subsequently, requiring us to grab a new pole. Then I can picture us surrounded by poles with the little guys still attached and having to recruit a neighbor to help. Or resort to scizzors so as not to have to actually remove hooks. Gross.

 

Anyway, it all worked out for the best. TT is now skilled in hook removal, gutting, scaling and filletting. Which makes me happy because it means that I can focus on the task at hand. Drinking. Duh. He is actually really quite adorable when doing all those manly things that I wouldn't dare take on. And I think those manly things make him feel...well...like he needs to pound on his chest and grunt a lot. He doesn't do that, thankfully, but you see where I am going with this.

 

This past weekend, Fish Head and Mr. Fish Head joined us for some drinking (read: fishing). We spent a lot of time fishing, with the exception of Mr. FH who basically sat there and drank beers, every hour or so, casting his pole out one time and then announcing that he is the worst fisherman ever and expressing concern about ever being stranded on a deserted island.  (Ironic, however, that his name is Mr. Fish Head.) I will say, though, despite his unwillingness to attempt to help us catch dinner, he participated fully in the rounds of drinking games we played later.  He wore the Asshole hat (which consisted, in the absence of my stuffed monkey draped over a ridiculous straw hat, of a red trucker hat which had been thoroughly wrapped in toilet paper) and proceded to get ridiculously hammered and fight with me about which one of us was actually Jesus. (His argument being that he has long hair. As do I. And mine is longer. My argument being that I share a birthday with Jesus. AND I have long hair.) This was not so much an argument as much as it was a discussion that ended with Mr. FH, in a defeated, drunken epiphany admitting "Maaaaaan...you are Jesus." Hilarious.

 

I am starting to think that I might have to try and convince my step-dad to let me live there for free, quit my job, and start work at the little redneck grocery down the street. TT says that he would be okay with this as long as I keep all of my teeth.

Deal.