...yeah, a dumb fish wiggled on the line and smacked over my can of the cool, sweet, nectar. The little shit. He couldn't even get the whole lure into his cake-hole. Complaints from a retired guy falling on deaf ears, I know, but the little shits should have some respect for a 3 war vet. A little background...the cuz and I, recently reunited family-wise, who share a fondness of fast machines, who's Harley Pic I can't find at the moment would agree. I should have picked the hook and threw this little shit onto the pavement.
All I have to say is... Eagle Claw results brother. Bass flow to the patient however...
Yeah baby... how about another...
Yeah, that's another one...want some more?...
Just so's you're sure that I'm a professional...
Yeah, I know a few things about a few things. Fishing is one of them.
update 1!!11
Fishing report today - brisk. Two largemouths and a bluegill in about fifteen minutes. I barley had time to swill down a couple of ice-cold stupids, the action was that fast paced. Though, no further catches of Walter (pictured above, an inside baseball reference to On Golden Pond, remarkable only for the fishing scenes, Henry's dry humor and the last time Jane Fonda was worth looking at in anything other than a gas chamber). I've caught him twice now and I think he's in the deep hole at the west end of the pond re-evaluating his menu choices. It's for sure his Bassy lips need a rest. The younger bass continue to hit the Rapalas like Bikers at a highschool cheerleader meet. The tadpoles that have hatched three weeks ago have apparently grown froggy-legs and are venturing out to deeper water only to meet an evolutionary pre-ordained end. No less than two spots at any time on the surface of a 1/4 acre pond were in a continuous roil of tad-frog ending turbulence. It's a slaughter out there my friends.
Now comes the time wherein I help you, dear reader. Pictured below is the original floating Rapala lure, in standard gold. Ladies who have men in their lives who fish, take note. These simple lures are unchanged over many years because they work. The original floating Rapala will catch more fish than everything else combined in any given tackle-box. They catch fish when nothing else will. The only better bait is live bait. If you need an inexpensive gift idea here it is:
A must have in every fresh water tackle box. In silver and gold. Don't get silly in the store and drawn off by fancy colors and other shiney shit, like deep divers, or that stupid jointed crap. These are all you gals need to know, in this 2in. size and the next one up at about three inches long. You'll be an instant hit for less than 10 bucks. And, google up the Rapala knot and show your dimwit how to tie the thing on right without having to use a swivel clip, which turns big bass off almost immediately in clear water. If he waves you off with the gaff that "I knows how to tie a lure, woman", you can say: "Any knot that grips the eyelet will make it swim sideways, stupid. The company website says so". A light slap on the back of the head for emphasis works well here. Then wear some daisey-duke shorts while you're fishing. You will be a hero, trust me. There, I've struck my blow for freedom today.
In related news, I have recently placed an 8 dollar Rapala, of other design, firmly twelve feet up and three feet out over the water in a tree limb next to the pond. First responder measures were taken, to no avail. Sometime this weekend, a song will sound, and that song will be the song of the 1978 14 inch bar SKIL chainsaw, or the 1973 Husquavarna, whichever I can get to run first, and that song will be loud and brief me hardees, and accompanied by acrid blue smoke. And Giai will weep, that bitch. Then the number 4 Rapala sinker, in original gold, will re-take it's rightfull place in slot number four, second shelf, in the tacklebox of woe.
In other news, my rear end is making noise. It's not the noise that may or may not result in a blue to orange colored flame. I think this is why:
Don't tell me about sawdust. I know about the damn sawdust already. Noise going away does not equal problem solved. This SOB needs to live until I get hired by some entity willing to pay me a sick amount of coin to fly rubber dog-shit into Bagdad. And no crap about 52 miles an hour either, this was in a parking lot. A nursing home parking lot.
