'Cause Murph "hates this crap"...

He gets to read more tales of wildlife adventure.   I ran into Murph on the ramp at Andrews.  He was flying his ginormous penis envy machine (C-9) whilst I, humble servant of the masses, was pushing my environmentally conscious green mini-commuter of the people(C-12).  Prop dudes get no respect at Andrews, I can tell you that for sure.  Just try to get a fuel truck with a three star screaming at you about being late and watch what happens when an empty Air Force lear jet taxi's out ahead of you in line.  Was great to run into Murph, He's a bro from way back.  Although I have legitimate claim to raising him from a pup on Okinawa, ultimately, being a FOM (Friend of Murph) has been worth much much more over the years. I hope you're not still mad about that one time at band camp when we filled your van with shredded paper. Thanks Murph, the rest of this post is for you.

  On to wildlife stories.  The pond has occupied some space recently.  Things have taken a turn for the worse for denizens of the pond.  Some assbag decided this pond (read: MY EFFING POND) was the proper receptacle for a few unwanted snapping turtles.  So, as is their wont, ninny liberal leaf eaters, unwilling INCAPABLE of responding appropriately to the presence of unwanted predators, have left the problem for me to deal with.   What's the problem with a few turtles you ask? Well, I'll oblige, snapping turtles are fish killers that WILL RUIN A FISH POND.  They will move in and kill everything they can get a jaw around.  I was displeased.  So, what do you think is going to happen? You're damn right, soup is going to happen.
Here is the smaller of the two offending Chelydra serpentina. 
  Trying to act all badass and Gamera-like.

He looks bigger in the pic than he really is.  But that gulf club sized head with jaws to match is not an exaggeration.  He is a mean little prick to be sure.  Some say turtles cannot jump, this is technically correct, however this PREHISTORIC F%*K LUNGED UP OUT OF THE DAMN COOLER!!11!.  Lunge, jump, whatever.  He's going to be soup, or some type of Emeril Lagasse dish, spicy, garlicy, and washed down with many a cold one.  He currently resides in the cooler of woe, next to the tackle box of woe.  A "day in the box" has served to take most of the starch out of his bad attitude.  A number 10 stainless steel hook in your gullet probably does not incite revolutionary ideas either.  His older brother yet awaits, eying us evily, obviously intent on some sort of turtley vengence.  And he's a BIG SOB.  At least twice as big.  I've missed him once already with the usual rigs.  Inspired by Capt Quint, I'm gigging up special for him tonight.


Aye Mr. Cooper, city hands...

Various chicken parts have gone untouched.  This bastard of the deep insists on fresh victims. 

A night naval battle looms me hearties.

Semper Fidelis.

Should I not return, tell my Wife I love her, and the TV remote is by the shitter.