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knob creek. err pond.

by Fishpaw | Updated: 07.11.2011 |

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a short meditation from the zen garden.

Knob Creek, err pond

Wife and kiddos out of town since Sunday for their supposed to be spring, but seems more like winter, break. The bachelor plan was to get some work done around the house drink and fish and meet up with them Friday.

Beer supply exhausted – reinforcements now secured. Bourbon flowing as are the creeks - all crazy swollen, cold and brown.

Alas, no Olives or Hendricksons or...To the County Pond! Chucking hairy hooks of weighted wickedness to stocked Rainbows and Browns. Oh the horror. Rainbow after rainbow impaling themselves on a fly tied with my daughter’s naturally curly hair.

What, you think you can stop me gale force wind? HA! And Fuck you rain! Wait.

Then all 17, dare I be so bold, 18 inches of a knarly breeder Brown bends the glass. Crashing down onto the muddy bank I manage not to break the rod, nor spill the wine.

And I touched the rubber trout.

 

 

Fishpaw is a drunken, babbling brook of beat metaphors and aphorisms.  We look forward to his delusional and lucid moments as he captures them on imaginary paper.