Friday, October 08, 2004
Might as well fish
As my buddy, Ethan, revved the boat engine the other day, all it kicked up was a wall of Pearl River mud and the boat stayed right where it was. We were stuck but, after taking inventory, and realizing we had beer, smokes, tunes and bait, Ethan cast his line and said, "Well, might as well fish." And fish we did, while stuck in the shallows of the Pearl River, near the Mississippi border, while a line of thunderstorms got closer and closer. For two hours we drank, smoked and (everyone but me) caught quite a few fish until a kindhearted redneck with a cigarette and torn shirt that read "Beer, helping ugly people have sex since 1862" threw us a rope and pulled us out.
I have now been fishing six or seven times down here and caught exactly one fish (it was too small to keep) but I understand, now more than ever, that fishing has very little to do with fish.
Later that night I walked into my friend's house and was greeted with this scene: loud drunk people in a heated discussion and a .357 Magnum sitting right next to the booze. Fortunately the gun was unloaded.
I walked into the kitchen to see Lying Bobby, a racist cable guy from Mississippi, holding court in the kitchen telling his (mostly false) tales of adventure and representing his home state well. Within five minutes of meeting him, Bobby had already complained about how the "Africans" had figured out how to disarm anti-theft devices and steal cars and told this story in his thick drawl (parentheses mine):
"I was in the Army Rangers and my body is breaking down from all the abuse they gave us (alcoholism and a pack a day probably don't help). They would make us run 20, 30 miles a day in the heat with a 150 pound pack (not possible) and a 23-pound M16 (an M16 weighs less than 7.5 pounds fully loaded). But, hey, that's the kind of training you need to go and fight these sand-niggers."
I have now been fishing six or seven times down here and caught exactly one fish (it was too small to keep) but I understand, now more than ever, that fishing has very little to do with fish.
Later that night I walked into my friend's house and was greeted with this scene: loud drunk people in a heated discussion and a .357 Magnum sitting right next to the booze. Fortunately the gun was unloaded.
I walked into the kitchen to see Lying Bobby, a racist cable guy from Mississippi, holding court in the kitchen telling his (mostly false) tales of adventure and representing his home state well. Within five minutes of meeting him, Bobby had already complained about how the "Africans" had figured out how to disarm anti-theft devices and steal cars and told this story in his thick drawl (parentheses mine):
"I was in the Army Rangers and my body is breaking down from all the abuse they gave us (alcoholism and a pack a day probably don't help). They would make us run 20, 30 miles a day in the heat with a 150 pound pack (not possible) and a 23-pound M16 (an M16 weighs less than 7.5 pounds fully loaded). But, hey, that's the kind of training you need to go and fight these sand-niggers."
