OK, truth is I don't really give a shit about leaving you hanging. I've just been sitting around since January not giving a shit while my loyal readers (both of you) have been hitting the "refresh" button on your browsers waiting for a story about the FHB's latest caper or just a sign of life to reasure you that your days of LMAO and ROTFLMAO (or whatever the hell you learned from your kids this week) aren't over for good. Put the gun back in the drawer because I am back! "Watch Out!" said that bird is right.
I wish I was returning with a great story about falling off an ocean dock while trying to pet jellyfish, getting arrested twice in 24-hours, shooting a 200-lb feral hog (nasty hogs). Unfortunately, I don't got shit. I was on good behavior, hoping to keep my alter ego a secret while pursuing less honey badgerish endeavors. It is kind of like I am Clark Kent (but not as big boned) and I had to put my blue tights away for a while to make my deadlines for that asshole editor at the Daily Planet... except there is no asshole editor 'cause FHB don't work for no man... and I am not faggoty like Clark Kent.
Fret not, bass season is almost upon us and fishing tends to bring out the honey badger in me. I hauled the Diablo Verde (a canoe) from my dad's place in the country to the big city. I live about five minutes from an urban lake (my personal Zion). The fishing has been slow. I need to head deep but motors are prohibited. Not that FHB gives a shit about city ordinances and such --- I will take a motorboat wherever I want (mmm... that came out wrong). Anyway, I just prefer a stealthier approach to the 18-foot outboard with 250 horses pulling her. Men, hear me on this --- size does matter but not when it comes to bass boats. Sell the boat and pay for your kid's college. All you are doing is scaring the fish.
Back to my story... the reason I was telling this story in the first place (squirrel!)... my brother secured the vessel to a canoe rack atop my Tahoe. I use the word "secured" loosely (like my brother's knots). I could have done it all myself but my brother likes to think he is in charge, so most of the time I just placate him. I watched my brother tie these knots for an hour while my dad, the alleged Eagle Scout, stands by as an advisor. It was like watching monkeys fucking a football. The result was not good. Two nylon straps "secured" the canoe to the front of the truck. The left strap had a winch to tighten it but there was no winch to be found for the right strap. My brother compensated for the disparity by tying a mess of random knots. I got about 20 minutes down the road and the canoe was already getting squirrelly. FHB, determined to get the Diablo home and her ass on the water, came up with a makeshift winch using a hair comb. The Diablo Verde made it home much to my husband's dismay. I don't know what he has against having fun?
