The Extra Stabby Fisherman

The last couple of days of the grind before a long-anticipated trip to a tailwater full of big wild trout during the green drake hatch are good for nothing more than slowly wearing down your teeth from chewing through the restraints. Meetings should be avoided until the return (if the bastards are lucky), and the TPS reports might as well be written in Vedic Sanskrit. The gear is piled and the launcher is primed and more flies should probably be tied but, as Howard Beale would say, I’m out of bullshit.

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I’d say you were nothing but a scurvy little spider.

I wish I had a million dollars. Hot dog!

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