I just realized a sad fact: I had to update my blog today, a chore which ranks up there with cleaning out my house’s toilet. It is depressing, because I usually come up with a great idea, one that at least one million people would read over and over again just to read it, and then what comes out is usually unfit to come out of a horse’s butt.
But that does not matter, because today I came back from the mountains. Ahhh, the beauty of the Swiss Alps. Sadly, me and my family went to Heron Lake in northern New Mexico, which does not quite rank as high on the Beautiness Scale. Still, it was very special and beautiful, especially the massive plume of smoke which arose beautifully from a faraway hill because of a forest fire. And an ugly, creepy old man who attempted to hit on my grandmother. And our cabin, which is designed to look like a tasteless Mexican food restaurant on the inside. Need I say more?
In some ways I suppose you could say that the trip was a bust. I say that because nobody caught any fish. They would have been lucky to catch a large amount of moss. This is because my family has no luck or skill. Well, I had skill, but I didn’t catch any fish. In fact, I usually wind up snagging my line (the string on the end of the pole, you know) on rocks and losing my hook and bait and everything on the line at least five or six times, which allows me to lie, saying, “Oh my gosh, that fish took everything on my line!“, even though no idiot would ever believe such an obvious fish tale. This time, that only happened once.
However, just because we didn’t catch any fish doesn’t mean the entire trip was a bust. Nay, there are other ways to show success on a fishing trip. For adults, success is determined by the total amount of beers drank divided by total amount of times in which you left the cabin to go fishing multiplied by number of times you were able to successfully avoid a DWI from a park ranger, or, in math terms:
b / f x eeeek
For teenagers, a successful outing is determined by how terrible you were able to make the trip for your parents, in the hopes that they will never force you on a fishing trip ever again for as long as you live. In all ways, this trip was a bust. In fact, the only good thing about the trip was that it was a great deal of fun, and I got to drive my mother’s pickup truck, and I got to fantasize about a girl calling me (None were stupid enough. Not this time, anyway.)
However, there were some truly unique highlights, ones which I hope I will never have to live through on a fishing trip again. For example: There was an incredibly old man who attempted to hit on my grandmother. This was a man with eyes and mouth sunken deep into the recesses of his face, with wrinkles and blemishes and God knows what other problems. He came up to us, slapped his hand down on the tailgate of our truck, and just started talking. He then walked off, while we giggled and laughed (I did not giggle, I am not female) and my grandmother discussed with us the parameters of truly how much of a pervert this man was. Then, we watch him as he gets into his pontoon boat, about a hundred yards or so away. Then, we watch with horror as this man goes out onto the lake, and starts coming back to shore about 30 feet away from our truck. I, for my wonderful memory, cannot remember us ever packing up and driving off more quickly then we did that day.
Once we got back to the cabin, we cleaned off the wet fishing bait and took our fishing poles apart. I considered getting a knife, but we finally decided not to, because he was just a perverted old man. We went home the next day, stopping at Gardunio’s in Albuquerque, and then went home. It was a magical outing.
One which I hope I’ll never have again.