fishin usa

Once upon a few weeks ago, Pete and I rustled up the fellers for to reassert our Ameri-manliness. And redundantly, to drink beer outside. But how might we truly git r dun in a place like Brooklyn, a frenchy metrosexual's eden? Friggin fishin, der.

So we rented some boats and other fishin fixins, and we were off to encounter god knew what.


Crusty Eric at the prow, living le dream.

We also wanted to bring home the fish bacon, so we made an earnest effort to catcha the fish. We knew this was sure to lead to manly adventuring, and then it did, as predicted. We braved the waves, the soggy sangwiches, and the green squid bits they give you for fish-coaxin. We were awesome.

But then we started catching all this creepy crap like skates and flounderish things, and our wills were tested further.

As the day's end was growing nigh, it began to sprinkle, and there suddenly came from the briny deep a tug upon my rented line. Then ensued a battle betwixt man and fishbeast for what seemed like minutes, and was, until finally I pulled this sucker out the ocean:


Uh, sea robin? Eww.

That thing was so spooky and scratchy-looking. At any goddamn rate, we were all a little queasy, and I was pretty drunk, and it was starting to actually rain, so we went home.