My Semi True Story: Touching a Fish and Spazzing Out

We had a good haul today. A really good haul.

Do you call a bunch of fish a haul? Or a herd? Maybe a gaggle? A posse? Is it still considered a school of fish if they are strung up on a rope? Someone, please help. I'd hate to live the rest of my life in ignorance of what you call a bunch of fish.

I may not know what to call them, but I do know where they ended up ...

… getting filleted in the Fish Shack.

The Fish Shack.

Not to be confused with the Love Shack.

Ever.

Grody.

Moving on … the interesting boat conversation today was about my sweatshirt. Specifically what all was on my sweatshirt. Besides the appliqued Purdue in black and gold letters.

Grime. Lots and lots of grime.

The run down on my sweatshirt grime ingredients:

sweat

fish guts

blood (mine. I hooked myself)

minnow juice

Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pie creme

tears (also mine. I hooked myself and it friggin' hurt)

snot (see above)

algae

perch poop

worm juice

butter (not unusual)

sand

I should probably take this opportunity to discuss hooking myself which is not-so-coincidentally my Freak Out of the Day.

Picture it: I was standing up in the front of the boat. A real fishing person would know if the front of the boat was aft or starboard or whatever, but you've got me and I've never been accused of being an expert on anything other than John Hughes movies and Bananarama lyrics.

Anyhoo, I was standing up in the boat, rearing back to cast my minnow into some weedy, shallow water when I felt it. Something cold, wet, slightly sticky, and slightly stinky hit my left ear and top of my shoulder. I tugged my fishing line to yank away whatever had landed on me.

Then I turned to my left and saw … it.

My bait. Was on my ear. And shoulder.

A semi-conscious, mostly dead minnow was on me.

On. Me.

Oh. My. God.

I completely spazzed out in the front of the boat by doing some type of freakazoid dance while screaming "GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME!" as fast and as loudly as I could.

The more I tugged on my line and did the ultimate freakazoid dance, the more the hook embedded itself into my shoulder.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I remembered that I was sporting my Mom jeans from Target.

Ugh. I was born under such a bad sign.

Onto pictures I thought were cool.

See the reflection of my house in the lake?

No, it's not really my house. It is a reflection of somebody's house in the lake though. Hopefully that somebody didn't witness my spazz attack in the boat.

Or my Mom jeans.

This was taken about an hour before sunset. Makes you realize why that time of day is referred to as the golden hour.