So, I'm gonna tell you a story to tell you another story.
I slipped out the girlfriend's house Friday morning, which takes some ninja skill. She sleeps about as hard as a gunshy guard dog with an empty belly. She wakes up to a silent fart, I'm telling you. Lord knows I wore a good many dinks out before I headed back in, slid back in the bed like I'd never left. That's definitely the most impressive part of my weekend.
...onto the bad parts of the weekend. After leaving the lady's place to head home to "clean up," and "wash clothes" at my house, I of course got bit by the bait monkey and hit the Wal-Mart for some Baby Boo Jigs and them daggum Netbait Baby Paca Craws all them boys on the YouTube go on and on about. I should have been washing clothes an hour ago. I check out and meander on toward the house but get stopped at the Ohoopee River bridge by the just a few casts monkey.
Seventeen head of kids are cannonballing into the river and a drunk man has a speaker system blaring some Toby Keith song about being an American Soldier, despite being a country music singer, and old overalls has himself a mic setup and he's an American Soldier too, damnit.
I'm in prime fishing conditions, I tell ya. I spook a bass off the bank and pitch a couple times to the cover he's crammed himself into to no avail. I cross the river on foot. Nearly step on an old catfish tucked close to an old bridge piling. I'm a redneck, not an American soldier, and I don't need no boat. Or so I thought. Behold my three step system to making a fool of yourself.
1. Get hung up.
2. Walk back onto the bank to retrieve your jig from the other side of the hang up.
3. Slip on the muddy bank and give the score of river children and the American Drunkard your best redneck bank skiing performance.
I busted my butt. An old man is laughing over a microphone. The kids have taken a break from the rope swing and are laughing their ***** off. I've landed on my reel and bent the handles in and thought I'd lost a hundred bucks over two worth of jig and trailer.
So I go home, finally do my chores, and head back to the girlfriend's house. Head to the honey hole I caught my PB in to lick my wounds. Hook into a solid with the jig that caused the whole ordeal, and get broken off because I'm a slack-jawed bank skiing fool who's got 18 pounds of drag on 12# fluorocarbon.
Check your drag. Or fish with big fish line when you're throwing in a big fish hole!