Special Guest Blogger - THC

I would just like to set a few things straight and the comment on the order of importance of events related below.

First, we went to Lexington. I know this as angels know they are entering heaven. Then, we did some stuff. I think it was, sort of in this order,:

NK lied to a priest. In a church.
We met some woman who had a car full of linens.
Someone pulled out plates. I wandered off.
Then we must have been at a farm because saw an irrigation room and a skinny cat.
Then there may have been something involving flowers.

Then we went to Salerno's and had a large white with spinach and tomato while the JMU basketball team celebrated their loss to VMI in the back room.

Really though, the only thing that happened was fishing. Packing only a $17 Shakespeare Microspin and three Wal-Mart spinners, I returned to the cradle, the mother's milk of all that is good, the Maury River. The elements were against me that day, dear reader- brooding grey sky, low ugly clouds, grouchy girlfriend, and a ice wind bouncing off the valley walls, cruel enough to cut through the river rocks and your humble narrator alike.

I surveyed, plotted, checked the angles and called forth all of my fishing wisdom, searching that unblinking river for any sign of life. None were to be had. It was a battle of wills, my friends, me trying to pry up life from a frozen river and the river conspiring with the winter to steel away its treasures from a pilgrim in need. But fear not.

I found my mark, and cast. A choir of angels sang as the line snaked into the water. I caught a little smallmouth on my first cast. Because I'm just that f-ing good. I dredged up a few other beautiful little fish, bright and healthy, crisp and sharp as living glass. Nary a soul breathed within 20 miles- the lesser men were warm by the fire, certain that no man could fish in such conditions. The only living things were great crows who gathered to watch from skeleton trees with wonderous black eyes. And yet, I need more.

The Gods of Fishing are unforgiving, yet they render until Ceasar what is Ceasar's. They knew I could not be denied that day, and offered up the fish you see below. It was an awesome battle. Blood was shed. In the end, after the fish pulled a knife on me, I had to round house kick it right in the face before I could land it. Gaze apon my works, all ye mighty, and despair. The Thanksgiving Smallmouth. Because I'm just that f-ing good.

I don't know where NK was. Maybe in the car or something.