Throwing Poo

For my birthday this summer, the men-folk in my family offered to take me on a fishing charter on Lake Erie.  Due to numerous conflicts and general malaise, we didn't get around to actually taking the trip until last Friday.  The plan was to meet at the marina (i.e. a boat ramp with a rusty gas pump) at 6:45 AM, spend four hours pulling yellow perch into the boat and then head over to my father's house to fry up the day's catch. 

Unfortunately for me, my family still lives in my hometown; a small municipality that is a 45 minute drive from where I currently live.  Since they all live there, it is generally understood that I will drive to them every time there is an event or family dinner.  This inequity is so engrained that I regularly get calls to "stop over and watch the game" with no acknowledgement whatsoever that "stopping over" will require that I spend 1.5 hours in the car. 

Needless to say, the fishing charter - a gift for me - departs from said hometown, requiring me to wake up at 5:30 AM to get there on time.  I do not get any sleep because I am up way too late writing a post that totally sucks ass but I put it up anyway because I've been procrastinating all week (see if you can pick which one.  Yes, all of the above is an acceptable answer, shitbag).   Still, I get up on time and hit the road.  It's early and there's no place open for coffee, so I arrive cranky and am immediately made crankier by the fact that no one else is there yet. 

Slowly people begin showing up.  One brother brings coffee and donuts and I quickly conclude that he has always been my favorite sibling.  Finally, at 6:45AM everyone is there except one- a brother who lives five minutes away from the marina and is suppose to bring the beer.  This is not unexpected - I know this person.  He is a Family-member whose Underperformance Constantly Creates Unnecessary Pressure (FUCCUP).

At 7:00AM FUCCUP shows up sans beer.  We are disappointed but not surprised and no one wants to complain too loudly about needing alcohol at that time of the morning.   We make our way over to the boat and, while it appears to be in good shape, the captain is nowhere to be found.  The next fifteen minutes is spent passing out Dramamine and discussing the sleazy scenario that has likely detained him.  FUCCUP decides to assert his masculinity and proclaims that Dramamine is for pussies.  When I attempt to warn him, he suggests that I fish with my cock and balls tucked under my legs.  I acquiesce and decide this is a good opportunity to let everyone that for my birthday next year a Home Depot gift certificate will do just fine. 
   
Finally "Captain Tim" shows up from what we have imagined was a night of crystal meth and underage hookers and ushers us onto the boat.  It is now 7:20AM and just as we begin to push away from the dock, FUCCUP casually asks, "So, what do we do about fishing licenses?"

"Um, you buy it yesterday, shit-for-brains." I blurt out.

We spend the next 40 minutes waiting for him to drive to a nearby tackle store and get his license.  By the time he steps back onto the boat and we shove off, a full quarter of our scheduled trip  - again, my gift - has been wasted.

As the boat passes the breakwall and makes its way out into the open lake, the water starts getting rough.  We're getting bounced around pretty good.  Fortunately the perch are running close to shore, so we find our spot in about 15 minutes, anchor in and prep our rods.       

FUCCUP heads to the head and the rest of us drop our lines and immediately begin pulling up perch.  We can barely get our lines to the bottom before they get hit.  It's an absolute massacre. 

Before too long, someone notices that FUCCUP is still missing.  Captain Tim ducks below to check.  We're all still yanking in fish, so no even notices when FUCCUP crawls up to the deck.  When I finally catch a glimpse of him, he is curled up in a corner, hugging a five-gallon bucket like it is a newborn baby.  He looked like death, if death emptied the contents of its stomach into a bait bucket every thirty seconds.

Now, this is where the funny should really begin.  This is where I should have blistered his green ass with barbs and told tales of greasy pork sandwiches.  But I didn't.  Even though I had earned the right, instead I let him be and caught my limit.  As much as I hate letting a golden opportunity such as that pass by, I'm glad that I'm not always a completely heartless prick.

So, I guess I'll simply end this post with a take on the old French rifle joke:  For sale: fishing license.  Never used.  Puked on once.