I give my husband a hard time about fishing.
He loves to fish. He has a canoe and all the gear. But he rarely catches anything. Worms willingly surrender in the mud when they see him coming; they know they’re just going for a nice long swim.
Last month he caught his first salmon, but it was a centimetre too long so he had to let it go. Yeah, surrrrrre. Next week he’s going to reel in the Loch Ness Monster, right after he releases the Giant Squid. You do that, honey.
At our wedding, my dad welcomed Andrew into the Combden family with his usual humour and wit. He mocked my townie-husband’s lackluster fishing skills, remarking that Andrew and his buddy Greg must wet their lines on Brokeback Mountain. (Good one, dad. Miss ya.)
I’ve savoured a few lovely trout so far this summer, though. (He catches them; I eat them: it’s the perfect marriage.) So I’ve kept the insults at bay.
After supper, Andrew and our neighbour, Rod, went off with the blue canoe for a few flicks on the nearby pond. Did they catch anything? Andrew sure did.
If I knew he was fishing for assholes, I would have told him to stay home.
He’s at Rod’s now with some local anesthetic (half case of beer) and sophisticated surgical instruments (pair of pliers). Good thing Rod actually knows how to use tools. Hopefully he can fix them too.
Fat lip imminent. Looks like I’m off the hook tonight.
And looks like my fishing jokes are back on the splittin’ table.