People who have seen my twitter AVI often ask, “So. . . what’s with the lure?” Given the story encompasses far more than 280 characters, I decided to outline it here.
‘Twas a warm summer’s afternoon when I decided to do some cleanup after a fishing daytrip with my kids. I was going through the backpack we had taken with us and found a lure in the front pocket, lodged in the seam, secured by all three hooks on the tail end. Wanting to salvage both the backpack and the lure I grabbed some needle nose pliers. I carefully freed two of the hooks, but the third was wedged quite tightly. I worked it and worked it until it was nearly free, but something about the final barb would not let it come loose.
In that moment I failed to remember one personal edict I have learned over the years. When doing something, if you find yourself hitting a wall, or otherwise not making progress, it is best to step back, take a break, and come back to it with a different perspective. Unfortunately I am also a man, so at times I find myself resorting to brute force. Hence, I decide to apply some testosterone to the situation.
As I am wrenching on this hook with the pliers, the final hook comes free. Alas this testosterone also causes the newly free lure to have some inertia. This inertia sends the lure flying and I lose track. For a moment, I am asking myself where the eff is the lure and as I swivel my head around to look for it I can feel some slight weight on my cheek. The realization trickled in, seeping through the denial before bursting the dam… and the fuck… and the sonofabitch.
I reach up to feel that yes. I have officially mounted a lure into my face flesh. I go to the mirror to check it out. Three hooks have sunk into my cheek, and like the backpack, two of them come out easily. The third, however, is barbed in to the point where no amount of tugging makes a difference. I panic as I do not want to go to the emergency room and sit for an hour with a lure in my face.
I consider some testosterone once again, but I sort of value my face. Instead this time I take a step back and decide to take a photo for prosperity. No one is going to believe this. After documenting the experience I am now left with a decision. Hospital or Exacto knife self-surgery. So, I grab the blade. . .
Being a professional at self-surgery, a lighter was taken to the Exacto knife blade. You know. To sterilize it. Forgetting the hook was probably already carrying a cornucopia of baddies. With one hand I pull the lure as far as I can. With the second I gently slide the blade into my cheek. The first jab does nothing. The second had to go deeper. The third was a rage induced “get this fucking thing out of my face” desperation move of cutting that somehow released the barb and the lure came free!
Of course in my exuberance I failed to keep hold of said lure. . .
That lure. Seemingly alive. Possessed by some dastardly spirit bent on inflicting pain and embarrassment to anyone who touched it. That lure fell, and what happened next is a whole other story. Let’s just say that picture is not appropriate for an AVI.
Brett was born and raised in Colorado Springs, Colorado which speaks directly to what is wrong with him. He is an uneducated halfarser who has won no writing awards nor contests. He did however, email poorly structured rants to an email list for longer than was appropriate. Brett also authored a nearly yearlong menagerie of stream of consciousness buffoonery loosely based on dating in your 30's. This was until he knocked a woman up twice, which essentially sent him on a path of scrambling to keep a bunch of other humans alive. In his triumphant return to throwing ink down on tree flesh, Brett has scribbled out his memoirs, at first as a means to give the offspring something to remember him by. Not content with only punishing them with this written slideshow, he is now attempting to pummel the masses with it.