…a Fishing Cabin.
That’s me. In the background. Before noon. Drunk.
For a few years now my pals from Pittsburgh — the same guys who comprise my Fantasy Football League — have made an annual pilgrimage to various streams around PA for the Opening Day of Trout Season. For the past few years we’ve rented a cabin in Rexford, PA. Rexford, if you’re wondering, is about 15 miles west of Wellsboro, near the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon. (Yes, there’s a Pennsylvania Grand Canyon. No, it’s nowhere near as impressive as the one in Arizona. Different climates, people, among other things.) Well, two years ago we made a little bet going into the weekend, and if you’ve read any of my stuff you know these little wagers aren’t uncommon. Scarier, still, is the fact that I didn’t even lose the bet, and yet there I am nonetheless, comatose.
Before I can explain the situation in question, I need to go back to the previous year, when the Colts and Bears played in Super Bowl XLI. Me and my pal Chuck made a little wager (he had the Bears, I had the Colts), wherein the loser had to consume a six-pack of wine coolers on Opening Day morning, and could not put his line in the water until all six were finished. Once again, I came out on the right side of the bet, and poor Chuck proceeded to take those coolers to task. Feeling bad, I had one myself, to sort of share in his misery. One wine cooler was awful, so the idea of six was downright ghastly. Kudos to you, sir.
Liking the consequences of the wager so much, we all of us extended the bet to the year in question above, only we chose a different sport to focus on and extended the wager to all. Rather than football, we instead chose the NCAA tournament, wherein we all submitted brackets and, I believe, a $10 fee, winner-take-all. As much as you wanted to win the bracket pool, even more you didn’t want to lose it, as the consequences again were a sexy six-pack of wine coolers. Our buddy, Mick, clearly has no basketball prowess whatsoever, as he finished dead last and was sentenced to the ills of Bartles & James. Granted, he lives in Texas so his ability to do anything is already hindered. Well, Mick managed to get through all six wine coolers, though he also managed not to fish that day, as he was too drunk and sick, as memory serves. Coward.
So, back to the picture at hand. In addition to the ungodly number of wine coolers floating about the place, I believe we polished off more than two kegs in two days. That’s two kegs among, eh, 12 of us? Yeah, it’s that ugly. Anyway, I can’t even pretend to remember getting to the couch, but sure enough there I am. What’s more, it appears that my pal Jeff thought it a fine idea to cuddle with me. And unless these photographs existed, I’d have no recollection of the incident. If nothing else, at least I look pretty damn comfortable. Two things I can tell you about this picture, the first one told to me by my pals: A) this was taken before noon; and B) I caught the first three fish the morning of Opening Day. Dizzam!
Hard to believe you’re still married, Jeff.
While I can’t recall passing out at the cabin this past May, I can reassure you I did. Still, I couldn’t come up with any pictures to verify it. What I did find, however, are two fine shots of my pals Chuck and Tim, respectively. Now, the last time you saw Chuck he was wearing a Michael Jackson t-shirt and jean shorts as a result of the tennis wager he lost. Unfortunately, this image isn’t the result of a bet; he chose this fine attire all on his own:
What’s worse, the mustache or the hat? (And by “worse” I mean more awesome.)
(Incidentally, Chuck wanted me to remind you that he’s not retarded. Umm, I didn’t pick your hat, nor did I shave that face of yours. Additionally, yes, that’s me in the background, awake, gnawing on a rib.)
And then there’s Tim. Let this be a listen to all of you: don’t pass out. Ever. If you do, you might end up with a couple sausages that have been on the grill for hours tucked into various places on your drunken frame. And while only his face is pictured, you can trust me when I tell you there’s one neatly placed between his ass cheeks.
I wonder what one dreams about in this case?
Well, that’s all the time we have for this installment. Until my next drunken trek around the world, have at it, you vultures!
* Thanks to M. and whoever else took these pictures.