Showing posts with label Shakespeare Ugly Stick. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shakespeare Ugly Stick. Show all posts

Thursday, August 27, 2020

Texas is Very Awesome

How can Texas be awesome when the very air itself threatens to ignite, like an air bomb? Surely this sounds more like the anteroom of Hell than anywhere good. 

Not so fast, team. Yes, it may be hot but there are benefits, such as frontier style bluffs and Patriot Barges. No one's defunding the police here because they're not stupid.

And fish. Lots of fish, even in the heat of a late August afternoon. I know this because, after visiting with the flock, I headed over to the marina for some action, and got it. 

A lot of perch, mostly small but pretty much every cast a fish, always good, and few large, ferocious, piranha style keepers, which I didn't keep. Again, wasn't in the mood to clean, beer batter and fry 'em up. Foolish, I know, tomorrow being Friday, but whatever. Next time.

Then, at the very end, something ferocious took the line. Tug! Hookset! drag out, well at least for a bit, and up came a random predator bass. Great result. Bass on, what a lot of fun. And while some say fishing's a kind of therapy for trauma, conscious or otherwise, it's also good in itself. Fast, sometimes furious aquatic action. I find this exciting, like hunting but on the water.

Mission accomplished, I headed back to the safety of the Compound and it began to rain. Yes, rain. Beautiful, and yet another reason to thank God for his glory and Texas for awesomeness.

Your Friend,


Friday, June 19, 2020

Friday Fish

Sure, you can be a miserable Marxist Determinist, go right ahead and choose to leave your free-will behind. Or, on the other hand, you can make like a free agent and go fishing on the mighty Brazos. I chose that path.

It was a little slow at first, but that was alright. Patience, LSP, wait for the bite to switch on and enjoy the big birds casting fierce eyes for targets of opportunity. The one above swooped down on a perch I'd hooked, a first for me. Hey, my fish!

Then things started to roll and it was pretty much a fish with every cast, big Bluegill, decent Drum, and a scad of ferocious junior Striper. Back they went to fight again another day. Big fun, I tell you, and a welcome change from watching fauxtrage commies pull down statues.

I mean really, pulling down statues of Christopher Columbus, George Washington, Jefferson and General Lee is going to transform America into a genderless rainbow no-police utopia, and get Biden elected? Really? No, of course not, it's just a dropped-on-head-as-infant Marxist spasm.

Pseudo-Tet aside, I cut out while the catch was good and headed for home, the big Texan sky reflecting off the water of the river. And there it was, good action met tranquility.

Tight lines,


Monday, April 20, 2020

Fishing The Pandemic

So what's it like to fish in the scyfy dystopia that is our new normal? Good question, and rather than rely on some kind of "news" channel I went to the lake to find out for myself.

First up, Soldiers Bluff wasn't an option, "Park Closed," said the sign. Undaunted, I made my way to the other side of the dam. Another fail, you could get there but the pier was shut, blocked off by police tape. 

You Can't Fish Here. Thanks, China.

Thanks a lot, China, I was looking forward to fishing the pool, but no. I stared out at the mighty Brazos, streaming its way towards Waco, Houston and the sea under a big Texan sky. Would the ChiCom Plague, this Pandemic, defeat the expedition? 

Wytche Way?

No, it would not, so I drove to the marina, which wasn't blocked off by police tape and threatening signs. Boating's still allowed you see, at least here, and I set up on the pier and fished away. It was slow going and then, just as I was getting ready to pack it in for a bad game of soldiers something took the hook.

Get A Haircut Hippy. Oh, You Can't. Good Work, China

Bam! Rod double, line out action as a monster, maybe a shark, took the bait and ran with it, and run it did, right around the cleaning station. Diving, pulling, thrashing action and I was hoping for a big cat but up came a Leviathan Carp Buffalo. 

China Eats Carp  Buffalo. I Don't. Back You Go

A passing fish head helped me pull the beast out. "Well lookit that," exclaimed my gap-toothed new pal as we looked in wonder at the Carp Buffalo, "They'd be all over that in Russia. On a light little rod too. I reckon I'll just fish this here pier for a few minutes."

The Compound

The prehistorically scaled Carp Buffalo went back to fight again another day and I went back to the Compound in the sun, mission accomplished. So what's it like to fish the Pandemic? Not bad at all.

Tight Lines,


Monday, March 9, 2020


Guess what, there's precisely zero reports of Covid-19 on Lake Whitney, Bosque County, Texas. No, not one. That in mind, I put some rods in the back of the rig and headed for water.

The dam spillway was churning, so I headed to the marina cleaning station. Perhaps there'd be piscine action off the still waters of the pier. And sure enough there was. A tug, hookset, and there it was, fish on, and a good one too.

I figured it was a catfish and sure enough it was. A decent fighter and all the more so for a light rod; had to tighten up the drag. Still, it was slow going until an off-chance cast from the side of the pier caught a rumble on the retrieve. 

Snap that rod to! Then BOOM, what a fight. Line out, rod double, calisthenic action. What was this thing, some kind of shark? No, just a monstrous carp. Seriously, a good five minutes fight to bring her in. Thought the line'd snap, but it didn't, fortunately.

Then a boat turned up full of kids, parents and a guide. Great result, they'd been out on the lake to catch striper and had a good cooler full. The little guys were especially proud and excited, which I loved. Kids with a fish, one of the best things. 

The guide, Clay, who's a jovial fellow, agreed, "Man, I just love it when kids get fish. They get to go free." Clay's a good man with a good setup, and when I told him I used Pat as a guide he said, " A fine guide and a fine man." I liked that, all true and then some.

Unlike, say, politicians, with the exception of Eva Peron and 45, who are loved by the people because they have the peoples' interests  at heart. 

As opposed to the ruling oligarchy's transnational, globalist elite, corrupt, asset-stripping, lying, pugnacious, venal, satanic get rich scheme masquerading as politics with you as the beneficiary.

Wake up and drive a stake through the heart of that beast.

Fish on,


Monday, December 9, 2019

Fish Till Your Arms Ache

Today was beautiful in this part of Texas, slightly misty but warm, like an autumnal Spring. Such is Fall in Hill County, season of mists and mellow respite from having to turn on the AC. Pleased by this happy turn in the War on Weather I drove to the dam in search of fish.

Idea being to replicate last week's success against the fluid adversary and get out in the clean air, rod in hand, which is exactly what happened. First cast, up came a baby bass, then perch, followed by baby striper, followed by decent sized drum, followed by young catfish.

OK, the fish weren't as big as the ones I would've caught with a boat, granted, but there were plenty of rod-benders, tug, pull, snap and here we go, battle on. What a lot of fun, to say nothing of the tranquility of the sound of the water coming gently off the dam in the rare moments of peace between strikes.

And on it went 'til I lost count and a fierce wind blew in from Waco, exciting the immature catfish but making it hard to cast. Throw out your line and watch it go horizontal in the gale, type of thing, so I packed up and headed for home.

On the way back over the bridge a vulture dive bombed the rig, like an avian Stuka or feathered Richtofen. No kidding, I thought the thing was going to hit the truck, first time that's ever happened.

In other news, you can read about the looming threat of war between Greece and Turkey here. And while you're at it, consider how good it would be to see Sultan Erdogan sink beneath the waves of the Med in Lepanto 2.0 and Hagia Sophia restored to its glory.

Fish till your arms ache,


Friday, December 6, 2019

Age Of Aquarius

So, how do you celebrate the Feast of St. Nicholas of Myra? Simple, load up the rig with a couple of light rods and head out to the mighty Brazos.

Boom. Pretty much every cast a fish, it was like... like the Age of Aquarius. No kidding, I lost count.

Mostly perch but also drum, a couple of cats and curiously, baby striper. Ferocious little fish, all of them, but especially the striper. Big fun to catch when they're big and not bad when they're small. And here's the thing.

My friend Pedro was fishing silver spinners, slabs, the live perch which I gave him, and caught exactly nothing. He was going after big fish and failed. 

By contrast, I was pulling the aquarian adversary out of the water every few minutes or so on a worm, small hook, two split-shot rig on a light rod. Big success, "You're rippin' 'em up, man!"

Moral? No libs, fish smart,


Friday, October 11, 2019

A Savage Twist

The ongoing War Against the Weather (WAW) took a sudden and savage twist last night. Yes, we'd been lulled into a false sense of security by warm sunny skies, and no rain, what was that, skywater? It was like being in California but without the weird gun laws, the needles, the freaks and the mosques, an Indian Summer we thought would never end. Then Boom.

Around 19:00 a fierce, chill wind kicked in from the east, thunder began to rumble and the first drops of rain fell on the Compound. The opening salvo, a foretaste of things to come, and followed all too soon by barrage after barrage of increasingly elemental fury 'til the house shook with the roar of it.

Blue Eschaton took it all in stride and laid down on a Moslem rug in the living room while I watched the celestial fireworks through the glass of the front door, listening to rain lash against the wooden walls of the house. 

It was like being in Aberystwyth, except this is Texas and accordingly larger, wilder, more ominous. Will the Compound survive, I wondered, idly gazing at a handy shotgun propped up next to a couple of obviously useful fishing rods.

Good question, so I went out on the front porch and stood there, resolute, Ahab against the storm. "Thank God I'm armed," I muttered grimly while lightning arced across the sky and flags whipped in the wind.

This continued well into morning, while our Old Enemy the Weather launched assault after assault on the freedom loving people of North Central Texas. Were we defeated? No, we were not, the Compound stands to fight again another day.

And this message is for you, Irish Bob, Beto O'Rourke. You will never be President and you and your millionaire socialist friends will not succeed in taking our guns and erasing our faith. Freedom to bear arms and freedom of religion is written into the DNA of this country, not least Texas. Mess with that and take your choice.

Aggressively yours,


Friday, June 7, 2019

Where Is That Great Leviathan?

The Compound's training schedule isn't complex, no, far from it. In between group readings from Maritain, Gilson, Aquinas, Mascall, Berdyaev, the awesome Ratzinger, Farrer and so many more, we go fishing.

X in search of, sort of thing, and that's what we did today, headed out to Lake Whitney dam and tried our luck against the ferocious prehistoric ambush predators, Gar. Well it wasn't easy. Sure there were plenty of fish but they were shell shocked by the current.

You see, thanks to climate change it's been raining, turning Texas into a cross between an Amazonian rain forest and a floodplain. We caught the floodplain today and that meant no catching, the fish were all rolling on the current and not biting.

Still, good to get out in the sun by the water and enjoy the mighty Brazos. It was better once, before the dam and the lake, but that's a different story. 

In the meanwhile, Blue Nugget looks on. Hope, all two of you readers, springs eternal.

Your Old Pal,


Friday, December 14, 2018

Cheer Up!

I apologize. This lighthearted mind blog's become a bit serious, full of letters by French Generals, photos of aging female trolls, assorted Illuminati stooges and the dupe pawn jihadi shills of the NWO. So cheer up and enjoy America's popular and glamorous First Lady looking good on deck. 

And some rod and gun. Shakespeare Ugly Sticks guarding an SKS. Proper little Chicom blaster. Nice, right?

But what about this, a plush unicorn "comfort sock," which has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the Church of England. Beautiful, isn't it.

And for good measure, a lovely Christmas tree ornament.

There, better already!

Your Friend,


Monday, September 3, 2018

Labor Day Fishing

It was beautifully cool at a refreshing 27 degrees, clouds were rolling in with the promise of blissful rain and the time seemed right to go Labor Day fishing.

So cast off into the depths with a tried and tested worm rig, twitch it along and wait for action. But there was no action, just the occasional turtle diving about and one or two sluggish, non-committal tugs at the line. 

A couple of boats pulled into the cleaning station and they hadn't done well either, not a good day for the guides, and taking that as an omen I upped rods and headed to another spot. Maybe that would produce the goods.

It didn't. The fish were obviously on strike, swimming out in solidarity with international labor. OK, several refused to be brainwashed by Boshevik agitprop and took snatching runs at the hook but only to fall back in red cowardice to the aquatic barricades. I couldn't close the deal.

Then it began to rain and catching fish didn't seem to matter any more. God had sent life giving water from the sky to ease and refresh spirits parched and arid from the never ending funeral rites of the most heroic patriot that ever lived anywhere in the world ever.

Uplifted by this gift from heaven, I left the piscine Marxists to their aquatic skulduggery and headed back to the Compound. But not to worry, this match ain't over.

Fish on,


Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Still Beating The Drum

After a morning visiting the sick, I stopped off at Lake Whitney dam to test the waters. These were clear(ish), and apparently devoid of any fish. 

The occasional Water Moccasin slithered across the still surface of the pool, ignored by floating turtles, and that was that, no evidence of fish at all.

Still, I had the pier to myself, no pressure, and that's no small thing. There it was, the great edifice of the dam and the Brazos, winding its way through Texas to Waco and beyond under a big sky. A tranquil scene, and I cast off more for the contemplative reflection of it all than anything else.

Say your prayers, consider the upcoming Feast of Pentecost and the nature of the Holy Spirit, who we're told is the personification of the love between the Father and the Son. Take a break from the turgid skulduggery of the world and unwind overlooking the river.

Good call, right? No, it wasn't to be. The pool looked empty, like the pews of the venerable if shrinking Church of England, but it wasn't, it was full of voracious Black Drum. No kidding. I'd no sooner cast off with a famously scientific split shot, #6 worm rig than Drum were plowing into the line. 

Up came one, up came another, and another, and on we went for an hour or so. Good action and good sized fish. Finally the worm battalion were down to their last two conscripts, which I threaded onto a sharp, #6 baitholder.

The Tebbit

Within seconds something big was on the line. A Gar? A Striper? A Dolphin? Lord Tebbit himself, protesting against the rainbow riding iniquity of Bury St. Edmonds' Deanery?

No, just a monster Black Drum. He thrashed, flailed, dived and pulled but nothing worked, the fish was on and up it came. 

And that, international readership of this popular mind blog, is just the way it was.

MAGA and Fish On,