Fishing While Jussie Skates

Take advantage of a beautiful Texan spring morning and go fishing; bright, clear air, a shining sun, and the still waters of the lake reflecting the sky. It smells good too, wildflowers, sage, cedar, sun on limestone, and the earth coming alive. 

But I wasn't there to record a lull in the new Ice Age, I was there to fish. And sure enough there was a school of carp under someone's pleasure boat tied up at the pier. You could hear them thrashing and fighting against the pontoons of the boat in some kind of furious carp frenzy.

Very exciting and I baited a small hook with a worm, visions of titanic struggle against monster carp looming large. Not unrealistic either, I'd landed some leviathans with the same bait from that very spot the year before, big fun. 

So off went a worm under the boat into the churning carp, expectation up, and I waited, and waited. No bite. You could see the carp ignoring the delicious worm in droves, they cared nothing for the worm, it didn't matter to them at all.

I bobbed it about, tried different depths and different positions. Perhaps the fish will love this worm if it's a foot higher or lower, or somewhere else altogether. 

No, it meant nothing to them. They didn't like gooey yellow chunks of special carp bait either, which was weird because the packet said carp loved them. They didn't.

Baffled by the perversity of fish, I packed up, promising the piscine adversary I'd be back with a vengeance. Maybe with canned corn, which carp love. Stay tuned.

Back at the Compound I turned on the internet to laugh at rich socialists insisting that Trump's a Russian agent because Hillary lost an election. And then Boom! what's this? Juicy Smollet skates? Yes, on 16 felony counts and the case closed and sealed. No trial, no nothing because of a deal with the state prosecutor. 

Even Rahm Emmanuel and Axelrod think it's a disgrace, which says something. Perhaps something about who wants to be the next mayor of Chicago?

Fish on,

LSP

Gone Fishing

"I know," I thought cleverly to myself, "I'll go fishing." And that was the plan for Monday morning, but it nearly got derailed because of a church PO Box and taking care of business.

Load up your rig with beer and tacos and head for glory.

Still, got to the lake and cast off with worms and a couple of lures, but the fishing was slow. Sure, a couple of bites here and there but nothing much. I blame that on the malfeasant, demonic static unleashed by Fienstein and her cohort of satanists on the world. It confuses the fish.

Look what the FBI caught!

The hideous Golem representative from California and her puppet aside, I managed to catch a decent Bluegill and had a couple of strikes with topwater. Some kind of Rapala lure, I think.

Then it was time to head home, happily tired out by clambering around the rocks of Soldier's Bluff in search of fish. Next step?

Blue SCOTUS

GUNS, and horses. This is important.

Your Pal,

LSP

Burn Ban Fishing

There's a burn ban in effect because even a spark, just one tiny spark might well be sufficient to set the air itself ablaze. No foolin', it's hot, like an oven.

With that in mind, it made sense to head off to the water where it's marginally cooler. And who knows, maybe even catch some fish if they weren't suffering from heatstroke.

Simon Weisenthal

I cast off into the furnace expecting nothing. Perhaps it's a character flaw; worst case the scenario and be happily surprised as opposed to hideously let down. Whatever, the line was out and there I was, waiting for fish.

"Nothin's biting, man," said the resident gap-toothed fish head, and he'd know. All he does, every day, is fish, right from the spot I was on. I looked him straight in eyes of his neon orange sunglasses and grinned. Out whirred the line.

Perch

Tug, thump, hookset! Out came a small fighting perch. Hey, nothing shabby when you're expecting exactly nothing. Then out came another and another; I started a game, how many Bluegill can you catch with the smallest fraction of worm. Lots, as it turned out.

Then, halfway through this childish exercise, KABOOM, something hit the hook like Simon Weisenthal on the trail of Mengele. Rod double, drag out, I thought I'd caught a cat. But no, after a few minutes of fight I saw a carp, a massive, monster, outrageous carp.

Ye Gods

We fought for ages, huge great fish on a light bass setup and make no mistake, the Leviathan Carp pulled every trick in the book. But, like Strozk's lies, it didn't work, the carp came in and was brought to account.

So what's the verdict? A heckuvva fish to catch, fight and land, no doubt about it, but bass offer more ferocity and so do gar. Carp don't leap, thrash and run with the same hectic frenzy; still, they fight like a force of nature, which in a sense they are.

Gar! Note Line...

Whatever the case, they all went back to fight again another day.

Fish on,

LSP

Follow The Flag Catch The Fish

Orders are simple. RV (Rendezvous) with friendly forces at a 

secret location, deep in rural Texas. 

Then follow the flag.

And when you do, you catch fish.

There's a moral here, if you care to draw it. In other news, the Grand Commander's accused Canada's Suprema of being "weak" and "dishonest." Other's say there's a "special place in hell" for "backstabbers."

Don't say Little Potato,

LSP

The Face Of The Anglican Communion

Thanks to Climate Change, it was cool and springlike this morning, a mere 23* and then BOOM, there it was, the Anglican Communion, parked outside of a Pick 'n Steal in asset stripped rural Texas.

No Driver

No one was driving this car, the driver's seat was empty, but the vehicle had a passenger. You could see it, grinning.

Look, I'm not saying the Worldwide Anglican Non Communion is a driverless yellow car carting about a crew of clowns to the nearest Pick 'n Steal, that's your call.

Turtle

After taking photos of the Anglican Communion, I went fishing. It was a bit slow, 6 catfish (one BIG), 1 large Bluegill, a bait Perch that nearly caught a Gar and a turtle. 

Little Fella

All went back to fight again another day.

God bless,

LSP

Fishing Isn't God But I Still Love It

"Man," reminds Archbishop Fulton Sheen, "is engaged in a threefold quest for life, truth and love." Would I find that after Evening Prayer, fishing? Only imperfectly. Fishing, you see, isn't God.

Still, I won't deny that the sport's up there, especially when the watery beasts are switched on, for real and love what you're throwing in the water, which is pretty much the way it was yesterday evening.

The pier was empty, no pressure, and the spillway pool beckoned with submarine life. You could see it gliding about the water in search of prey. Big Gar, Catfish, a few Bass and a lot of Drum, some large; time to cast off.

Out went line #1 into the middle of the pool and stayed there, a stationary rod, then out went line #2 for casting. And sure enough, the fish wern't only live but loving the bait, with both rods popping. And that meant a bit of running around. 

There you are, reeling in a fish when the other rod starts jumping, bends double and off you go. Quick, sort that fish out and get on the other rod!

Big fun, I tell you, and while it's not God it does  make for a better evening than staring in slack-jawed consternation at some computer screen.

So get out and fish. Shoot and ride too, but those would be different stories.

God bless,

LSP 

Happy Mother's Day!

Happy Mother's Day; I hope you've all had a fantastic time with family, friends and hopefully, your Mothers. Here at the Missions we celebrated in good form, with feasting after the Masses and a lot of fun it was too. Well done, team.

Then it was back to the Compound to regroup, get collected and look to the next evolution, which weirdly enough turned out to be fishing.

Useful

Things were a bit crowded at the top secret Texan location today, on account of all the Mother's Day fishing expeditions and perhaps the pier pressure scared the fish off. 

At any event, the going was slow for the first hour or so but I didn't care, it was good to see families having fun at the water.

Awesome

Picture the scene, Grandfather and Grandson, Father and Mother, all fishing away with Grandma sensibly sitting in the shade but smiling on.  

Heartwarming and I especially liked the Grandfather, who went by "Pappy." He came from a more civilized time and fished away with lures and jigs while I cast away with savage worms.

A Mother's Day Catfish

At one point the old gentleman pulled up a fishing rod, a fairly new one, too. I congratulated him on the catch and we laughed; a good moment. 

Fierce Little Predator

Then thump, tug, the fish switched on at last and with it a brisk hour or so of reeling in mostly small Bluegill. Hey, a fish is a fish and on a light rod these perch put up a fun fight. 

Country Life in Texas

I left as my new friends went after Bass with topwater lures and the sun was setting over the still, glassy waters of the lake.

What a good day.

God bless you, Mothers,

LSP

Go Fishing

"Time to go fishing," said a noted member of the mining community, who may or may not be raising a pack of white wolves somewhere in Arizona. So I took that advice and paid a visit to the lake after visiting the sick.

It was good to get out and try my luck against the watery opposition and perhaps you know the feeling, that sense of quiet excitement, maybe this time you'll catch the best fish ever. Or not.

This time fell into the "not" category, though I tried my best with the kind of juicy worms that fish are known to love. But they weren't having it, if they were even there at all. 

Still, getting out by the waters of the vast inland sea that is Lake Whitney made a welcome change and no one else was catching anything either, by way of consolation. 

We were in it for the Texan air, with its hint of sage, cedar and mesquite, taking a needed break from Chelsea Handler and all the other NWO stooges gloating over Alabama.

Don't worry, fish. There will be a rematch, you may be sure of that.

Fish on,

LSP

Fish 1 LSP 0

The air was clear, bright and for Texas at the end of August, pleasantly cool. So why not head over to the dam after visiting the sick and see if the fish were biting. Good plan, eh?

No, bad plan because of the War on Weather, which stopped the dam letting water out of Lake Whitney into the Brazos and further inundating an already flooded Houston.  That meant there weren't any fish in the channel apart from a few lazy Gar and lots of turtles.

So I didn't catch anything. Still, it was good to unwind for an hour or so overlooking the water and, to be honest, I was more in it for the country air and relaxation than anything else. Mind you, there's no escaping the fact that the fish won this round.

Good luck next time, fish. This isn't over.

Fish on,

LSP

Don't be a Determinist Goon, Fish

Life, unless you're some kind of rubbish determinist, involves a series of free-will choices. For example, you can choose to attack the Islamist savages, ISIS. Or you can attack the regime that's fighting them by throwing missiles at their airfields. Your choice.

Likewise, you can sit staring at a computer in slack-jawed rightist consternation as our country slides closer and closer to war, or you can go fishing. I chose the latter option and loaded a couple of rods in the rig and headed to Soldier's Bluff.

The Texan wildflowers were out and I wondered if that was a good omen; Bluebonnets in flower, fish bite with power, sort of thing. But no, they didn't. The bites were sluggish and slurpy and I lost a lot of worms without closing the deal.

For the first time in months, no catch, and that was everyone else's experience there on the bluffs. Still, it was good to get out in the clean air by the lake, it always is. There's peace in it and, if the fish are behaving, excitement too.

Your Old Pal

There was another kind of excitement driving through a storm to Dallas later in the day. Lightning seared the horizon, like Tesla attempting to harness Satan, as rain crashed down onto I35. God's judgement on the metrosprawl.

Fish on,

LSP

Fish on Friday #2

Farsighted readers of this mind blog will know that it's customary at the compound to eat fish on Fridays, which means go out and catch some fish, then cook them. And that's what happened.

At first the spillway side of the dam was empty and I had that tranquil moment of casting off into the depths of the pool in search of fish. Then a kid turned up with an assortment of rods and started fishing for Gar in earnest. I admired his enthusiasm and wished him luck. He was using baby Shad as bait.

Downriver

Then two gentlemen tipped up and began working the pool. They seemed pretty serious, big nets, battle rods and the grizzled look of experience, which tokens fishing respect. They were using lures and cut bait, going after Striper.

So there it was, a skirmish line of fishermen  competing for the catch of the day. And here's the thing, the lures didn't work, the cut bait didn't work and neither did the Shad. But the Weightless Worm Rig (WWR) did, the fish liked it. Lots of them, to everyone else's washout.

Get The Kid on The Fish

After a while, the grizzled veterans upped stakes and headed off, leaving me and the Gar fisher; I turned him on to the WWR. Excited, he ran off and bought some worms and it wasn't long before he was pulling fish out of the water like a good 'un. I thought that was great and so did he, running around the pier with tremendous gusto. Go for it, kid. A happy moment.

Fillet That Fish, LSP

A crew of fishing technocrats from Vietnam (?) were next to arrive. Massive hyper-rods, long range casting floats, the whole array of fishing technology went into action against the submerged opposition. And... nothing. Meanwhile, the weightless worm riggers were reeling in the fun. There's a moral in that, somewhere.

Eat Your Scoff Like a Warrior

I gave our SE Asian friends the worm tip on the way out, they were grateful, and cooked up a fat Bluegill when I got back to the Compound. The rest of the fish are on ice.

Keep it simple,

LSP

The Plan

So what's the plan? It's simple, read up on  Luke's Gospel, drink some coffee, fry up a steak and couple of eggs, then load some rods and a gun in the truck and get out in the field. And who knows, maybe catch a fish or two and shoot some birds. I think you'll agree, a clear, compelling, achievable plan.

Bill Clinton has a plan, too. He plans to fill Detroit with Syian refugees. Well, hey, they've got to go somewhere and Martha's Vineyard is already booked, by millionaire socialists.

Champagne all 'round!

LSP