- Fri Sep 19, 2014 9:58 am
Never forget the two years I lived on Chickamauga Lake. Duck season was 30 days back then, and I hunted the lake. "Hate" is the only word I can use for the way I felt about fishermen for that 30 days. First sentence was a polite, "would you mind fishing somewhere on this 100,000 acre lake besides my decoys?" The reply would be, "I'm in a tournament." I'd usually follow with something like, "I don't give a fuck about your fucking tournament mother fucker. When the next jack flies through these decoys, you're Kevin VanDam wannabe ass is going to be full of lead fours! If you fucking live through the accidental shooting, it will be the most painful boat ride back to weigh-in you've ever fucking experienced."
"Don Jacobo Crespin y McGillicuddy awoke at noon, feeling refreshed and languorous at the same time, one of the neatest tricks a man can perform."
“Which way General?” the aide asked. “Either,” Forrest growled. “If one road led to Hell and the other to Mexico, I would be indifferent which to take.”