I'm taking a cliche this week, a stay-at-home vacation, known by the trendsetters at such hip publications as Time, Newsweek, Bead and Button, and UN Helicopters Weekly as a staycation. Having used the word, dear FSM, may it be scalded, unlike angel hair al dente,out of my brain.
I have a fair list to work on: Clean the garage, mow the lawn, my perpetual motion machine (see my Kickstarter), annoy my wife and spoil my kittehs. Maybe reverse those last two, I'm torn, actually...
Capping things off with a short fishing trip for MN opener, where I intend to slay the mighty bluegill, and leave the stringer tied to the dock for a bit so as the local snapping turtle population does not go hungry.
Eh, maybe I'll skip that step this year.
Imma be up to my sternum in fresh walleye, gnawing on northerns, bass to my ass, covered in sunflower seed shells, reeking of grape cigars, and too sunburned to sit, stand, blink, shower, shave, or sh-never mind. Or I'll be hungover and stop at Cub. Either way, sweetie gets fresh fish Sunday!
I will not be doing what these lunicidal bastards are doing, not from a lack of desire, or ability to create piscine lethalness, but because I can't water ski...
Just taking a snack break, received a fresh shipment of gelignite and about to go into the garage. If I don't come back, tell my mother something cooler than "he was buried under a wave of folding camp chairs. Last we heard, he had found some Diet Dew and a half bottle of Windsor, he's fine, we'll look for him tomorrow."