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Those Freezing Father's Day Follies
Their six pairs of nipples were reportedly
each as hard as the Hope Diamond as the boys boated their way towards their
Minnetonka cabin for the second consecutive year. Bob was at the tiller in
the cargo skiff and, by the time he arrived, by his own account, his
testicles had retracted well into the mid-section of his venerable,
middle-aged thorax. Well now: It was the fourth year the trio had booked
their trip with Sioux Retreat Services, the welcomingly smiling husband-wife
outfitters famous for their indigenous blueberry pies and moose stews, as
well as their imported Scandinavian affinities for flaming hot saunas and
cool, home-brewed grog. (mention this site when you book your holiday and
we'll receive a three-percent discount. You can, of course, negotiate, but
I'm not promising anything.)
What the team failed to realize immediately
was that the frigid breeze and choppy seas were not to be a mere, temporary
anomaly in their upcoming week. Those malevolent forces of Nordic
nature would, instead, form the constantly threatening, icy gray backdrop in
front of which the intrepid anglers would be forced to strut and fret their
piscatorial roles for the entire week. "Look for cool temperatures with
scattered horseshit," The CBC could be heard announcing daily, "followed by
brief sunny periods punctuated by further scattered horseshit. Same as it
ever was. Highs near ten."
For those of you not familiar with the Celsius
scale, it is clearly intended to confuse Yankee tourists, shielding them
from the ugly meteorological truth by giving them only the vaguest idea of
how cold it actually is. For the sake of journalistic integrity and
international relations, I phoned our staff mathematician, Jack Kunack,
who told me that that ten degrees Celsius is roughly the temperature of a
withered witches' teat in a controlled lab environment. It was cold, yo.
So be advised: if you've surfed to this site
strictly to gaze at the tanned and chiseled bodies of the Fishkill Team
frolicking in nearly nude manly exuberance in the Canadian heat and with
their wispily-veiled tallywhackers in nearly full view (and who could blame
ya?), you're in for a let-down. There simply isn't much flesh visible in
this photo-essay. The Speedos and sunscreen, likewise, remained in their
sullen suitcases, as did the handcuffs, the cat-o-nine-tails, the Wham
cassette and the 30-inch length of surgical tubing.
Back to the yarn: Aye, mateys: The chilling
wind kicked Minnetaki into a rabid and frothy chop that continued throughout
the first evening of the trip and well into the second day. Eager to get
back home to warmth, shelter and really nice interior woodwork, the host
made a rare nautical no-no as he wished the boys luck and bade his hasty
good-byes following their drop-off on that first afternoon. Unfortunately,
he mistakenly untied the rope which secured the dock. A serious faux-pas.
So, that evening, as the chop continued to pound, the dock slowly migrated,
swinging, by morning, directly into the three pilings and some jack and
barrel improvisation that held up the cabin's front porch and--get this,
Richard-- the just-completed, exquisitely crafted, and probably pretty
damned heavy, screened in front porch that was the host's current pride and
joy!
Danger, danger! "At least," Jeff said later, "this time it was
apparently not my Melsch."
When they awoke that first morning to the
frenzied thunking of the dock and the palsied shakings of their cabin's
front end; when they spied the trembling props that were about to be
battered into splinterific oblivion by the boreal blasts and the misguided
moorings, the boys knew the terrible truth: If they didn't get in that
freezing soup and fix that-there angry dock, they were headed for TUMBLETOWN!!!
They knew the urgency of the situation; they
weren't greenhorns. It was fix the dock or lose the cabin. Hell-o! Manly
action was required immediately!
Seemed like a good time to smoke. The three of them sucked on some cigarettes as
the porch trembled. Maybe one more. Who's got the lighter? They
thought about it some more. Tumbletown. Bad business, that. Their host would
not be pleased. No sir. Who's got more cigarettes? There was a
pack here a minute ago. I just had them.
Jeff decided it was time for a beer. It was
almost ten a.m., after all. Bob joined him. "This is like a Hemingway story," Jeff
announced, belching, after a few minutes. "Man versus nature. Either we fix
the dock or the dock fixes us. Tumbletown. Ker-splash." James let a redolent, rattling fart go, just
to underscore the gravity of the situation.
Things get done. Eventually, Bob and Jeff
donned dashing swimsuits, which went otherwise unused, and enough upper-body
gear to ward off hypothermia. In what became known as "The Father's Day
Follies," the pair stumblingly managed to wrassle-wrangle the dock into its
original position, mostly, and lash it soundly, kind of, to a nearby tree--
all while staging a remarkable impression of two of the Three Stooges. I
think it was Curly and Shemp. Not sure.
A job well done. Dock sound, cabin saved. It
was time to FISH!
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