Luckily, for those of us with the collective backbone to pursue an Anarchist vacation, we do not have to man the line every day. We consider our many options and as our vacation from the Hell of Work flowers like outdoor dope in September we begin to trade picket shifts to suit our individual vacation needs. Last week, after I talked Henrik into cashing in some of his banked vacation time, I traded a couple picket shifts with Lost Johnny so I could get in a little late summer fishing. Lost Johnny agreed under one condition, "Just so long as you cover me when I go on my hunting trip in October. And don't forget my piece of shit hunting truck breaks down on the way home just about every year so you might have to cover a couple extra shifts for me before I make it back with my elk."
Sounded good to me. I prefer fishing to hunting now anyway. I only shoot off enough rounds every year to keep me sharp in case the motherfucking Americans roll across the border with our oil and gas fields in their gun sights.
The fishing in the backwoods of Canada is not what it was back in the '60s but it is still pretty fucking good. Rare is the fishing trip I do not return home like some stone drunk Jesus trying to impress a bunch of hick Middle Eastern motherfuckers with his fishing abilities.
Henrik and I hauled in a boatload again this year. Was a time we paid attention to the fishing regulations put in place to deter the lake rapers back in the '60s. Because of the price of gas we caught our two day limit in one day and got the fuck off the lake. We were going to catch our limit anyway. Why burn another half tank of gas going back and forth between Henrik's place and the lake? We are a couple of green Earth loving motherfuckers. The fuckheads who run our government really need to have a look at the way they insist on us burning more gas than we need to fill our freezers with fish for winter.
Once we were done fishing we had dinner at a little restaurant in the middle of the Great Nowhere known as Canada. Henrik used to work with the Squarehead who owns the place. He quit work when he met his wife in Argentina one winter. The restaurant specializes in German/Argentinian cuisine.
Henrik ordered a coffee and a whisky after we were seated, he had been drinking all day and had to get us home yet; I ordered a bucket of Patagonias. I could have drank three buckets. After I ordered I asked our waitress if she would mind if I tugged gently on her pig tails some time soon. She said, "It depends on just how big of a tipper you are..."
Fishing in the burning sun makes a man thirstier than usual. I could not remember the last time I poured them back so effortlessly. We both had the roast penguin which is only served to people the owner knows personally. The slaughter of penguins is frowned upon by many people besides Argentinians these days. It was delicious, tasting like baby seal without the fucking guilt trip from some actress you would rather fuck than listen to.
After we tipped and headed for the thick Douglas Fir front door I asked the owner where his pisser was located. He pointed out its location to me. But from the back of the restaurant our waitress hollered, "But pig tail pullers like you can piss out in the back."