The story of The Catfish that wouldn’t die
“Oi! Hey you,” said my flatchested ex-fiancé, “ribbit. Let’s go fishing!”
“Finally,” I said, getting up early at Lake Poway, “but first. Let’s drown Fredo in pussy?”
We did. Phineas was his name, and that bag? Locked. On.
“Okay, I take out the trash every day,” I thought, doing the Chevy Chase, ‘this is crazy’ maneuver.
We had caught, at the dam, three or five catfish. Which, I did not know had a hardened plate on their neck and were impossible to clean.
“Why don’t I cruise back to Clairemont,” she said, wanting to get high, “while batboy throws those cats in the dumpster.”