The Importance of Sunglasses

THE IMPORTANCE OF SUNGLASSES

On June 9^th, I woke up at around 5 am with an itch to get down to the shoreline.  I had been working on getting the boat cleaned up for the summer, so I could spend some time on the water with the kids before college started in a few months.  In the meantime, I had been waiting for a break in some pretty consistently high surf to get to the beach to see what was biting.  The water had been getting warmer, with a persistent south swell, but the waves had been 6-10 for a few days.  Even if the surf made conditions unfishable, I wanted to get down there and watch the waves and wet a line.  The kids were all in the local production of “The Little Mermaid” and had to report to the Three Peace Theater by 9 am, so it was a solo scouting trip for me.  That was just as well, given the big conditions..

                I got to Salt Creek beach before 7 am. It was drizzling, so I put my sunglasses on the console and left them there. The tide was low and just starting to come up.  It was an unfavorable draw, as the incoming tide and pounding surf would be picking up all of the kelp stringers that had been stranded in the tidal zone and washing them around in the shallows I intended to fish.  Given the ripping current, I shortened my fluro leader to about 18 inches to keep it in the zone.

                  I fished Gravels in front of the golf course, but it was weed infested with lots of littoral drift. The waves were big and glassy. I watched a paddle-in guy get a bunch of cool rides. I was using a Carolina rig with a ¾ sliding sinker; 15# main line; 8 # fluro; a 2 inch Gulp sand worm and throwing well inside the primary break into advancing sheets of  foam that made the splash of the cast hard to mark.  The water was pretty cold and had dropped down to what I think was mid-60s.

                After watching the surf and mostly dodging kelp stringers by constantly reeling in, I decided to call it quits and head back along the beach.  I was jogging in the tractor tracks in the sand in the direction of the Ritz-Carlton and watching the waves, which inspired me to think that I should just do this every morning at dawn to slow down the deterioration that had left me with shooting and fishing as the primary activities I could still perform.  Instead of heading up the road to the Salt Creek Parking lot, I kept going toward Strands Beach and decided to have a look to see if conditions might be better on the other side of the point.  When I got there, I noted less kelp and a pocket of what looked like fishable water just to the east of the point. There was another guy there with his kid.  He was using a long surf pole and had just given up to sit with his wife when I showed up.

                 I started getting bites in the shallow water just behind the trench created by a secondary shore break.  I released a couple of perch and talked to the other angler, who was using the natural version of my artificial bait and asked me what I was using to catch fish.  I advised him to throw closer and he would probably get bit. He started fishing again and was positioned about 30 yards to my left.

 I caught and released another small perch and put on a new rubber worm.  As I threw it out, I noticed a big chunk of kelp moving from left to right and tried to avoid it with a retrieve.  As I did I got bit again and struck back right as the kelp enveloped the line and began to stretch it back out to sea.  Without warning, it suddenly released.  The last thing I saw with my right eye was a giant sinker filling my entire field of vision on the right side.  I was on my butt in the shallow water and staggering around, momentarily completely blind and trying to comprehend what had happened to me. 

I was on my feet and was now able to see with my left eye.  I closed my left eye and could see nothing but white.  I felt for my eyeball and it seemed to be in place.  There was blood on my fingers.  I thought I was going to puke and pass out, so I felt an extreme need to get out of the water and up onto the path above a four foot high section of rocks.  Intellectually, I knew that I had been struck in the eye by the sinker, but I was having a hard time trying to process my situation.  I remembered that I had my cell phone and decided to make for the unmanned lifeguard tower on the point in front of the Ritz, so I could sit down and make a call.  I even went back to the edge of the sand to recover my beloved 2 dollar Duff Beer flip flops and bite my terminal gear away from the fishing pole I never dropped. I felt bad about littering a length of line and terminal gear on the beach, but trying to dispose of my gear seemed like too much effort at the time. I called Wendy and told her what had happened and where I was.  She said she was on her way and told me to call 911, which I did.  After I explained my situation to the operator, I told her I would start walking back toward the Salt Creek Beach Road and meet them at the base of the road.

I got to the spot and waited.  I was cognizant of people walking by with strollers and surfboards, but I did not want too accost anyone and ask them what I looked like.  My head began to clear, the nausea passed and was replaced by a splitting headache.  Pretty soon, a giant fire truck showed up and the cheerful crew of paramedics checked me out.  They confirmed that my eye was still in the socket; that it was damaged and hemorrhaging; that I did not appear to have an orbital fracture and that I should go to the hospital.

                The paramedics suggested that if Wendy was on the way, she could just take me to the hospital, which was fine with me.  They asked where my shoes were and I realized I had left them back at the lifeguard tower where I had made the call.   We then all piled into the enormous fire truck and took the jeep path back to the tower to get my shoes while I filled Wendy in on the plan when she called me back and asked where the hell I was.

                We got to the hospital, where the nurse turned out to be a very enthusiastic angler who completely understood the mechanics of what had happened to me without a painful explanation.  She even gave us some smoked yellowtail she had stashed in the hospital for lunch.  It was great.  They gave me an Rx for Oxy, which I had never had before.  I was given an appointment with the on call ophthalmologist who set an appointment for Monday morning. 

The Oxy proved to be a terrible match for me (maybe if I was as fat as Rush I could get more into it) and the headaches just got worse as the pressure built up inside my eye.  I got a laundry list of drugs to bring it down and switched out my pain meds to Vicodin (lighter, but more effective) to get into a better place.

I began seeing a series of eye specialists.  Everybody wanted to know what had happened.  It was a lot easier to explain to folks who fished, than to those who did not.  Often, my history of injury was retaken by ESL nursing students to whom I had to explain the mechanics of the injury; the elements of surf fishing which generated the physics of the trajectory, and some basic English language terminology.  I learned to ask if my historian, who often was reading a history already on my intake form, fished:

“I have history on chart.  Tear me what happen.”

“Do you fish?”

“No.”

“I got hit in the right eye by a sinker while fishing.”

“What is senker?”

“It is a lead weight.  ¾ ounces.  It was like it had been launched into my eye with a slingshot.  Do you know what a sling shot is?”

“No.  So you have brunt eye?”

“No.  I have blunt eye trauma caused by a ¾ ounce lead sinker being propelled into my eyeball at high speed.  I think the report you are reading says blunt eye trauma, meaning that my eye was impacted by a blunt object, not a sharp object.”

“How big is senker?”

“3/4 ounce”

“How big is that?”

“Like a marble.  Do you know what a marble is?”

“No.  So you have a brunt eye?”

“Well, I guess I do now.”

 There was a lot of blood behind my eye and I could not see much of anything.  That little bit of vision I had started to wind back on kept getting worse. Ultimately, it was determined that I had to have emergency surgery to repair a retina that was rapidly detaching in four places and drain the blood out of my eye.

The surgery and sequelae proved to be more complicated and they ended up placing permanent rubber bands to hold my eye components together. I had my vitreous jelly and fluid removed in place of a gas bubble, which means that I must remain in a face-down position virtually at all times for at least a month and try not to move too much.

The day after the surgery, Dr. You, who is very direct, advised that my eye pressure had reached an unacceptable level and would have to be dealt with:

“You have too much pressure in your eye, so we are going to have to reduce the pressure.  We are going to do that by putting a needle into your eye and bleeding off some of that pressure.”

(I suddenly got a toe curling sense of apprehension and kept thinking of that little rhyme we used to recite about telling the truth.  I wondered if I could just cross my heart and hope to die instead of going in for this treatment)

“That sounds awful.  How long will that needle be in my eyeball?”

“Less than a minute.”

It was in my eyeball for less than a minute, as promised, but that is about the only thing good I have to say about having a needle put into your eyeball while your eyelids are held open with that spring-like speculum device like they used in the aversion therapy in “A Clockwork Orange.”   They should have been playing Beethoven’s Ninth while this was going on.   As for the sensation, I would describe it as feeling exactly like someone is putting a needle into your eye and talking to you while it is in place.  The doctor pulled it out and re-inserted it one more time, while instructing me to remain perfectly still, which I did.

As part of the positionally-awkward rehab involved in this surgery, I have rented a number of contraptions designed to allow me to remain in a face-down position for virtually all of the time.  I have learned that many people have undergone this kind of surgery and that the key to having any chance for recovery is to remain face down.  I watch TV through a mirror device from a torture stool (similar to a massage stool) that tilts me forward and directs my face down into a horse shoe-like pad. People in the room can come and go without me knowing unless they walk between me and whatever is in the mirror.  I sleep on the couch on top of this whale-back pad that allows me to drop my face into a padded donut.  Actual slumber has been a bit of a problem.

The steroids I am putting into my eye four times a day are puffing me up, despite the fact that my wife and vegan GP doctor have put me back on a plant-based diet because of the high cholesterol counts in my pre-surgical testing.

I just got released to go back onto my computer and have avoided having to have a needle put back into my eye in follow up visits.   The piles of work-related e-mails are daunting and I am obviously avoiding them right now by typing this instead of confronting work.  I can get up for a bit and make stir-fry vegetables, which I now do while wearing safety goggles (really – I am paranoid about splatter going into my sighted eye).

I am mostly watching documentaries on Netflix, which my kids were stoked to finally get. Everyone is a bit of a comedian around this house.   Sarah commented that all we had to do to finally get this bit of technology that all their friends already have was for Dad to have his eye gouged out, so the injury has been a net positive family development, as far as she can tell.

                Sarah refers to me as “Oedipus” – because “your name is Ed and your eye is gouged out.”

                Isaac calls me as Polyphemus, as he is also into Greek literature.  It reminds me that my three oldest have just graduated from high school.

                For Father’s Day, my wife and kids performed a parody based on “Les Miserables”, which has always been a literary vehicle for a seemingly endless supply of humorous analogies in our family.  This performance was based on the song “Look Down” and was objectively quite funny.

In any event- Sorry for the length and lack of monkey killing in this narrative.  This situation kind of sucks, but it could always be worse.  I am hopeful for resuming activities by August, but there really is no guarantee at this point as to how much, if any, sight I will get back on that side.  I guess I might have to learn to start hunting with grenades, or just shoot vegetables at short range, since this vegan thing has once again reared its ugly head in my masquerade of a lifestyle.

These are the days.

               

Diane Schmitt - December 9,1932 - December 30, 2012

I know that I am delinquent on my hunting and fishing reports, but I must pause to pay a little tribute

 

My Mom introduced me to fishing and is as much responsible for instilling my love for this fantastic pastime for myself and my children as anyone or anything. Her gentle, intelligent spirit was often so much on display on those many occasions that we enjoyed relaxed conversation about things that really mattered and cast our lines in the quiet beauty of a day on the water.

Mom finally got spooled today after a somewhat brutal battle with pancreatitis. Hers was a life that was otherwise a model of active good health and service to her community; the Ocean Institute of Dana Point; St. Edward's Church, and all of the children and grandchildren to whom she demonstrated such love and virtue. She made innumerable friends and always welcomed strangers and loved ones alike with consistent acts of kindness.

Time is the stream that we all go fishing in and Diane had 80 good years - or, as my wife Wendy put it - 80 years of being good. She went out surrounded by her family and we have little doubt that she knew how much all would miss her good company and her constant example of true Christianity. We will always remember sharing nature and the many opportunities to experience the particular joy that made fishing with Mom such a perpetual series of occasions for hope, as well as serenity - it is the lure of that which is elusive, yet attainable. She is resting now on calm waters and watching over us.

These are the Days.

 

Secret Lobster Report October 2012

     Went Lobster fishing for a weekend at  an undisclosed time, to a pair of uncharted islands in search of large marine insects,  The plan was to go to an ultra-secret spot at an island we'll just call Cantina  We intended to fish for bugs all night and then leave at dawn the next day for another island I'll nickname Roberto Clemente, because he is my favorite baseball player of all time. 

      Our secretive Skipper (let's just say he wouldn't be a starter in the NBA)  took us to a spot that had been producing a late night crawl.  The sky was clear and swimming with stars when we got to this enchanted isle after a pretty bumpy ride across the San Pablo Channel.  I (call me Ishmael) was third in command behind our experienced big game hunting Dentist (we'll just call him the Extractor).

     We tried to get live squid from the San Pedro and Long Beach guys, but everyone was fishing them commercial style because they were getting $700 per ton for the dead ones and they can keep ten times as many dead as alive.  Therefore, no one was selling to the few fishermen with low enough self-esteem to take it in the face for that nocturnal channel crossing.  We got a scoop of trout sized sardines instead.

      After we arrived we put out our hoops in 15 to 35 meters of water, baited with Laguna Tuna and Rushdie heads.  We then commenced to hammering our way through seemingly unlimited supplies of Kentucky Fried Chicken, Mountain Dew and extra hot Beef jerky.  The first few pulls were pretty sparse, with lots of ruby red crabs that tried to pinch us as we released them.  We got about 8 legals in the first 40 pulls, as well as twice that many shorts (and not by much).  Things started to heat up around midnight, as we worked out way into the second day of our three day bug hunt (multi day permit).

      We fished until about 4 am when we pulled into a mooring at Valhalla Cove, where we enjoyed a pleasant nap for about 45 minutes before going ashore for the Extractor to deliver a huge dose of internal emancipation at the facilities next to the green pier.  We also got some much needed coffee for the ride  over to Roberto Clemente Island.

     The ride proved to be pretty rough for a dawn patrol crossing, and we were grateful to get to the shelter of North by Northwest Harbor.  We kept chasing bird schools diving on breaking fish with our trophy sardines and surface irons, but all we caught was more lobster bait.  We tucked in for  some big calicos and sheephead along the front side.  It was our intention to fish south toward triangle cove, where we would lobster fish all night at this pristine location.  While working our way down, we noticed thousands of commercial traps, which could prove to be a serious hazard for working a string of rave lighted hoop buoys in the fatigued darkness. 

       When we got to the Sphynx, we took a look around the corner and saw nothing but deadly buoys, so we made the hard decision to run 60 miles back to the front side of Cantina, where we set up at our previous spot about 4 pm. We set out our hoops before dark, but were soon joined by the always oblivious divers who weaved their boats through our well lit buoy line, dispensing humans with flashlights and bags.  One of the boats had no lights, but that did not prevent him from parking his boat in the middle of our string (probably because it was a source of light) while his divers worked around our hoops.  We had several meager pulls - again with the ruby red crabs and a few shorts, punctuated by occasions for hope in the form of a legal or two. 

    We were getting pretty punchy and at one point the Extractor managed to board the drifting  dive masters as they bobbed by us.  He flung himself onto their deck and rolled inside their cabin to release a few KFC -powered farts that sounded like Klaxons.  Their crew was terrified and climbed, with their eyes watering, out onto the foredeck to escape his presence, as well as his presentation. He jumped back onto our boat after telling them they were free to go back to the mainland if they hurried. 

       When the derelict dive boat finally left before midnight, things started to happen for us.  The bugs crawled even later this time, while we consumed a six and a half foot sandwich that the Extractor purchased from a war surplus store for $2.75.  It was like the loaves and fishes all over again. 

     We rolled into San Pedro just before dawn and collapsed into a sleep that lasted a couple of hours - long enough to down a couple of red bulls and get the boat cleaned up.  We caught 38 legal bugs for 3 dudes, so it was close to limit fishing once again on Secret Skippers boat.

      I happened to be staying with my family of seven at the local Residence Inn in Dana Point, due to huge flood created by an unfortunately large species of feces left in a running commode by one of our sleep -over surfing house guests.  Because of that lack of housing, I said I would bring this bounty of the sea to my Mom and Dad's house for a big family feast.  I stopped off at the market to buy some steaks, where I perceived the discomfort of others at the fishy cache' eminating from my clothing.  I wiped my self down repeatedly with those sanitary moist towelettes that all of the stores have at the door and got out of there as quick as I could, with the intention of getting in a shower and sneaking a quick nap at our under construction home before heading over to extended Familyville. 

      We were in the middle of a substantial heat wave and I had been glad for the free air-conditioning at the Residence Inn (A great place to stay, by the way).  When I activated the garage door to our house, I was blown down by the incredible stench of our outside refrigerator, which was surrounded by all of our belongings in our garage.  Our house was in the custody of our contractors and the breaker for the garage got tripped by power tools.  The freezer, containing tuna, squid and salmon, was now in the bloom of a week long cooking  contest.  The warm liquifaction that I got to clean up made the lobster bait scent I was wearing seem like Chanel.  I got it all cleaned up and after a week of several bleachings, scrapings and gallons of high-powered cleaner, I finally got that fridge (for which I had just purchased an extended warranty) back into good enough condition for our contractor to load it into his truck and take it to the dump.

       We are back in our house now, though it is not done.  We have all new toilets, as befits our station in life.  We enjoyed a fabulous surf and turf dinner with all of the family, my folks and my sister Mary Lou, thanks to the efforts of Secret Skipper and the Extractor, so it worked out.  I even used my Iphone's camera feature to snap what I thought was a photo of my bride and two youngest posing with the bugs before i slaughtered them (the lobsters).  You can see from the attachment that I really know what I am doing when it comes to devices like I-phones.

 

    Well, next week I am off to Colorado to try and shoot something majestic and tasty, so wish me luck, or don't, if you give a shit about the beauty of nature.

Enjoy your pumpkin, because after all...

These are the Days

Halloween surf fishing report

I took Tommy, my 7 year old (David declined) down to go surf fishing yesterday morning and it was a very glorious day at Salt Creek Beach.  The crowds were thin enough so that we could get a late start at 8:30  and get to productive water ahead of most beach goers.  The lack of waves also contributed to getting a pretty swimmer-free zone with which to work.  The water was surprisingly clear, the incoming tide was just right, the wind was slightly offshore and the waves/seaweed were not a factor (often the kelp blowing back and forth in the surf makes it unfishable).

Tommy is getting pretty independent at surf fishing and can cast and retrieve, as well as catch sand crabs for bait as he fishes.    Yesterday, he did not need to stay right  next to me me as we worked back and forth along a stretch of beach.  He caught several large perch that he only needed help releasing.   At the beginning of summer Tommy could not cast and would only reel in if someone handed him a hooked up rod.  

                  It was a very remarkable day to actually get to see fish in the water.  Tommy was able to spot fish cruising the shallows and identify many of them.  We saw leopard sharks, corbina, perch and various rays.  Tommy claimed he saw a white seabass that was bigger than he was (I have never seen that, but they do cruise the beach and can get absolutely huge).  We saw the most corbina I have ever seen in one morning.  They come into water that is less than 6 inches deep and sometimes get their backs out of the water as they  coast in on the foam to feed on sand crabs before flashing out underneath incoming waves.

                  Anyway, we were catching and releasing many pretty good fish for little crowds that stopped to watch us reel in.  Folks are usually surprised when you catch fish right off the beach like that.  I handed off to Tommy what I thought was a big corbina (the prized surf fish above all others), but it turned out to be a shovel nosed shark that screamed off line and took him all over the place before we beached it for the crowd and heaved it back into the sea.

I managed to sight cast ahead of the largest corbina we saw that day (very line shy fish) and saw him disappear toward the cast, after which I got bit and ended up landing one of the biggest ones I have ever caught in my life.  It took close to ten minutes to bring it in as it made several runs and then would stop and frame itself in the lens of a forming wave, which made it look really big. I would like to think he was the one I was casting to.  They are really good to eat, although I have not kept one in twenty years. It was two feet long and we released it to the approval of onlookers. If our kitchen had been put back together, I might have brought it home.

             I did not bring my camera, as we were in the surf at times.  This is the main type of fishing we have done this year and we have had some real good days (as well as days when conditions made it impossible) but this is probably the best conditions we have fished in all year.  We left them biting in the sunshine at noon.

Happy Halloween.  We are still not sure what we will be.  Something with swords, I’ll bet.

These are the Days

Grapes of Wrath Family Vacation

I just got back from my Grapes of Wrath family road trip vacation.  2280 miles through the northern California forests with my bride and five kids in our  165,000 mile Ford Expedition.  That car ran like a champ with a full roof rack and hitch hauler. Visited friends, watched forest fires, went river rafting, wakeboarding, shooting, fishing, hiking…. It was hysterically fun, even when we were arguing on the sometimes long legs of our journey between stops.  We reinforced something we always knew about each other, which is that our family will fight about ANYTHING.

"Look, a squirrel!"

That's not a squirrel.  That's a chipmunk."

There is no such thing as a Chipmunk in California.  The ranger told us that."

"Yeah, those are called California ground squirrels."

"No they're not."

"Yes they are.  I shot two of them with my pellet gun at our last stop in Truckee."

"You asshole.  Why would you shoot a chipmunk?  How does shooting one make you in charge of what I call them?"

I didn't shoot a chipmunk.  I shot a California ground squirrel.  Why are you so stupid?""

"Hey, shut up!"

"No. You shut up."

"Mom!  Isaac said he shot a Chipmunk"

"Isaac, you did not shoot a chipmunk, did you?"

"They are ground squirrels…  and No, I did not shoot any.  I just said that cuz Sarah is bugging me."
"Hey, FUCK  YOU Isaac."

"No, Fuck YOU!"

"Get your shitty pillow off of me."

" Don't kick me. Your feet smell.  You should see a doctor about that."

"Mommy, the big kids are using bad words."

"Am I going to have to stop this car?"

You'll be just fine America, once we bring back the good old days

Lobster report for January 16, 2010

FISHING REPORT FOR JANUARY 16^th, 2010

     Larry, Dennis and I went to Catalina on Larry’s new Parker 28 on Saturday afternoon to try and hoop up some lobster before the storm came in.  It was a smooth ride out and we were at the island by the low tide at 4:22 pm.  We baited Promar Ambush, Eclipse, and Danielson nets and had them in for a soak by 5 pm before a 5:22 sunset on a moonless evening.  The standard 100-foot lines were all set in 75 to 90 feet and we had three long lines down between 100 and 150.  Water temperature was 59.8, the wind waves were down to nothing, and air temperature was warmer than we expected.

     We lost a weighted, small-float, deep-rigged Ambush to a combination of seal joyriding or tidal movement right off the bat. We spent some time in a futile  effort to snag the gear with a jig that broke off when we momentarily had it close to the boat in deep water beyond a steep shelf.  This adventure made for a long initial soak when we picked up the remaining set of nine after 7 pm.

     This was my first opportunity to use Larry’s auto-puller, which is the third generation of a design that Larry has been testing.  It is called the Bagram, after its inventor-builder.

    It consists of a pipe-framed arm which extends a suspended pulley through which you pull the line before feeding it around another shaft-mounted wheel and then looping back up to take in the line from the top of a powered fly-wheel.  The large sliding floats are rigged to leave slack in the counter-weighted tag end of the line.  By pulling the float back to the weighted end, you can feed that length of slack through the wheels before hitting the power switch.  This allows you to start the ascent without yanking around the mainline first and spooking the bugs.  At first, this notion about slack turned out to be more theoretical for me than intended, but I got better.  The swift tidal current defeated some of our program by pulling the float to the lead counterweights on the tag end of the line past the sliding float

      The heaviest movement of the tide hit about 6:30 pm, which was when it started actually getting dark.  We pulled 7 legals out of the first set as the tide began running hard.  We also pulled 30 shorts. Three of the hoops had 7 or more in them as they came over the side.  We sent the hoops right back down as soon as we got them emptied out, not realizing that the tide was now running much faster than when we had placed them at slack tide.

     We hit the set again when we noticed that several of the floats weren’t sailing correctly and seemed to be migrating.  Several of the hoops were not in contact with the bottom as the buoys drifted. The situation was compounded by seals grabbing the small float above the hoop.  They would drag the net out as they tried to get at the bait.  We had one bait cage get pulled off, but we had a half-size spare cage.  The upshot is that until we figured out the situation, we made a couple of sets that resulted in chasing down mostly empty nets during the big tide movement.

     Until high tide at 10:45 pm, we had a very slow four hours during which we pulled in one more legal and 20 more shorts.  Shortly after the high tide slack, we dropped a longer soaking set at 55 to 75 feet, with the two deep rigs in about 115 feet.  We started getting a few more to keep us stoked on making more drops until we made a couple of final sets that cashed in on a post midnight crawl.  We had 17 legals before we pulled up our last set after 2 am for two more.  We were too beat to hang out for any more sets and figured 19 was enough.  The size ranged from barely legal to four pounds.  We had six nice ones that all looked over three. We caught well over 50 shorts. There was no obvious advantage demonstrated in favor of  Eclipse, Ambush, or Danielson rigs on this trip.

     Larry’s twin 250 four strokers got us home in about 35 minutes on a calm and clear ride back to San Pedro.

     I got home at 5:30 am with six live lobsters (one short of a limit) in the ice chest.  I showered and fell into bed ten minutes later. When she woke me up at 7:30am, Wendy Jo suggested that I was a pussy for not toughing it out long enough to bag that seventh lobster, but we invited our neighbors over for surf and turf anyway.

     The kids always like to see the live ones, but Tommy and Davey grew concerned that we weren’t doing enough to protect their totally fearless G. I. Joes, who deployed onshore to bring guns and butter to these uncivilized invaders.

          Isaac gave them even more cause for alarm when he threatened to air drop a couple of the biggest roaches behind our lines.  The boys asked us to pull their guys.

              Fortunately, our brave fighting men were victorious.  They joined with us to celebrate their conquest and our consumption of the enemy.

       These are the days