My wife caught me rummaging around in my fishing gear the other day. It was a tense moment. She accused me of planning a fishing trip before the garage was cleaned. I protested as convincingly as possible. I even allowed my voice to slide up an octave to simulate the heartbroken lilt of a child who has been falsely accused of eating chocolate before dinner, based on the flimsy circumstantial evidence of a ring of chocolate smeared around his mouth. I even opened my eyes as wide as possible and let my lower lip quiver, figuring that would generate a fetching look of innocence that my wife would not be able to resist.
Sadly it had the opposite effect. She demanded in the name of all that was odorless and scale free that I stop whining. She also stated that she was disappointed to inform me that I was clearly so obsessed with fishing that I was even starting to act like a fish; bugging out my eyes, and wiggling my lip like a bottom feeder probing for scum. At least that’s what I’m sure her burst of laughter would have meant if she had put it into words.
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