So I did a google image search of all of the people the Ladyfriend and I were stated to look like, (since I had never heard of Parker Putzy or Colonel Chlamydia), and my conclusion is as it has always been. The Ladyfriend is way prettier than I am. I personally think the Ladyfriend looks like Natalie Umbruliogo or whatever her stupid name is. Check this out-

Uncanny, no?

Anyhow, thanks for calling me Fester, Marlon Brando, E.T., and, “that bald retard from seventh street”. Proof, once again, that some girls do like a sense of humor.

So I went with the Ladyfriend to Indiana to see her dad and his wife. They live in this restored old house on a pretty lot near Indianapolis, and we had a great time. Her dad was a very cool guy. One of those people with a very expressive personality, but very happy and laid back in general. He also has this British accent that makes all of his jokes and charming colloquialisms about 31.6522% funnier and more charming. We went fishing in the poison ivy farms of north Indianapolis and caught very little, but had fun. One thing I had to get used to was this-

The Ladyfriend and I are both grown adults, and recognizing this fact, her dad put us in the same bed while we were there. Logically this makes more sense than anything else, but conditioning and my parents have taught me that YOU DON’T SHARE A BED UNTIL YOU ARE MARRIED. My parents are big on this rule, so when I stay at their house with a girl, we reside in separate rooms. I have no problem with this, nor did I have a problem with the Ladyfriend’s father seeing it differently. All of that stuff makes sense when you are awake, but at 7 am when your girlfriend’s dad knocks on the bedroom door and you are in the bed with her, you just react. I think he understood why I dove out the nearest window with the bedspread in one hand, but I still have to pay for the damages to the siding and the bushes.

We also went to the Wright-Patterson Air Force museum and saw some cool planes. She was more excited about seeing the planes than I was. I was like a retard at Chuck-e-Cheese with all of that aviation around. We saw an IMAX movie about the blue angels (you would think that an Air Force museum would have a movie about the Thunderbirds, but we all know how much difficulty Air Force Pilots have with the idea of flying in the same direction, much less in formation (my dad is puffing out his chest with pride in his oldest son right now)), and this kid kept crying every time the movie got loud. I know many of you have kids, and that’s great and all, but don’t bring them to movies. Hire a sitter, go to a kid’s movie, or stay home. You made the choice to sacrifice the next twenty years of your life to raising a child, so don’t bring me in to your hell. That part sucked until the parents finally realized that we didn’t pay $10 to listen to their brat scream and took it out of the theater.

I also found the plane I flew in Desert Storm on display and posed for pictures. Photoshop is a dangerous tool.

The girl behind me stole my wallet, and I was forced to chase her down and throw her through a display case full of commemorative bomber jacket insignias.

It was a good time over all. I just wish plate glass were cheaper.

We went duck pin bowling all 1930’s style one night, and I proved to myself and all of humanity once again that I suck at all types of bowling. I do, however, entertain those around me while I try.

And yes, I did get to go fishing last weekend. Twice. Saturday my dad and I went up to this trout stream and ended up riding around for most of the day just talking about stuff and solving the world’s problems, and confusing ourselves over others. For instance, why can’t a woman tell you which direction she is traveling at any given time? No, not all women, but most. I asked a former girlfriend which way she thought we were driving one day, and she said, “left”. I got out and walked home. Dad and I fished for about fifteen minutes, but still managed to exhaust an entire day. It’s a talent the Scott boys are blessed with. On Sunday, Skank Sinatra and I and the Ladyfriend’s soon-to-be-stepdad (we’ll call him Brett in an effort to conserve dashes), went back to the same spot and fished for the entire morning. Brett and I caught a couple each, but poor Skankward couldn’t seem to charm the fishes, so we stopped at the trout farm on the way back. For those of you who don’t know, a trout farm is to fishing what Macintosh is to computers. It’s where people who don’t know what they are doing go to achieve roughly the same result as those who do by simply paying more. Of course, in Skank’s case, it was a matter of pride to beat the fish at its own game. He stood proudly on the bank of the 2-4 pound rainbow trout pond and wielded his loaner Zebco Snoopy fisherman pole like Poseidon’s trident. A few fish tried to step to the power, but were scared off by his wild gyrations and screams of triumph. He was successful in landing two of them, and took them home and ate them that night. Here are some action shots of our hero-

Here you can see him doing battle with a trout that is at least half his size. The fight went on for several minutes, and a crowd of children gathered around to see what kind of adult fishes at a trout farm.

After landing the beast, he gave it the Skank patented “Old Crazy Pus Eye”, and proceeded to tell the children that his fishing rod was made from enchanted goat’s milk, and not to look directly at it.

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