Canal Fishers

You know what I hate? Canal fishers. Yeah, these are my lovely neighborhood peers who haul their grubby little Igloo coolers down to the canal banks of downtown Sunnyslope , toss a line in, and wait for a beheaded body catfish to hook itself on the lure.

I'm sorry, but are we really this hungry in Phoenix? Cause I'm thinkin' starvation is a better course of action than eating catfish from the banks of Sunnyslope. In fact, I'm pretty sure you'd be better off eating a spinach leaf with a hyperdermic needle stuck to it than you would eating a crud-water carp. Have you looked into the depths of a canal lately? Seriously. Let's think about this: canals are serial killers' preferred venue for dumping their bodies. This can't be a good sign!

I won't even talk about the fact that a canal is the poor-man's bidet. The poor, homeless man who has the runs due to eating a rotten hotdog from the QT garbage (true story, courtesy of my husband). I won't talk about that. Because I want you to enjoy your crap-flavored carp.

Or maybe this isn't about the food. Maybe we're not that hungry or desparate in Phoenix. Maybe it's about the sport. Yeah, the sport. As in, "kids -- go get your fishin' poles; we're headin' down to the wastewater treatment facility to have us some fu-uuun!" To this, I say, good for you. Good for you, canal fishin' dad, for taking the li'l ones for an afternoon outing they'll never forget.

They'll never forget the bloated prostitute torso floating by, or the used condoms bobbing in the water like a few slightly off-kiltered synchronized swimmers, or the brown engorged baby diaper, or the shardy crack pipe pieces or the bum washing his ass after eating a rotten QT hotdog. They'll never forget that day. These are the things from which memories are made.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take the kids to the Nuclear Power Plant to roast some marshmallows. Family fun for all!