I’m feeling particularly turgid at the prospect of a spending the weekend with you, yet you remain swollen and bloated, claiming you’re retaining water and in no mood for a frolic. In my feverish condition I’m past considering your feelings, so I looked up other flames and they’re in similar shape, singing the same sorrowful tune and disinterested in a passionate tryst.

While reluctant to pay for pleasure, most of the guides won’t take my money, claiming everything North of South is blown out, knocked up, and stay away. Even the party boat skippers claim the ocean bereft of salmon, and my idyllic little stinkwater a lifeless yet burgeoning plume of dam release unable to provide the release I so sorely need.

I’ve little choice and fewer options, and the prospect of fixing sprinklers versus putting the boots to your watery, yet supple form, is just increasing my ire … and as a vindictive SOB I’ll spend those agonizing moments of forced idleness producing even more things that’ll prove irresistible later.

We’ve done dinner and the obligatory romantic comedy, now I’m requiring more than a peck on the cheek, or nervous handshake on your dimly lit boat launch – I’m not looking for your regard or your respect, I’m looking for some action.

… that’s right, I’m looking for the nasty.

Sure, you’re the coquette and playing the field – but them other fellows are nice guys, who’ll keep their hands off your ample shoreline and respect your irritating seasonal largesse.

… flirt with Igor, the Hunchback of Folsom Dam … but while you’re giggling over the scowls of fishermen below, I’ll be in the bushes contemplating the unspeakable … waiting for your return home.

Tags: American River, enforced idleness, tired of this bullshit, Pink Pee Wee, fishless weekend, snow melt,