Fish Are Gross

This weekend Tyler and I went fishing with our friend Mike.
By which I mean they fished, and I watched squeamishly.  I reeled one in, and I handed people things when they needed them.

"Hey, bitch, hand me another chicken liver!" (I handled zero chicken livers. Gross.)

But they were biting that day, and we caught about 30 catfish.  No joke.

We brought them all back to our apartment and set up a giant (messy) system for gutting, cleaning, and chopping the heads off.  The boys started.  I made the beer run.
When I got back Mike was gutting and Ty was chopping off the heads.  I watched in fascination horror as his knife crunched through their gigantic backbones and their little heads arced up with the force, their mouths gaping as if they were screaming.
Sometimes as he cut in, they'd release a bit of gas and it sounded almost like a little squeal, and I was trying to get a video of it.  But I got something much, much more terrifying.  Not for the weak of heart.  Ready?
   "Yeah, fuck you guys.  You're gonna eat me?  I'm gonna ruin your appetites."
So that was Friday.
Saturday we went to Busch Gardens with a big group of friends.  We drank and rode roller coasters and someone gave me the little stuffed turtle he won.  It was a good day.  And mostly made up for the fish from hell.
If you want another (more) hilarious fishing story, read Allie Brosh's How a Fish Almost Destroyed My Childhood.