Welcome back to Three-Word Thursday, where Fish Hack is busy polluting the cyber-Fish Wrap with what has disaffectionately been called The Medford Crud by those who are sick with this crap for a couple weeks at a time.
Toxic. Phlegm. Donor.
Raspy cough. Rancid throat, a 45-psi buildup in the nostrils. These are symptoms Fish Wrappers have been handing off to each other like some toxic baton.
Germophobe Bill Kettler, the Fish Wrap’s medical reporter who squats next to Fish Hack, bathes in hand sanitizers just at the sight of me.
He’s not invited to my Phlegm Farm.
Been hacking enough greenery that I either need to get better soon or get an EPA permit for this, umm, discharge.
Lucky the Rogue is rising for a few days and winter steelhead fishing success will be like Fish Hack’s name on the dean’s list in college: non-existent.
Still, that gives Fish Hack plenty of time to reach out to The Donor on the day he leaves his 60s in the dust in favor of Septuagenarianism.
Dude was only 24 when he threw his DNA toward The Host Organism at just the inopportune time to create Fish Hack ‘lo these 46-plus years ago.
He survived Hack’s teen years, the midnight calls for bail, his own immaturity (wrestled my 19-year-old cousin when he was 62. Who woulda thunk he’d break his collarbone?) and 50-some years of sucking down Kools to make the big 7-0.
For his birthday, all Donor says he wants is to play three good games of basketball with his lunchtime buds at work and remember how to get home.
So, let us all raise a can of Ensure. To Donor.
Really, I never coulda done any of it without you.
In other words … It’s your fault, Dude.
