bigugli

OBviously you don't know enough about down east. Moose head is not an ornament it is a food staple. and although they be stuck with Rita and her miners, they pawned Ashley McIsaac off on NYC. We don't eat fried baloney. We eats Newfie steak.

It's my wife's eyes that are bigger than my paycheque

We don't do pumpkins anymore. It's been 3 years since any kids came to our door. Some urban myth about a psycho axe murderer, who kills kids , living in my house. I have no idea where that got started

Nothing new. It was going on in the Eastern bloc 50 years ago. All and everything is acceptable for the good of the party. Such is the reality of Marxist nationalism.

But the water ain't cold yet! Been there too. Wait til right after ice out.

There's the spoilt little princess. Ask Emily if she found her nose yet?

Walleye and pike in muddy waters down here get that same washed out, colourless look.

Keepin with the Southern theme that this conversation has taken Sah! I was trying to be a gentleman and keep this conversation civil for the benefit of the fair ladies that do frequent this site

At least it was only the pellet gun. There are still idiot yahoos that hunt along marked public trails, including sections of the "Bruce". I've had a couple of close calls. Regional police have been a joke because I don't have an I.D. of the shooter or his wheels The idiots out there know they are doing wrong. Unfortunately, they also know how easy it is to get away with their behaviour. Don't get me wrong please. I am not anti hunting. I used to hunt. I stopped hunting because I'm somewhat gunshy. I had to pick birdshot out of my hide after one of these Yahoos decided to shoot at the first thing that moved. Unfortunately, that was me as I popped up out of the blind. The idiot sure ran quick. the fellas that tried to chase him down only got close enough to see his dust cloud. Remember, there will always be a few dangerous idiots out there. Try to keep your eyes open. Be safe.

Just keep at it Bernie. One dy at a time. Longest i had managed, in the past was 4 weeks. It took a mass coronary and flat lining on the slab to make me a non-smoker. I urge any of you still smoking. DON'T MAKE THE SAME MISTAKE. About the cravings Bernie. 8 years later and I still get the occasional hankering for a smoke. It happens every time I get a whiff of a good blend of pipe or a premium cigar. I quickly compensate and have me a good glass of Napoleon or Cognac.

Preferably, a cute, blue eyed, blonde, belle. As they bat them big long lashes while asking you, " would you like taters or grits with that, honey child?"

What does one say? That hurt to read.

Every now and then I come across a great story to pass on. Truckers Story If this doesn't light your fire, your wood is wet! I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react to Stevie. He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued speech of Downs Syndrome. I wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade. The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded 'truck stop germ' the pairs of white-shirted business men on expense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for the first few weeks. I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot. After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and ager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and peppershaker was exactly in its place, not a breadcrumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus dishes and glasses onto his cart and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truck stop. Their social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Downs Syndrome ften have heart problems at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months. A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in recovery, and doing fine. Frannie, the head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of this 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table. Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look. He grinned. 'OK, Frannie, what was that all about?' he asked. 'We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay.' 'I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about?' Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed: 'Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK,' she said. 'But I don't know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is.' Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables that day until we decided what to do. After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand and a funny look on her face. 'What's up?' I asked. 'I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off,' she said. 'This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup.' She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed 'Something For Stevie'. 'Pony Pete asked me what that was all about,' she said, 'so I told him about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this.' She handed me another paper napkin that had 'Something For Stevie' scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply: 'truckers.' That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work. I then met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back. Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and busing cart were waiting. 'Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast,' I said. I took him and his mother by their arms 'Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me!' I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room. I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession. We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins. 'First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess,' I said. I tried to sound stern. Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had 'Something for Stevie' printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table. Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it. I turned to his mother. 'There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems. 'HappyThanksgiving. Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well. But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table. Best worker I ever hired. Plant a seed and watch it grow. At this point, you can bury this inspirational message or forward it fulfilling the need! If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are a compassionate person. Well. Don't just sit there! Send this story on! Keep it going, this is a good one!

What a pile of panty waisted poofter dribble. I like to see loads of outdoors mementos all through my house. Your home should be a representation of who you are. Animals and fish and rustic wood decor are just fine if they represent your lifestyle.

I remember a few restaurants asking me if I wanted my cats whole or filleted. Every time I've run South I make sure I get a few good feeds of catfish. Especially if it is an 'All You Can Eat' joint. Like in my post ,I used to fry fish whole, we grew up the same way in that regard. I just find filletting easier for me. That way I don't risk ruining my appetite.

The 300 and 300A were the most durable and reliable reels ever made. I got a 300A for my 13th. birthday and only finally retired it 30 years later when the bail spring went. Easy to look after, just a little grease once a year. Everybody tried to copy it , and Shakespeare had one or two reels that came close in quality, but not as durable.

The 300 and 300A were the most durable and reliable reels ever made. I got a 300A for my 13th. birthday and only finally retired it 30 years later when the bail spring went. Easy to look after, just a little grease once a year. Everybody tried to copy it , and Shakespeare had one or two reels that came close in quality, but not as durable.

Filleted, they're almost as tasty as walleye. I've got the 4 fillet method down pat. The pike has to have some meat on its bones though. Gotta be 22" or better They also are a favourite ingredient in my Gram's "fish head soup". I can still remember her or my aunt, in their heavy Finnish accent, with the weekly reminder. " You bring home pike for soup!", and my great aunt giving my cousin royal heck because I brought home pike and he did'nt. Of course, Gram would reward me for being a good grandson and give me beer money for next weekend. The old girls were always giving each other the gears about who had the better grandson. Tyyne was always proud of her Finn boy. Yup I was spoiled rotten.

Years back I would cook fish whole and pick out the bones. I then had to have bones removed that were lodged in my throat. Not a pleasant experience doing the scope thingy. I kinda get a bit queasy when I get any bones in my mouth now. So I fillet all my fish.

I guess I'm saving the perch for a little pike derby and pot luck fry some of my fellow Niagara nutbars are holding on Sunday.

Strictly from shore. I'm not allowed out in the boat by myself no more.

After being stuck indoors the past couple of days, it felt good to go fishing. Down to the harbour to scoop minnows and then into Welland. The wind sure made perching difficult. Could not keep my line taught to feel the hits on my bottom rig. Just kept feeding the perch. So picked up my bags and sought out a few spots out of the wind. I finally found a spot and the fish were stacked. Went through a good 40 or more minnows and a dozen worms. The weeds were still pretty thick so I went back to float fishing in 20 ft. of water. Of course some fish would have to be sacrificed to appease my appetite. Besides they wouldn't have survived There were a lot of dinks and a lot of very large rockbass in the mix as well.

Had a blast catching them in Florida. We were using little shrimp/ grass prawns? as bait.

Them first 2 lines are me to a tee

Same with the area north of Finch from Midland to Markham rd. before the developments