Ahoy, Good Buddy!

Just as I'm about to shovel yet another heapin' helpin' of dreariness over my head, a faint glimmer of hope shines through in this bogus burg. See, if you want to get fresh fish in this town you need to, well... you need to go to another town... that's far away from here. Their idea of fresh fish 'round here is grabbing the can of tuna just as the stock-boy is placing it on the shelf over at the Meijer.

So imagine my surprise when a neighbor mentioned "the fish truck." What the shit, neighbor?! Tell me more! Well, apparently there's some dude who drives into town in a truck, once a month, and parks in some gravel parking lot, selling fresh fish out the ass of said truck. And you know, I've been here so long now that this whole scenario doesn't even make me blink. Buncha fucking loonies.

So I headed on over to the lot, over near the big red barn, and there he was:



As you can see, I had to fight the crowds to get to the dude. But, five minutes later, I walked away with a coupla pounds of sushi-grade tuna steaks and a bag-o-mahi-mahi:



This is either gonna be the greatest discovery of the last three miserable years here, or the Crabby family's in for some serious ptomaine poisoning. Either way, we'll at least be eating something from the sea that I didn't need a can opener to prepare.

Now, if I can just figure out where the doobage truck, the stylish-clothes-truck, the live music truck, and the culture truck are parked, I'll be fucking set.