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Cuppa Joe called me a fishing virgin this morning on Facebook, which seriously made me spew coffee on this borrowed computer. Sorry Michael.

Today, my friend Trudy is taking me fishing. I’ve never been fishing before. We were not a family of fishing/hunting people (actually, we were an odd family growing up.) To describe my home life as a child would be a very strange thing to do. I can tell you that it was spectacularly bizarre.

Of course I told the very famous Dirk Diggler about me going on a boat to catch fish and he was skeptical as he knows me pretty well. I was concerned about minnows on hooks (which he scoffed at)  and I will NOT touch a cricket. And, of course, there was a high sense of phobia on my part attached to the concept about catfish eating me.

He is my resident fishing expert, as Trudy is, and I think it would be cool to start a battle of the sexes between them to see who catches the most fish. They are both deadly serious about their fishing prowess. They also most likely would ignore my idea for a media fishing event to rival Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs but I can dare to dream.

Yesterday, either due to crippling depression or a wickedly smart plan to save my strength to fight killer catfish, I slept most of the day. Ironically, I slept most of the night as well. I think I’m ready to fight a catfish if necessary although Trudy assures us that we will not fun into any lake monsters except for pterodactyls. (She says there is a bay that has these ancient beasts there. I remain oddly optimistic as you know I have a fascination with finding Bigfoot tracks and to see aliens, who these days I welcome as I think they might offer me a PR job as no one in the state of Tennessee seems very interested in doing that right now.)

I have decided that I’m ready for the challenge. I’m also going to bring a cooler in case I fail miserably so I can drown myself in self-pity and cheap beer if I don’t catch anything or get my leg bitten off by evil catfish.

I have a feeling it will be entertaining. I mean for those guys with me because I have a gut instinct that this could be a laff-a-rama for the seasoned fisherwomen with me.

And there will be cupcakes made by Homer for absolutely no reasons whatsoever, because nothing says fishing like beer and cupcakes.

This will be something to see, my friends, and I will be the second to die if this were a horror film.

Just saying.