I cannot begin to describe the gravity of what you’re about to see, even as I feel a wave of compassion wash over me for the hapless victim, who – after getting his ass wholly and completely kicked by a goose – couldn’t muster up words stronger than “gah” and “darn.”

In public, I’d laugh at this unfortunate angler in a manly manner (using my chiseled jaw and rock-hard pecs to reinforce the manliness of my laugh), but privately, I’d have to admit – in a shamed, trembling, girly man voice – that I too was once the victim of a Random Goose Attack [hangs head].

The memories of that decades-ago, Goose-driven ass kicking still haunts me deeply. So a few years ago – when I stepped too close to an unseen goose nest while fly fishing in Tennessee and heard the Awful Hiss of Doom – I suffered a flashback that would have made a Vietnam Veteran proud.

To my credit, I didn’t drop my fly rod and run screaming along the bank, anticipating the Honk of Certain Death directly behind my right ear.

No indeed.

I held onto my fly rod as I ran screaming, so later – as I walked by that busload of now-amused Japanese tourists – I could hold my head high.

To this day, I still remember the original feathered assault… the outstretched wings beating fiercely… the terrible honking noise… the awful flashing beak delivering its pile-driver like blows to my (ahem) sensitive regions…

I’m getting kinda sweaty just writing about it. So I’m going to stop, and just curl up in the fetal position for a few minutes.

Discuss.

(Found via the Goat)

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