Everybody in Minnesota knows or should know that the second Saturday in May is the walleye fishing opener. I would compare it to everyone who lives in Kentucky knowing that the first Saturday in May is the Kentucky Derby.

I celebrate the opener the same way that I always have. I get up at the ass crack of dawn, get out on the lake, and start drinking. I keep a line in the water so it looks like I'm fishing. I would estimate that I popped the first can of beer open at 5:15 a.m. that morning. As circumstances would have it, my brother-in-law was 2 hours and 6 beers ahead of me.

It all started the week before. Year after year, Craig would drive 250 miles north to camp, freeze his ass off, drink (duh) and catch the same amount of fish that I would while staying at my brother's house and fishing his lake for the opener. "There are too many city people out on your brother's lake" he would say. "I don't like those assholes!"

Well, this was the year that he decided to take me up on fishing near the Twin Cities for the Opener. Much to my dismay.

He showed up at my brother's house with his boat and two 30-packs of beer. That's 60 cans of beer, people!

"Sweet, Craig. You brought us beer."

"Fuck you, asshole. That's for me. Get your own."

I guess they taught manners in the public schools up on the Iron Range.

Friday night before the Opener has its traditions. First, grilled steaks and booze for dinner. I like my bourbon, Craig went with Schmidt's in the can. "Fuck you, it was $9.99 a box."

Then downstairs to my brother's rec room for pinball until you pass out. I counted 15 cans-o-Schmidt went down Craig's gullet before he made his camp on the basement floor. He unrolled a sleeping bag, laid out a pillow, and rummaged clumsily through his backpack for something. Out came a large hunting knife. A big, menacing one with an eight-inch blade and fixed handle. It stayed in its sheath and got stashed under his pillow.

He then went back to his pack and pulled out an uncased 45-caliber hand gun. Cocked it, waved it at me, and said "Don't fuck with me while I'm sleeping." I guess he's used to getting hassled while he's sleeping.

I took this as my cue that the evening's festivities were over, so I turned in and made sure that I propped a chair up against the door to the spare bedroom.

When I came to at 4:30 a.m., the bedroom door was open. This freaked me out and made me realize that I had to pee really bad. I ran to the bathroom and started relieving myself.

The person who designed my brother's guest bedroom must have been a chick. The wall behind the toilet was a mirror so I got to look at myself holding my junk and urinating. Some people might be into that, but I'm not so I looked up and realized that my forehead had been written on.

My fucking hillbilly brother-in-law had gotten into my room and wrote on my balding head with a Sharpie. Somehow that dumb fuck even figured out to write backwards so I could read it in the mirror. It said "I went fishing at 2:00 a.m. so I don't have to deal with city people".

I have a big forehead.

When I got out on the lake, he was 6 beers and 5 walleyes ahead of me, including one that was 28 inches long and weighed over 5 pounds.

What a prick.