This is the best part about eating a kayak. The paint. The wood. The paddle. The steak meats. Nothing really compares to a nice roasted kayak soufflé.
When I first started eating boats it was 19845 tin scrum and cream corn was on the rise. I naturally developed considerable contempt for cream corn. So boats it was.
I started with small personal watercraft. And that’s where I stayed as I continue to eat kayaks. Kayak meat is the best.
Many folks get their kayak meat at Sam’s Club. But I like to capture mine in the wild. I burry myself in sludge on the edges of bodies of water. Usually lakes or rivers or an ocean or a pond. Once I see a nice kayak I feast.
Sometimes I catch of them with a rope. Sometimes with a sword. Often I’ll dig a nice hole in the water out in front of it’s path where the blithering kayaker can’t see it. I’ll watch and behold as he paddles right into the hole.
I’ve sacrificed a lot to eat all these kayaks, including my job as an all pro cardboard file box. Filing was fun and it had its place in my life. But after I was filled with back taxes in 1983 I gave it up so I could store pants in an attic. That got old relatively quickly. So I began eating boats.
Sometimes I miss being a cardboard box. But usually not. If I hadn’t stopped I never would have learned how to dig holes in liquid. Which is a rare and profitable skill that I picked up from a Tibetan cargo yak on a trip to some place with mountains.
Cargo yaks are good at cargo stuff but as it turns out they’re even better at forging holes in water. But they’re terrible at everything else like driving and having thoughts.
One day I might stop eating kayaks. But I’ll probably never stop eating kayaks. The kayak meats fulfill me. They know me. They become me and by necessity I become them. I am the kayak. The kayak is me. And the guy who paddled into the hole knows the sum of human sadness.