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2025 Reflection
2025 Reflection
Glory, Hubris, and One Hell of a Faceplant
Glory, Hubris, and One Hell of a Faceplant
Another Hogfest has come and gone, and while our livers may never recover, our spirits are soaring — just like Boggs thought he was.
Let’s start with the obvious: 2025 was a banner year. The hogfish were plentiful, the jokes were relentless, the drinks bottomless, and the memories, though a little hazy, will live forever in the salt-stained lore of this wild tribe.
But no tale from this year would be complete without honoring the tragic comedy of Jason Boggs — the man who flew too close to the grill and too low to the reef.
After enduring a full year under the humiliating yet noble title of Fish Bitch, Boggs came into this year’s tournament swinging. Early on, he landed a monster — the biggest hog of the trip at the time — and with that fish, he found a dangerous thing: confidence.
He paraded that catch like it was the second coming of Neptune. He boasted, he preened, and — in a moment of peak hubris — he even tried rubbing it in my face, as if the crown had already passed hands.
But alas… fate has a flair for drama.
On the final day, I once again delivered the coup de grâce — hauling in a beast that dethroned Boggs and secured my second consecutive reign as Boss Hog. It was poetic, really. I called it a tale of Icarus — but not just the sun-flying part. Boggs managed to fly too close to the sun AND too low to the sea, a rare feat only possible when you’re drunk on hope and rum.
Speaking of drunk…
In a separate and equally hilarious tragedy, Boggs, in a feat of elegant self-destruction, tripped over his own feet during a bar crawl, faceplanted into a coral art piece, and busted his eye open like a true sacrificial clownfish. He spent the rest of the trip looking like he lost a bare-knuckle brawl with a tide pool. Zeus wept. We laughed.
As for the rest of us — heroes, all.
The hogfish were everywhere. We feasted like Poseidon’s bastard children.
The music slapped.
The camaraderie hit even harder.
The memories? Eternal.
And Kyle? Well… let’s just say he bagged a fish of questionable citizenship and we’re not asking too many questions.
This year was tighter, funnier, saltier, and more legendary than the last. Hogfest has once again proven itself not just a tournament — but a rite of passage, a sacrament of salt and spears, a celebration of glory and ridiculousness in equal measure.
To the ocean.
To the absurd.
To More Drugs, More Better.
Until next year… stay sharp, stay salty, and never — ever — be the Fish Bitch.
My brothers in brine, bearers of spears and bad decisions...
We are gathered once again, not merely to fish — but to conquer, to consume, and to celebrate all that is glorious, grotesque, and gloriously grotesque.
Welcome to Hogfest 2026.
Some said it couldn’t be topped. That 2025 was the pinnacle. That we had peaked with the divine comedy of Boggs — the Fish Bitch who flew too high, fell too hard, and wore his coral wounds like a crown of crustacean shame.
But I say no, my salty degenerates. This year, we fly higher. We dive deeper. We drink dumber.
As your reigning, repeat, and indisputable Boss Hog, I once again return to this sacred dinner not just victorious — but righteous. I have felt the ocean’s judgment. I have stared into Poseidon’s cold, fishy eyes and said, “Not today, bitch.” And he gave me the biggest hog in the sea.
But this isn’t just about me… well, it’s mostly about me — but this is also about us.
The men who travel far and wide with nothing but spears, coolers, and emotional instability.
The warriors who rise with the tide and fall with the THC.
The legends who feast like kings, dance like fools, and hunt like apex predators with hangovers.
This is Hogfest, dammit.
This is MDMB.
This is where stories are born, pride is shattered, and Kyle quietly breaks at least one federal fishing law. (For legal reasons this is a joke)
So here’s what I ask of you, my oceanic outlaws:
Fish hard. Smoke harder. Shame your ancestors.
Catch something so big it breaks your back or your face.
And above all — above all — never, ever let yourself become the next Fish Bitch. That title must be earned through true incompetence and public humiliation.
Now raise your glass — preferably your third or fourth.
To hogfish.
To hubris.
To coral-related head trauma.
To glory.
To More Drugs, More Better.
Let Hogfest 2026… BEGIN.
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