How NOT to Teach Your Kid How to Fish

I have never been a fisherman. I have never even claimed to be a fisherman, but when we rented a cabin next the beautiful Chrystal Lake here in Colorado, I thought what could go wrong. I will get to spend some quality time with my seven year old daughter and enjoy some fresh air.

When we arrived I unpacked and dutifully carried the six hundred pounds of fishing tackle, rods, line, chairs, floaties, seat cushions, fish decoys, cinder blocks, and whatever else the local fishing shop told me I would need, down to the river bank and set up shop.

My daughter stood next to me giddy with anticipation, and once we had our gear set, she watched as I cast the first line into the water. Immediately we got a bite and I set the hook … into nothing. I reeled the line in, re-baited the hook (since the thieving fish managed to make off with my worm) and tried again, optimistic at our chances. This pattern repeated itself six or seven hundred thousand more times and I decided maybe I was doing something wrong. Perhaps the worms had turned. My daughter had long ago been distracted from the whole ordeal by the promise of mud pies and Barbies, and I had cast my line so many times my rotator cuff was threatening to pull the pin and walk out.

I sighed and checked the little white worm tub for an expiration date (just in case) then figured I would give it one more try before calling it a day. Wouldn’t you know it … fish on! 

It gave up a good fight, but within a few seconds, I managed to reel in the monster trout, all four and three quarter inches of it. Apparently all of the big fish had gone home, leaving one skinny, pathetic looking straggler to catch my line. I could have put it in a fish bowl and had room for three more.

My daughter saw all of the excitement and came over to see what was happening. At first she was amazed, laughing with glee, then she realized that I was holding a living creature skewered on the end of a hook. A flood of childhood tears ensued and she went running for the cabin. Just call me father of the year.

It occurred to me that I should have thought things out a little better. Not only had I sent my daughter running in tears to the cabin, but now I was holding my prize four and three quarter inch fish, and I had no idea what to do with it. I had worked out the catching part, and I had mastered the eating part years ago. But how it got from point A to point C was a complete mystery to me. I had never gutted a fish. My fish came in a box, covered in little ice crystals and breading.

I looked around like an idiot. Me and my four and three quarter inch fish dangling from my hand. Thankfully I saw a friend coming to the rescue. Unlike me, Laura was an avid fisher-woman and had no doubt been drawn by the call of my still waling child.

“Did you get the hook out?” she asked, as she walked up to meet me. I looked down at the fish and the fish looked back at me, I’m pretty sure it was thinking something like ‘Duh’.

My friend Laura managed to pull the hook out with some sort of archaic dental/torture device made of rod iron and barbed wire (see previous blog), then she handed the fish back to me. She eyed me as she clasped my hands around the four and three quarter inch trout, the way a parent might teach a toddler to hold onto something important.

“Now hold on tight,” she said, then she turned away to pull something out of the pouch at her waist. I had no idea what she was about to do next. I thought maybe she was afraid my prize was going to escape. Perhaps she had a little cage in her pouch or something.

Before I go on, let me pause for a moment and describe Laura to you. She is a kind woman. Her voice is quiet and reserved. She is the sort of person who lets the bugs fly free from her window and sings to the birds in the trees.

Needless to say, when she swung the forty five pound screwdriver handle into the trout’s head it came as a bit of a shock. The fish did indeed make its escape, but it did not get far. I caught it before it could hit the ground. Unfortunately my slack grip had also allowed the fish to avoid Laura’s death blow.

“You have to hold on tight!” Laura growled, and something in her eyes finished the sentence with … or else!

I did as she commanded and Laura began her impression of Robert De Niro in the baseball bat scene of The Untouchables. Wack … wack … wack …. wack. Fish blood flew everywhere. It streaked my shirt and pants like a murder scene in a C.S.I. episode. It was a horror move gone terribly wrong.

When the violence subsided I opened my eyes and wouldn’t you know it, my wife had calmed my daughter down, and brought her back to see the fish again. On the up side my daughter wasn’t crying any more. She was too busy staring at us in sheet white horror. Just call her the mother of the year. I’m sure the nightmares will end soon.

Once my wife had ushered her back into the cabin for therapy, I took my handful of fish goo down to the water to wash it off. As a squatted down to the lake side, the fish had one last surprise up what was left of its little fishy fin.

Through no fault of my own! (or so I claim) … The fish jumped out of my hand and into the water. I tried to catch it again but when I wrapped my hand around the thing just squished out like some kind of slimy … well fish.

I watched as it spiraled down into the deep, away from the shore and my dinner plate. I looked back at Laura, and for a second I had a vision of that scene in The Untouchables again, this time with me as the guy at the table, but she just laughed, absently cleaning her implement of fish murder on an old rag.

We all laughed about it that night around the fire, and my daughter swore she would never eat a fish again. I hope she never asks me where hamburgers come from.

I know there has to be a million fish stories out there. I would love to hear them, especially if they make me feel better about my own pathetic skills.

See you soon and happy reading

Code word for a sadistic expert in torture techniques? Dentist!

I was at the dentist the other day, drooling onto the stylish paper napkin/bib they provide, and it occurred to me just how much it must cost to run a place like that. Sure they have normal overhead like any other business owner. They have to pay for things like employees, office space, specialized equipment, and of course the sadistic looking goggle/facemask/bionic monocle thing they wear to hide their identity, but that’s not the real cost of keeping a dentist office running.

As I sat there, helpless in that mid-evil torture chair, it was clear the real cost of keeping that place running was the energy expense of keeping the water that comes out of that little gun at sub arctic temperatures. I don’t know if they add some sort of chemical to keep it from freezing when it dips below -47 degrees, but there’s nothing like having an exposed nerve lasered with that diamond sharp stream of water.

When I finished screaming, I attempted to ask why the water was so cold, but the Novocain made me sound more like a trolling motor than a human being. I think my dentist understood me none the less, because he laughed, then told me he needed to dry the area with a little puff of air.

That’s when I was made aware of the other little pleasure of that particular office. Apparently, they had not only run their air lines through the same glacial cooling unit as their water system, they’d also pumped the pressure up to about 270 PSI. That little puff of air just about blew my eyeballs out.

Another half hour of torture and they let me out of the chair. I went by the receptionist’s desk to give her my insurance information, my checkbook, all my credit cards and my first born child. When she had exhausted all forms of payment she opened her appointment book and looked up at me with a gleaming white smile.

“When can I schedule you for your next appointment sir?”

Dentists are geniuses. Who else would we pay to torture us with so much pain? Ok, there are always lawyers and cable talk show hosts, but other than that, who else is there.

Anyone out there agree? I would love to hear from you, (especially someone that can get a really good deal on a portable water heater).

Thanks for coming by and happy reading!

I don’t speak Hillbilly, could you please send this back to me in English

The other day I was sitting on my office, sifting through the four hundred thousand e-mails I somehow receive between the time I go home and arrive the next morning, and came upon this doosey. It was a memo sent though the training division of a particular office, who shall remain unnamed. The memo had been sent to high level executives, as well as hundreds of other employees throughout the establishment, advising them of a computer based training program they were required to complete.

This in itself is pretty unremarkable, I’m sure many of you living out there in cubicle heaven have received similar directives. But take a look at his letter, keeping in mind that it came from an education department, and tell me if you don’t find the wording a bit… unusual.


All,

I need all those that have came to XXXXXXXX AFTER the month of
June to get to this site (below) and take some training. I need this to get
done ASAP to close out my year end log. Once training is complete, get me a
copy of the graduation. Below are the list for who needs to take
what course.

I’m wanting this closed out by Jan 12. Let me know if you have any
questions.


After I finished reading it, what else could I say but, “Wow.” If this is an example of the education department’s intellect, imagine what the rest of the company’s capable of. My only suggestion would be to promote this person into a position where their talents can really shine, like advertising or public relations. This person would be an ideal choice to handle the press release when they get hit with one of those pesky alien abductions.

To be fair, I am not saying this person is stupid. I didn’t even mean to imply hillbillies are stupid (I just thought it was a catchy title). I’m just saying if you’re going to send a memo out to half the world, you might want to have someone read it over. Maybe someone versed in more than a single syllable vocabulary.

Anyway, best wishes for the New Year and may you find your next interdepartmental memo as humorous as I found this one. When was the last time you read something that made you say “wow?” I would love to hear your stories.

Crapsman snow blowers; built to run on those warm, sunny days

Three years ago I purchased a snow blower. For legal purposes let’s call it a “Crapsman”, that way their real identity can be kept secret, and they won’t sue the pants off me for telling this story. The machine worked great at first, tearing through anything I threw at it; snow, ice, stray cats. Then come the second or third snowstorm, I pulled it out, started it up and was met with a deafening screech emanating from the pulley system. I think there are dog’s three counties away that are still barking.

I took it to the repair center, and after paying a significant amount to have it repaired (because it was one month out of warranty) I brought it home. There was still a bit of snow on the ground so I thought I would try it out. I started it up, used it for 15 minutes then the loud screech returned, redoubling its volume from before. It was so loud I actually panicked trying to make it stop. I fumbled and jerked on every switch and handle before it donned on me to just hit the off switch. I called the repair center and was informed that they ATTEMPTED to repair the problem, but because they were unsure of the cause, they could not guarantee a positive result. They said if I brought it in again they would be glad to look at it and see if they could do something else… at an additional fee of course.

After several phone calls, I refused to pay the organization (let’s call them “Rears”) any more money to NOT repair my snow blower, and wound up selling it in a garage sale for parts that summer. I swore off “Crapsman”, claiming I would never use their products again. Then this fall “Rears” had a great deal on snow blowers so, in the spirit of second chances, I thought I would give it another try. We brought our new “Crapsman” home, put it together, and started it up. It is a monster of a machine, worthy of battling winter avalanches in the Alps. It ran great on that balmy 60 degree day, but then the snow came.

I pumped the primer and pulled and pulled on the cord. I even hooked up the electric start, but try as I may it just wouldn’t go. I guess “Crapsman” has a temperature limit on their snow blowers. Anything under 40 degrees and it won’t run. I think they should note that in the owner’s manual. It would save folks all the trouble of actually trying to use in when it snows.

I called the “Rears” repair center to see when someone might be able to some out and fix it, but they told me I would have to bring it in to the repair center. The operator was snide, unwavering and was in no way interested in hearing about the fact that the machine was brand new. When I explained that it would take three men and a rhino to get it into a truck she told me she would be glad to send a repairman out to fix our BRAND NEW snow blower for a MINIMUM charge of $99.00.

So now I have yet another useless “Crapsman” snow blower sitting in my garage, this time with the plastic literally still on it. I’m not sure where I’m going with this story but I just couldn’t help but tell it. I figured it would be OK since I hid their identity and no one will ever know which company I am really talking about. I guess I’ll just end with the obligatory “Rears” sucks, and I’ll never buy “Crapsman” again.

Thanks for listening. I have thrown my soap box back into the garage next to my snow blower and I promise not to get it out again… until next time.

Stay warm, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and joyious reading!!!!