Prisoner Reimold has a nervous tick. His left eyelid twitches and he scratches at his forearm regardless of an itch. He asks, “Did you use dog food?” According to him punching holes into a full can of Alpo and dropping it into the murky depths below will guarantee a bumper crop of catfish.
“No,” I answer. “I’m not into heroin.”
He smiles. “Why not?”
Boy & Girl, Raw, Junk, Blow, Smack, Mud, White Horse.
Flatheads, Big Blues, Channel Cats.
“With my luck,” I say, “I’d get ticketed by the game warden.” Then I remember Billy Jo, our Catfish Tournament Director, making his rounds, informing everyone of this year’s rule change: Absolutely no handguns in the marina. Perhaps the act of shoving sinkers down the mouths of catfish has decreased in direct proportion to the amount of handguns carried, but I doubt it; probably had more to do with a weekend of drinking. Handguns and alcohol: one bad mixture. Every year there’s a new rule: 1) no women allowed, 2) no burning picnic tables, 3) no showering in the women’s bathroom facility, 4) no smoking marijuana, 5) no throwing catfish carcasses in the channel, and so forth and so on.
So how did I fare? Seventh place out of seventy-eight anglers; two inches shy and four pounds, two ounces lighter than first place. Might as well have been dead last; only the top three received money. Still I enjoyed spending time with my dad and my brother.
And Prisoner Reimold enjoys listening to how the big one got away.
8 comments:
Dead last my butt. That's one nice catfish! I hope it was delicious, as well. ;)
man, I could eat some thick fried catfish about now.
Nothin' like a good fish story. Seventh aint so bad, top ten percentile. You would be rockin' if that were your GED score. On the other hand. When you are fishing for cash your seventh place finish is about as useful as the straw boss and his advanced degree, or the blonde bimbo's as far as that goes. I would say you are right, the real reward was time spent with those you love. I think we could all use more of that. Nice fish by the way.
Impressive contender in the Catfish tournament.
Seventh our of seventy-eight anglers in the field is not bad at all.
I used to be something of a fisherman. Some say, at least to me, "fishermen make lousy lovers."
I once dated a wood nymph. Oh, say it on. A nymph.
She was not impressed with my tackle nor my performance.
It was sort-of
two inches shy and four pounds, two ounces lighter than first place.
I offered, "Yeah, but I'm fancy."
No guns with drinking men sounds like a safety first thing. LOL
That's an awesome cat. Seventh out of seventy eight sounds great to me. Even without the money of the top three, I'm glad you had a great day with your Dad and brother.
P.S. - Sorry I'm so slow to come around. I've been on the road a lot lately but will be catching up. Have a good one.
I haven't heard of any that got away so the facility must be pretty secure still. What the hell try the Alpo before they make a rule about it.
That main paragraph reminds me of William S. Burroughs, could imagine him reading it out. Loud.
More than one way to skin a cat-fish. Jumbo. Whiskas' Puffer' One.
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