Racing

Elmer Phud liked racing. He watched all the televised stock car races. He watched all the televised drag races as well as open wheel racing. He even watched boat racing. Next to fishing, watching races was what he liked to do when he had some free time. So it was no wonder he heard about a new sport. This new sport was rooted in the back alley’s and streets of resorts and fishing holes all across the upper Midwest. It grew and prospered. From the beginning it was popular with fisherman/woman of all ages. It was an inexpensive hobby,if hobbies can be so. All one needed to get started was an old tackle box or two. Tackle boxes newer than five years old are prohibited. Lures not required.

 

No one knows who came up with the idea. Some say a canuck by the name of Big Jaw McGraw was cleaning around his fishing camp. He had several un-used tackle boxes in a shed. He sit two down on a reclining board. They promptly slid down the boards. Big Jaw thought that was the niftiest think he ever saw. Big Jaw was easily entertained. So when his neighbor came by a couple of days later, he showed this amazing act to him. After a couple of times, his neighbor bet him a northern the red one would slide down first and the furthest. He lost. Mostly, people thought some dang fool had too many tackle boxes, nothing to do and too many brewski’s to do it with.

 

Elmer has been racing fishing tackle boxes on the underground racing circuit. I expect you to scoff at the idea but he has become very good at it. Yes, it can be addictive. There’s nothing like the smell of smoking plastic along with the screaming and shouting. You have been wondering where Elmer spends his time during the late night hours. Elmer was not always fishing. But he can quite any time he chooses. Really. Its not addictive. Really.

 

It all started one moonlit Saturday night around 10PM. Just as Elmer Phud was unloading his pontoon, the Loony Toon, He heard a sound.

“PSSSST”.

 

At first he thought it was a leak in the air jacket on his live bait basket.He just got back from a night fishing trip out on the flats. He checked the bait basket. No leak.

 

Someone banged an oar on the dock an said “PSSSST, wanna race.” Loudly.

 

Startled, Elmer saw something move out from the dark shadows at the end of the dock. His hair stood on end. Elmer thought the DNR had caught up with him. A stranger emerged to stand next to Elmer’s new 32 gal master tackle box. A black one with a red and yellow racing stripe on each side. White wall inflatable tires with the mud tread, oversized to take a heavy load. Good for those long fishing trips on sand or mud flats. A real beauty. Electric start/open optional.

 

 “Say what?” Elmer screamed, jumping around, thinking it’s his neighbor Big Daddy Phunk up to his ears in something he thinks is funny.

 

“Man, don’t do that. You scared me so bad I almost dropped a fish. At least I would have if I had caught any!” Elmer screamed at him while dancing around and beating his chest. Elmer hoped the screaming, dancing and beating his chest would start his heart again. Elmer's nerves were on their own.

 

“They call me Watermelon and I’m an advance scout for NOTABOR, you know, the “National Organization of Tackle Box Racing. I saw your master tackle box and thought you may be interested in racing. We’re getting together on Flat Island for a race. It starts at midnight.”

 

Elmer’s heart finally started working properly. He sat down and popped open a brewski.

 

“Not a bore?” he said, needing a big drink. Elmer thought this was getting kind of strange. The guy was chewing on a dead cigar and his eyes were shifting all about as if he expected the game warden to appear any second. Thinking about the game warden caused Elmer to look around.

 

“SHHH.” Watermelon said, looking around like a ferret in a hen house. ”Not so loud. It’s not a sanctioned race. It’s for those of us who like to customize our outlawed tackle boxes. You know, 1%’ers”.

 

Elmer had been thinking about adding some features to his tackle box. He was particularly interested in the set of chrome baby moon hubcaps. Then upgrading to a new set of gas operated shocks. Chrome travel handle and bumper bars were not out of the question.

 

“Where and when?” Elmer asked, “Maybe you can write down the directions.”

 

“Sure” Watermelon said, “but after you read it you got to destroy it”.

 

That’s how Elmer Phud got involved in tackle box racing and developed a fondness for the taste of paper. He found it goes down pretty good with a swallow of brewski & it hides the taste of ink. After a few months, the art of tackle box racing caught on with the public. It’s very popular with the night fishermen. You often hear the sound of outboard motors after midnight. Men can be seen whispering to others out of the side of their mouth, “Midnight at the Blue Lagoon” or the name of some other secrete hideaway and then sneaking away to the docks and their boat rig. Many a wife spends a lonely evening wondering where the father of their children had disappeared to. Some wonder about their husbands also.

 

The hard part was learning to talk out of the side of the mouth. The first week or so, having strained his mouth muscle, Elmer looked as if he was always chewing on something awful. He disguised it by smoking cigars. They even have a secrete handshake. I’d show it to you but then I’d have to shoot myself. 

 

Watermelon opened an after hours shop catering to the outlaw tackle box racers. He disguised it by putting up a large sign out along the main highway that reads “OUTLAW TACKLE BOX RACING STORE”. It has lights and a loud speaker. It can be seen for miles as you come into town from the south. Just as you drive by, a very loud voice shouts, “Watermelon’s--------“. You only hear the first part because the loud noise is scary and you suddenly develop an impulse to speed up.

 

Watermelon’s a sharp businessman. Business is so good; he’s been talking about a national advertising campaign. Pretty good thinking for a wanted person. Said he got the idea right after he won a European lottery. He won a million dollars which pays out a dollar a year for a million years. He decided to invest it wisely.

 

There has been some talk about getting organized into a union but so far nothing has come of it. Elmer has been elected to head up the new membership drive. He talked several of the neighbors into joining the secrete society. I can’t tell you where the next race will be for reasons of security. Don’t be surprised if I sneak up on you and whisper a secrete word or two. Try not to be startled, my face is getting lopsided from the sharp elbows and fists, mostly from the women folk. For some reason they get kind of testy when I whisper sweet things in their ear. Husbands seem to get startled too. There are not many rewards for this type of work.

 

I have been thinking about getting a T-shirt with NOTABOR advertised on it and flash it as I walk by. Maybe wear a long raincoat over it so the public can’t see it until I open my coat. Something similar to the following:

I’m NOTABOR and proud of it! Next meeting at ####### (sorry, can not reveal here, see t-shirt).

Works for me.