Oh, I don’t mean the international kind that is willing to blow themselves up along with half the population. No, I am talking about the local kind that terrorizes the lake fish population. I have been known to actively hunt a good fishing hole with the expectation of taking some fish back to my dinner plate. I am reasonably sure the fish do not agree to this course of action. Therefore they move to a different location as soon as I find a likely spot. I have entertained the thought of throwing some explosives into the lake but gave up the idea when I realized how difficult it is to get my hands on explosives. Besides, I have a friend who has been known to do just that very thing. His name is Robert P. Phicket, known as “Three finger Bob”.
Three finger Bob and I started the pontoon and set a course to the main lake to “Terrorize” some crappies. Why we are going has more to do with the brewski’s than the dance around the fire the night before. Three finger Bob was doing his impression of a crappie on a hook and accidentally invented (along with Big Daddy Phunk) a dance we now refer to as “The Crappie Flop”. He got started on his new dance steps when Miles came up behind, giving him a friendly “goose”. This happened so many times Three Finger Bob became nervous and flopped around whenever anyone walked behind him. Thus imitating a caught crappie. The brewski’s encouraged us to go fishing.
There are people who look as if they are constantly in need of help. Three finger Bob is one of them. Men, woman, children and even dogs have walked up to him and asked if he was lost or needed any assistance. Two weeks ago he was standing in front of a candy bar machine, when a pert young lady came up and asked if he needed assistance. He said no he had already decided to purchase a chocolate bar. She went off in a huff not believing he did not require her help.
Last month, he had been out all night checking his Lutefisk traps, got confused and, by daylight, was wandering along a township road. By the time I found him he was half pickled from nipping on a large brandy flask he always carried. He would not admit he was lost. If the roads and other familiar land marks decided to move there was nothing he could do about it, he said.
I helped him into my new truck and told him no smoking, cussing, drinking or puking, all of which he ignored. He took a large swallow of brandy, light a smoke and cussed as he burned his fingers. As he was cussing he dropped the smoke into his lap between his legs. He was startled and jumped around trying to put out the now visible smoke. Not to be outdone, I started to cuss, jumped around yelling at him. As we went around a bend in the road, both of us yelling about the smoke, the smoking debris dislodged, landing on the floor just as he opened the door. He managed to hang onto the door as he tried and failed to kick the smoking debris out of the cab. I yelled for him not to burn my truck, that if he fell out he was to extinguish the smoke as he fell. By now he was almost out of the truck, his hat, still on his head, was dragging on the ground and he was puking. I finally extinguished the smoke and got the truck stopped, just as Three Finger Bob let go of the door an fell to the ground, head first. He promptly jumped to his feet and allowed as how he was fresh out of smokes could he borrow one from me?
Shortly after that occasion he took to using dynamite as fishing bait. He said it was less dangerous and more profitable than Lutefisk trapping. Unfortunately he did this while intoxicated thus losing two fingers.
On this day just before we got into the boat I frisked him for explosives so maybe the crappies are safe.
Hey! Catch a nice wave.
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