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John N. Felsher's Zany Adventures
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“Daddy, can I buy a new tackle box with this money I earned from
keeping up good grades?” my son, Daniel, asked. “It won’t cost you
anything.”
“Sure, Son. To help get you started, I’ll even let you pick a few lures
from my box,” I said. “Since you are nine years old, you can pick nine
lures.”
He selected an excellent box at a local store. It fit his price range, but
left nothing with which to buy lures. When we returned home, Daniel raced
to the storage room and began rummaging through my gear. His younger
brother, Stevie, observed the commotion and came running with his Donald
Duck tackle box.
“Me too, me too, me too!” he yelled.
“Great, I get nine spinnerbaits, nine crankbaits, nine floaters, nine
packs of worms,” Daniel proclaimed.
“Whoa, boy!” I responded. “I said NINE lures, not nine of each TYPE! I’
d have to be a moron to give you all that.”
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Stevie erupted. “I got good grades too. If Daniel
gets some lures, I get to pick out some too. I’m seven, so I should get
seven lures.”
“All right. I’ll let you pick out a few,” I acquiesced to his demand.
“Daddy, is this a killer lure?” Daniel asked, holding up my favorite
floating jerkbait.
“You bet, Son. I have great memories of whopper largemouth bass
that I’ve caught on that one. See how scarred up it is. It’s one of my oldest
and most favorite lures. I’ve probably caught more fish on it than anything
else because I throw it more than anything else in my whole box.”
Plop! It dropped quickly into Daniel’s box. Stevie immediately grabbed
a similar one and added it to his collection.
“How about this one, Daddy?” Daniel asked.
“No, son, that’s a pretty lure, but I’ve never caught anything on that
one. That’s what I call a ‘fisherman lure.’ It catches the eye of fishermen
on the store shelf, but fish won’t touch it.”
Plop! It immediately fell back into my box.
“Now you have your nine lures, Daniel, and you have your seven lures,
Stevie,” I said. “That’s enough.”
“Daddy, we need to balance it and nine and seven are odd numbers.
We have to pick an even number,” they argued.
“OK, but now you’ve picked too many of one kind. You need more
colors to catch fish under any conditions.”
“You’re right Daddy,” they said. “It’s great to have such a famous
fishing expert as our daddy who is so smart to tell us what we need -- and
so loving to his two cute, adorable children who he would never deprive of
anything.”
“Well, shucks guys okay, you can have a few more,” I blushed. “As the
expert that I am, I notice that you need more variety. You need a selection
of spinnerbaits, deep-running crankbaits, shallow-runners, jerkbaits,
floaters, worms, lizards -- different lures to outsmart different fish.”
“Thanks, Daddy. We knew you would be smart enough to help us.”
“See, boys, we use our superior brains to outwit less intelligent beings.
Creatures with tiny brains can be easily bamboozled,” I explained.
“Sometimes, creatures with such tiny brains are so stupid they don’t even
realize they’ve been had right before their eyes. With such dimwits,
superior brains can always get what they want. Hey, wait a minute! You
guys are cleaning me out. All you left me are lures that never caught a
fish. Now, you’ve added so many lures that your tackle boxes are top-
heavy. You need to put more weight into the bottom of the boxes to make
them more stable.”
“Good point, Daddy,” they said. Suddenly spools of line, pliers, heavy
spoons, bottles of pork chunks and other assorted items disappeared into
the bottoms of their now-stuffed boxes.
“You’ve left me with nothing but hooks and sinkers, guys,” I said. “I’ll
have to fish with bait from now on.”
“Yeah, bait fishing,” they responded. “We almost forgot about that.”
Four small hands vanished into my tackle box again and came out
clutching clumps of assorted hooks, swivels, sinkers and miscellaneous
items.
Soon, my box stood starkly devoid of anything that might remotely
attract a fish. All that remained were lures that fish laughed at when thrown
at them. Even the goldfish wouldn’t look at anything left in my tackle box.
“Hey, where did all my gear go? While I was talking, you two loaded up
everything into your boxes.”
“Sorry, Daddy, you snooze, you lose! You should have been more
prepared,” they said.
“Boys, your boxes are so small and bursting with tackle and mine is so
big and empty. Anybody wanta trade? Maybe you’ll give me some lures to
help me fill my box!”
“No way, get your own stuff, Daddy.”
keeping up good grades?” my son, Daniel, asked. “It won’t cost you
anything.”
“Sure, Son. To help get you started, I’ll even let you pick a few lures
from my box,” I said. “Since you are nine years old, you can pick nine
lures.”
He selected an excellent box at a local store. It fit his price range, but
left nothing with which to buy lures. When we returned home, Daniel raced
to the storage room and began rummaging through my gear. His younger
brother, Stevie, observed the commotion and came running with his Donald
Duck tackle box.
“Me too, me too, me too!” he yelled.
“Great, I get nine spinnerbaits, nine crankbaits, nine floaters, nine
packs of worms,” Daniel proclaimed.
“Whoa, boy!” I responded. “I said NINE lures, not nine of each TYPE! I’
d have to be a moron to give you all that.”
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Stevie erupted. “I got good grades too. If Daniel
gets some lures, I get to pick out some too. I’m seven, so I should get
seven lures.”
“All right. I’ll let you pick out a few,” I acquiesced to his demand.
“Daddy, is this a killer lure?” Daniel asked, holding up my favorite
floating jerkbait.
“You bet, Son. I have great memories of whopper largemouth bass
that I’ve caught on that one. See how scarred up it is. It’s one of my oldest
and most favorite lures. I’ve probably caught more fish on it than anything
else because I throw it more than anything else in my whole box.”
Plop! It dropped quickly into Daniel’s box. Stevie immediately grabbed
a similar one and added it to his collection.
“How about this one, Daddy?” Daniel asked.
“No, son, that’s a pretty lure, but I’ve never caught anything on that
one. That’s what I call a ‘fisherman lure.’ It catches the eye of fishermen
on the store shelf, but fish won’t touch it.”
Plop! It immediately fell back into my box.
“Now you have your nine lures, Daniel, and you have your seven lures,
Stevie,” I said. “That’s enough.”
“Daddy, we need to balance it and nine and seven are odd numbers.
We have to pick an even number,” they argued.
“OK, but now you’ve picked too many of one kind. You need more
colors to catch fish under any conditions.”
“You’re right Daddy,” they said. “It’s great to have such a famous
fishing expert as our daddy who is so smart to tell us what we need -- and
so loving to his two cute, adorable children who he would never deprive of
anything.”
“Well, shucks guys okay, you can have a few more,” I blushed. “As the
expert that I am, I notice that you need more variety. You need a selection
of spinnerbaits, deep-running crankbaits, shallow-runners, jerkbaits,
floaters, worms, lizards -- different lures to outsmart different fish.”
“Thanks, Daddy. We knew you would be smart enough to help us.”
“See, boys, we use our superior brains to outwit less intelligent beings.
Creatures with tiny brains can be easily bamboozled,” I explained.
“Sometimes, creatures with such tiny brains are so stupid they don’t even
realize they’ve been had right before their eyes. With such dimwits,
superior brains can always get what they want. Hey, wait a minute! You
guys are cleaning me out. All you left me are lures that never caught a
fish. Now, you’ve added so many lures that your tackle boxes are top-
heavy. You need to put more weight into the bottom of the boxes to make
them more stable.”
“Good point, Daddy,” they said. Suddenly spools of line, pliers, heavy
spoons, bottles of pork chunks and other assorted items disappeared into
the bottoms of their now-stuffed boxes.
“You’ve left me with nothing but hooks and sinkers, guys,” I said. “I’ll
have to fish with bait from now on.”
“Yeah, bait fishing,” they responded. “We almost forgot about that.”
Four small hands vanished into my tackle box again and came out
clutching clumps of assorted hooks, swivels, sinkers and miscellaneous
items.
Soon, my box stood starkly devoid of anything that might remotely
attract a fish. All that remained were lures that fish laughed at when thrown
at them. Even the goldfish wouldn’t look at anything left in my tackle box.
“Hey, where did all my gear go? While I was talking, you two loaded up
everything into your boxes.”
“Sorry, Daddy, you snooze, you lose! You should have been more
prepared,” they said.
“Boys, your boxes are so small and bursting with tackle and mine is so
big and empty. Anybody wanta trade? Maybe you’ll give me some lures to
help me fill my box!”
“No way, get your own stuff, Daddy.”
Hey, save some killers lures for me!
