Posted on 07/23/2019 4:24:33 AM PDT by sodpoodle
A man calls home to his wife and says, "Honey, I have been asked to fly to Canada with my boss and several of his friends for fishing. We'll be gone for the long weekend. This is a good opportunity for me to get that promotion I've been wanting so could you please pack enough clothes for a three-day weekend.".. And also would you get out my rod and tackle box from the attic? We're leaving at 4:30 pm from the office and I will swing by the house to pick my things up ... "Oh! And please pack my new navy blue silk pajamas."
A man calls home to his wife and says, "Honey, I have been asked to fly to Canada with my boss and several of his friends for fishing. We'll be gone for the long weekend. This is a good opportunity for me to get that promotion I've been wanting so could you please pack enough clothes for a three-day weekend.".. And also would you get out my rod and tackle box from the attic? We're leaving at 4:30 pm from the office and I will swing by the house to pick my things up ... "Oh! And please pack my new navy blue silk pajamas."
The wife thinks this sounds a bit odd but, being the good wife, she does exactly what her husband asked.
Following the long weekend he came home a little tired but, otherwise, looking good. The wife welcomes him home and asks if he caught many fish? He says, "Yes! Lots of Walleyes, some Bass, and a few Pike He continued, "But why didn't you pack my new blue silk pajamas like I asked you to do?"
You'll love the answer.
The wife replies, "I did, they're in your tackle box."
Never, never, never try to outsmart a woman!!!
Boooooooooooringggg …...
Are you talking about the monthly Freeper boat club?
I always wanted to go
Generally, we take all our firearms out on the boat and it capsizes. Bad planning, but it seems to happen a lot.
“Rigging new tackle is less painful than pulling a barbed hook out of my earlobe with rusty fishing fliers.“
About 30 years ago when I was married to my first wife (the Dark Days Of Which We No Longer Speak) I took her salmon fishing on the breakwaters of Lake Michigan during the Coho run. We had 3/4 ounce spoons with that luminescent paint. Flash it with a flashlight, cast it out as far as possible, a reel in. Simple, right? What could go wrong, right?
Well I turned my back on her (always a big mistake but I digress) and she wound up and sunk that sucker right into the top of my head right through my old USMC cover. And then she tried to throw it forward.
So that’s how I ended up in the ER at 0230 with a 3/4 luminescent salmon spoon stuck in the top of my thick skull. The doc ended up calling the Building Maintenance guy to borrow a small bolt cutter to snip the barbed end off. Took 45 minutes to sterilize it. Had to take a set of those EMT shears to the cover I’d kept since I left MCRD in San Diego.
Meanwhile every time I turned my head the damned spoon jangled just enough to draw more blood.
Needless to say it was her last fishing trip with me.
L
“Rigging new tackle is less painful than pulling a barbed hook out of my earlobe with rusty fishing pliers."
About 30 years ago when I was married to my first wife (the Dark Days Of Which We No Longer Speak) I took her salmon fishing on the breakwaters of Lake Michigan during the Coho run. We had 3/4 ounce spoons with that luminescent paint. Flash it with a flashlight, cast it out as far as possible, a reel in. Simple, right? What could go wrong, right?
Well I turned my back on her (always a big mistake but I digress) and she wound up and sunk that sucker right into the top of my head right through my old USMC cover. And then she tried to throw it forward.
So that’s how I ended up in the ER at 0230 with a 3/4 luminescent salmon spoon stuck in the top of my thick skull. The doc ended up calling the Building Maintenance guy to borrow a small bolt cutter to snip the barbed end off. Took 45 minutes to sterilize it. Had to take a set of those EMT shears to the cover I’d kept since I left MCRD in San Diego.
Meanwhile every time I turned my head the damned spoon jangled just enough to draw more blood.
Needless to say it was her last fishing trip with me.
L
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And this, if I may assume, it at least one reason why she is the ex? A fellow man with a cold beer in his hand can understand. My ex-broom jockey literally shrieked her skull off one evening for my daring to show up and clean several blue cats in the kitchen sink that I'd caught in Accotink Creek that afternoon, a couple of which needed an extra shot in the noggin with a carpenter's hammer to get them to cooperate with the Grim Reaper. I was called everything from murderer to a monster to an animal rapist before I took that little Keebler elf down a peg and she stormed out of the apartment. I was already shopping for new digs and a divorce lawyer by then, anyway, so I hope she went outside and puked over the rail. On her new car.
The closest bloodshed came with my current Mrs. V was just last year. We'd needed to just unplug from the 21st Century for a bit, so we rented a nice little cabin up in the Blue Ridge of North Georgia. 6"x 6" D-log walls, stone fireplace, loft bedroom, two decks, a catch-and-release trout stream running by so closely you could open the back door and cast from the bed. No phone, no Internet, just a basic kitchen and hot and cold running water. Gorgeous. (I joked that by the time we were supposed to leave, they'd need the Sheriff's Department to drag me out by the ankles while I clutched the furniture.) I'd loaded up several fishing rigs, including a fly fishing chest pack and basic beginner's pole, as well as my regular tournament bag (notice the linguistic difference there - a quiz shall be forthcoming). We went to a gem grubbin' concern several miles away; they also had a small, catch-and-release lake on the mine property that was loaded with citation-sized bass, cats, and panfish. (About half the bass in there tipped the scales in the 8-10 lb. range, and the cats would top out around 20. The walls were covered with pics of everyone from eight year olds to geriatrics hoisting fish that would get you a trophy, citation, or both in public waters.) We paid for 2 gallons of raw ore from the creek there that cost us about $40, but we washed so many raw amethysts, rubies, tiger eye, and topaz out of our pans, we paid for the whole trip. We got back to the trading post there, picked the best of the gems, and I paid the fee for some of what appeared to be the best C&R private fishing I'd ever seen. I checked the weather radar (cell service was marginally up around there), figured we'd get a good hour in before the weather got rude, and backed the car down to the shore. Now, I'd packed the poles, and told her to grab the bag when she locked the cabin door.
You're seeing where this is going now, right?
I'm an amateur tourney fisherman of sorts, and have several sponsors. I use their products and spread the good cheer on social media when I can. I like repping a company with permission to use their logo and get free goodies. Well, imagine my surprise when I open the hatch, and there's no tournament bag anywhere.. A chest pack of flies, nymphs, and wooly buggers, yes, but no spoons, topwater lures, crankbaits, Ned rigs, nothing. I said, "I told you my bag! BAG! BAG! BAG! Not pack! PACK! PACK PACK!" It took a full 40 minute round trip to go get the other bag. She said she heard me snorting and my lungs wheezing so hard the whole way, she leaned against the passenger door in case she'd have to jump out and run. We got back, got re-positioned, I got my first cast in, breathed 'Ahhhhhh....", and a thunderstorm cracked the sky in half two minutes later. It took two good German meals, several biergarten doppelbocks, permission to spend more than allotted in the shopping village, and a generous amount of ruby port that evening before I could get that vision of a bachelor cabin in the hills of West Virginia out of my head. But my dander was right back up the next morning when I went out on the loft deck to tease the trout with garlic eggs. All the rain brought the water up two feet and it was the color of some dirty caramel frappuccino from a backstreet Starbucks clone in Lima, Peru.
That's only one incident. She tries not to stay too close to me if we go fishing together anymore. Can't wonder what I might have done..........🙄
I dunno. I always clean fish outside using an old plastic folding table from costco and my own personal cutting board and knives (which I keep razor sharp and she doesn’t want to touch) with a hose running to clean up the mess into the back lawn. I butcher my deer on the same table only I pull my collector car out of the garage and do it there with an electric heater for November weather, if need be.
I don’t expect her to go into my gun/reloading room and I give her the same regard for the kitchen …at least when it comes to gutting or filleting fish.
Darn the bad luck! Thanks for including me on the story, Viking! Other than the bag/pack disaster, it sounds like an excellent time and place! :-)
“And this, if I may assume, it at least one reason why she is the ex?”
Just one of many and truth be told it’s on the “minor things” list. Sleeping with my best friend was at the top. I’d known him since Junior High. There was nothing in this world that woman couldn’t **** up.
I still miss him.
L
Well, we lived in a wooded, upscale apartment complex in Tyson’s Corner, right on the Beltway. Even Hibachi grills were prohibited on the balconies. It was the sink, or the toilet. I should have dumped the guts in the storm culvert in front of the rental office, now that I think about it.
Bah. This dude I’ve known since Boy Scouts 45 years ago. He’s only had three real girlfriends the entire time; one he was married to thirty years, until she passed away from similar maladies I have. Difference being, he got the seven year itch, and would pounce on one of my exes, whichever was available at the time, but never touched the current one I was with, though, so he earned a lot of respect from me for that. And I’d be a verbose lech with his ladies, but no matter how much alcohol was in play, all knew we were just funning with each other. There was a line of respect, and he’s still my Brother From Another Mother since 1975. I used to be a hormone with four paws, and my ladies didn’t like it. He was a lapdog that his mommies let roam the neighborhood, and the last one learned to put up with it.
Oh. Good luck. Sounds like a lot of rules. My son owns a house in Tucson. It is regulated by a homeowners committee. If he doesn’t mow on time or leaves his garbage can out after pickup day he gets a notice
I couldn’t live under such regulations
“I used to be a hormone with four paws, and my ladies didn’t like it.”
I still am and most likely always will be. But I’m pretty well housebroken these days. This dog knows whose hand holds the Scooby Snacks. But there was this time with Mrs. L, the single neighbor lady, her hot tub, and 3 bottles of champagne.....
Sorry. What were we talking about again?
L
Don’t belive I remember that story...at least your pain was emotional this episode.
I think it started out about something to do with fishing tackle..........what was I saying?
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