| T.R | Title | User | Personal
Name | Date | Lines |
|---|
| 81.1 | FISHionary | CUPMK::T_THEO | Aesthetically Utilitarian | Fri Nov 01 1991 13:45 | 117 |
|
*** The Official Fly Fishermans Dictionary ***
ACTION - What you don't get after fishing all day with your new $700
fly fishing outfit.
ATTRACTOR - A fly that attracts so much attention it scares the bejesus
out of the trout.
BACKING - As in Financial backing, which is what you need to get into
fly fishing.
BANK - Where you go to get financial backing to begin fly fishing.
BAR - Where you go after losing 35 flys in an hour.
BARB - A woman you dated in college that you were thinking of when you
missed the upmteenth strike of the day.
BASS - Trash fish sought by guys in floating Pontiac Firebirds.
BASSHOLES - Guys who fish for bass.
CAST - What you wear on any limb after slipping on slimy rocks at the
bottom of a stream.
CREEL - An EMPTY wicker basket.
CUTTHROAT TROUT - Aren't they all?
DEER HAIR - Fly tying material available from a deer barber.
DENSITY - The average intelligence of bait fishermen.
DRAG - How they find drowned fishermen.
DRAG FREE DRIFT - A stream where ther are no transvestites present.
DREDGING - See TROLLING.
DRESS - What the transvestites where at streamside.
DRY FLY - Theoretical concept not yet perfected, like the Strategic
Defense Initiative.
EMERGER - A fly fisherman after a fall.
FINGERLING - A fully grown brook trout.
FLOATANT - Lead in a liquid state.
FLY - An inaccessible vent in your trousers, covered by several layers of
clothing and chest waders, that you can't get to in time.
FLY TYING - Number one hobby in mental health facilities.
HACKLE - More expensive than sable per square inch.
HOOK - Sales pitch expression used in conjunction with the words "line"
and "sinker" by high priced fly fishing outfitters after selling
a piece of graphite for $500.
KNOTLESS - State of fly fishing nirvana
LEECH - Friend who borrows flys and never replaces them.
LINE - Exaggereated number of fish caught when relating fishing trips
to friends, as in "giving them a line".
MANIPULATE - Purpose of fly fishing advertising.
MINNOW - See FINGERLING.
NET - What you're ready for after you've tried to tie flys.
POCKET WATER - The level to which the water reaches when you step in
a hole while wearing you hip boots.
POLTERGEIST - See TROUT.
POUND TEST - The amount of effort you have to put into deliberately
busting off a fly.
PRESENTATION - Formerly known as a good cast.
PUMPING THE TROUT - A Fly Fisherman's only exercise.
REEL - What you do when you see how much you've spent of equipment.
RISER - Optical illusion, like an oasis.
SELECTIVE - Not hungry.
SPOOK - What happens to the trout the second you get in the water.
STEELHEAD - Great white whale.
STRIPPING - Too obvious a joke.
STUDS - Another one that's too obvious.
TAILWATER - What you slip and land on your tail in.
TAPER - A broken rod that has been repaired with duct tape.
TREBLE HOOK - A hook that causes you to send out high frequency sounds
when you catch it in the back of your ear.
TROLLING - See DREDGING.
TROUT - See POLTERGEIST.
TWITCH - A nervous disorder brought on by excessive fly and leader tying.
WATER - Where trout alledgedly hang out.
|
| 81.2 | | CUPMK::T_THEO | Aesthetically Utilitarian | Fri Nov 01 1991 14:58 | 10 |
|
Another one that comes to mind is the 'toon I have on my fridge.
There's a fish and game officer standing next to a "no fishin'"
sign on the shore of a pond. He's looking down upon a fisherman in
a rowboat. The boat has fish piled yea high and the caption reads,
"Poaching? Poaching!? HECK NO officer, I'm gonna panfry these babies!"
|
| 81.3 | ahem... | GEMVAX::JOHNHC | | Fri Nov 01 1991 15:37 | 5 |
| Que hace un pez aburrido?
Pues... nada.
|
| 81.4 | Odd's are Pretty Good that... | HYEND::CYGAN | | Mon Nov 04 1991 09:55 | 135 |
|
Here's a few that go under the title "odd's are pretty good that..."
* The only ledhead jig out of the 10,000 jigs in your tacklebox that
has paint coverin' up the hook eye will be the one you pick up to
tie on,
* That 425-pound feller going back for 'thirds' in the buffet line at
the pre-tournament banquet will be the one you pull for your partner,
* There'll be a jet ski race at the lake you plan to fish this Sat.,
* You'll need two packs of Rolaids to help you digest breakfast from
the Dew Drop Inn,
* If you take your buddy to your secret bass hole, he'll be there with
45 relatives the next time you show up,
* The mail-order taxidermist who mounted your 8-pound smallmouth will
mix up the shipping label, and send it to some perch-jerker in (name
a state),
* That tourist trolling a jitterbug off a houseboat will be the one to
catch the new lake-record bass,
* Your local discount stroe will have all the wrong sizes-n-color
patterns of the lures you want,
* After you spend 15 minutes trying to tie on a weedless jig in your
club's first night tourney, you'll hang it up 'n' bust it off in your
first cast,
* The used boat you buy was used by the previous owner to haul scrap
iron,
* Once you get your 11-pound trophy mounted and hung over the mantle,
your 3-year 0ld will use it for a pull toy while playing with the
cat!
* The guy ahead of your at the men's room by the launching ramp will
use the last sheet of toilet paper!
* After waiting six weeks for that super-deep-divin crankbait to
arrive fro the mail-order outfit, you you'll hang it in a super-
deep trotline the first time you use it!
* When you're drinkin' your second cup of coffee at the marina, some
guy will come screaming in that there's a boat sinking, and it's
YOURS!
* In your tacklebox, you've got every bass lure made, 'cept the one
they're takin!
* After you lay the most perfect cast of your bassin' career into the
brush pile, your partner will throw his crankbait across your line!
* The bass' be bitin like CRAZY soon as you leave the lake!
* That WEEDLESS lure you just bought, ISN'T!
* The guy who catches the next world record bass will catch it on a
spinneycast outfit while using one of them tourist worm rigs with
all the li'l red beads and propellers!
* You pick up your new tacklebox with 27,000 lures inside, and a the
NEVER-FAIL latch will open while you're walkin down the dock to your
boat!
* The tackle store will close just as you drive in to the parkin' lot
to stock up on 'hot baits' for tomorrow's tournament!
* If there's one big rock in the lake, you'll hit it with your prop!
* The long point you caught all those bass on before the tourny, will
be crawiling with water skiers the big day!
* There'l be a massive COLD FRONT move in the day of the tourney, even
in AUGUST!
* The bass pro you shook hands with at 'K-Mart' will catch fish outa
your honey hole when the tournament hits your home town!
* The pictures your buddy took of your releasing your 12-pounder won't
come out 'cause he forgot to put filmin the camera!
* You'll spend all week at work dreaming about going fishin, but the
ole-lady (ole-man) will have you cuttin the grass and hangin curtains
instead!
* When you discover your grandpappy's ancient tacklebox in the old
shed, you'll discover that termites have eaten all those valuable
wood lures!
* The used high-performance bass boat you buy will be the only one
built withut using 'bullet-proof' materials!
* Two outa every three spring lizards you try to bait on your hook
will disappear somewhere in your boat!@
* No matter WHAT transducer and cable you buy for your fish-finder,
the little pins and holes won't line up!
* Just when you locate a mess of bass on the weed-bed, someone will
spray the lake, and the grass will disappear!
* The neighbor's CAT will use your new bass bote for a LITTER BOX!
* The barbequed ribs they serve at your tournament dinner will be left
over from last year!
* Nobody will agree on Nothin at your next bass club meeting!
* That big fish you hook-up right after your partner puts a 6 pounder
in the bote, will be a catfish, a drum or a carp!
* The knot you is presently using to tie on your lures 'ain't in none
of the knot books!
* The reason Jimmy Houston is always gigglin on his TV Show is he just
signed another endorsement deal with a major manufacturer of fishing
tackle!
* Somebody in your bass club'll end up in jail durin; your next out of
town tournament!
* That 'ain't really GRAVY on them biscuits at the truck stop by the
LAKE!
The above extracted without permission from a Bassmaster Mag. JEST
FOR FUN!
Keep them lines Tight!
Dick
|
| 81.5 | | CUPMK::T_THEO | Aesthetically Utilitarian | Mon Nov 04 1991 10:29 | 6 |
|
RE: .3
Whadeesay, whadeesay?
TT
|
| 81.6 | temporary rathole | GEMVAX::JOHNHC | | Mon Nov 04 1991 11:11 | 12 |
| re: .5
It's a poor pun on the word "nada," which means both "nothing" and "it
swims."
Translation:
What does a bored fish do?
Well, nothing/it swims.
Oh well, just thought a few of the spanish speakers in this conference
might get a chuckle out of an old play on words they'd probably
forgotten about.
|
| 81.7 | What's _your_ secret? | CUPMK::T_THEO | Aesthetically Utilitarian | Mon Nov 04 1991 15:42 | 30 |
| It was peak season for trout on a large lake in Maine. Fishermen
swarmed the boat launch with their speed boats and high tech
electronic fishing equipment, but few were taking their limit.
An old timer pulled up in a rusty old truck, on top of which was
a hand made birch bark canoe. The old timer loaded the canoe with
his bamboo pole, a wicker creel and a burlap sack. He then paddled
out of sight. A few hours passed when the old timer reappeared. He
landed his canoe and lifted from the boat his creel, that was now
teaming with trout. The fishermen stood in amazement as the old
timer packed up and drove off.
This happened several days in a row and the fishermen couldn't figure
out the old timers secret. They told the local game warden about him
and he was waiting when the old timer arrived the following day.
The warden asked the OT if he could join him. To which to OT replied,
"Ayup". They got in the canoe and paddled off to a remote section
of the lake. The Old timer stopped paddling and rustled around in the
burlap sack. Without a word he produced a stick of TNT (dynamite that is),
lit it and tossed it overboard. A hugh explosion followed and when the
water settled, scores of trout lay stunned on the surface. The old
timer picked the largest trout and stuffed it in his creel.
The warden, still in shock, told the old timer that what he was doing
was quite illegal and that he would have to fine him. The old timer
looked at the warden, produced another stick of TNT, lit it, tossed it
in the warden's lap and drawled,
Are yew gonna talk or are yew gonna fish?
|
| 81.8 | Dave Barry | CUPMK::T_THEO | Aesthetically Utilitarian | Tue Dec 10 1991 15:43 | 94 |
| THERE'S SOMETHING FISHY GOING ON HERE
by Dave Barry, Pulitzer Prize winning columnist
copied from The Boston Sunday Globe, November 10, 1991
Concerned? You bet we are conecerned, here at the Bureau of Fish
and Game Acting Weird. Our first inkling of trouble was when alert
reader John Wilkinson sent us the news item from the Italy news roundup
in a newspaper called The European:
"Carmen Malavasi, 54, was riding her moped alongside a canal in
Suzzara, Milan, when a huge carp leapt out of the water and hit her in
the face. She lost control of the moped and ran into a car, which
crashed into a lamp post. Both she and the car driver were taken to
hospital."
This is chilling news, because until now the carp has been consid-
ered a friend of man. There are may recorded instances wherein a
swimmer was drowning, and along came a carp, which realized what was
happening and swam off to get help. Of course, within seconsds, the
carp completely forgot its mission; we're talking about animals with
the brainpower of cashews. But at least they never did any actual
harm, until this incident.
You are saying: "Yes, but that was just one Italian carp, probably
acting on its own or at most with one or two accomplices." Well,
perhaps you will change your tune when you read this item from The
Times of London, sent in by several alert readers, concerning an
incident in the town of Walthamstow, England: "A fish breeder watched
in dismay as the beautiful Koi carp, swimming gracefully in his garden
pond, began blowing up, scattering multicolored scales all over his
garden." The breeder suspects that the carp were affected by a
chemical in the pond.
Your natural reaction, of course, is: "What is this chemical, and
why don't we put some in the US House of Representatives swimming pool?"
No! Your reaction is to realize that, according to Newton's Theory
of Evolution, the next logical development is carp that both leap and
explode. This is especially alarming in light of the fact that many
hotels now have decorative carp ponds in their lounge areas. It's only
a matter of time before a sales professional, unwinding after a hard
day by trying to grope the cocktail waitress, is reduced to thousands
of tiny professional shards by a pond-to-air Scud Carp.
And as if that isn't enough, we also have this situation with the
alcoholic marmots. We refer to a news report from The Fresno Bee,
written by Gene Rose and sent in by many alert readers, headlined:
"Marmots getting high on coolant." The article states that the marmots,
which are members of the ground-squirrel family that look kind of like
Walter Cronkite, have been gnawing through car radiator hoses so they
can drink the ethylene glycol coolant and get snockered.
"The marmots have apparently become ethylene glycol junkies," a
wildlife biologist is quoted as saying.
WARNING TO YOUNG PEOPLE: Do not try this yourselves. For one
thing, radiator hoses are very hard on your teeth.
Any police officer will tell you there's no point in trying to
reason with drunk marmots. The best way to handle them, in our
opinion, would be to hire Gay Balfour of Cortez, Colo., who has
invented a machine that sucks prairie dogs out of the ground. We're
not making this up, either. Prairie dogs are little underground
rodents that look kind of like Walter Cronkite and are sometime
considered a hard-to-get-rid-of nuisance. Mr. Balfour's machine was
the subject of a Denver Post article, sent in by many alert readers,
featuring a photo of a man sticking a fat hose into the ground and
vacuuming prairie dogs into a huge yellow contraption. The article
states that this is a harmless procedure wherein the prairie dogs "are
literally sucked out of their homes into a roaring 300 mph wind tunnel
and deposited inside a truck with hundreds of their equally bewildered
colleagues."
This procedure would definitely sober up the marmots. But the
question we must ask ourselves, as ecologists and animal-rights
activists, is: Would it also work on our son? We're thinking about
the problem of getting him up for school. This is very difficult be-
cause he is held down by the strongest force on Earth, Bed Gravity,
which renders him incapable of doing anything except shout, "I am getting
up!" every five minutes. He can keep this up for hours. Vacuum power
could be the answer.
US: Robert! Get up right now!
ROBERT: I am get...
VACUUM: WHOOOOOOOMMMM
Milliseconds later, our son, traveling at 300 mph and looking like
Walter Cronkite would arrive at the breakfast table. Wouldn't that be
great, parents? It would mean a brighter future for us all, unless we
are killed by carp. Pass the radiator hose.
|
| 81.9 | Vermont Ice Fishing | GEMVAX::JOHNHC | | Wed Dec 18 1991 13:50 | 200 |
| In Vermont, our climatic extremes exact extreme responses. Such as
racing over, up, and down snow-covered mountains --- on skis, for
some, on whining snowmobiles for others. Manic activities like these
are symptoms of a vast, maddening reservoir of seasonal boredom. Cabin
fever.
After several years here, I became aware that many fellow citizens
battled the phenomenal monotony of winter with a far less strenuous
pastime. They went ice fishing. All around me, people were stealing
away to little plywood shanties dragged out onto Lake Champlain. There
they drank and swapped lies all day long, kissing the beast of winter
as they hauled up hapless smelt.
One does not go ice fishing alone, and one's choice of a fishing
partner has all the gravity of choosing a spouse. So it was not easy
for me to break into the society of fishermen. I managed, finally,
when someone's regular companion took sick last January. Since I had
advertised my interest in the sport, I received a fishing invitation.
"Love to!" I said honestly. "I've been going stir-crazy."
The man nodded. "Look, we start out early. Try to get on the ice by
dawn."
"They bite then, I suppose?"
"Say what?"
"The fish. They bite at dawn?"
He smiled. "Not particularly. But I got to leave the house before the
wife and kids wake up."
"I don't have a fishing pole, or ---"
"Don't use poles. Just lines. On jig sticks."
"I don't even know what ---"
"Don't you worry. I got plenty. You just come --- dress *warm,* hear?
Bring some lunch. And bring something to drink."
It was fifteen below when I trudged up his driveway; the lake, he
assured me, would be colder than that. We set off in his pickup truck
as first light pierced the sky and headed for a fishing access twenty
miles away. The highway was deserted. As we turned off on a gravel
road, my partner cracked a beer and slurped it.
"How far will we have to walk?" I asked, eyeing his matudinal
fortification.
"Walk?"
"To reach your shanty."
"Hell with that. We *drive* out."
"On the ice?"
"Sure, we just --- hey, you want a beer?"
I guessed that I did, though six a.m. is well before my customary
cocktail hour. Soon enough we reached the lake. Half a mile out to
sea, as it were, I saw an entire village of brightly painted fishing
shanties nestled on the ice. Fifty of them, anyway. Several already
had pickup trucks parked alongside them; now our access road turned
abruptly onto the lake.
As I unbuckled my seatbelt, not wishing to go down with the vessel
that carried me, we roared across the ice. It was not smooth, but
studded with frozen waves and snowdrifts and expansion cracks of
alarming size. Sometimes we could feel broad plates of ice shift
beneath us, making great peals of eerie thunder. I put my hand on the
doorlatch.
"What, you scared?"
I nodded.
"Hell, we won't *hit* anything. Nothing *to* hit." To emphasize this
point, he swung the wheel hard and steered his truck into a wild skid.
I clutched my stomach. To a man accustomed to defined roads, on terra
firma, lake-driving was utterly unnerving.
"Hey, this ice is eighteen inches thick. You could drive a semi out
here."
"*You* could."
"Another beer?"
His shanty door was padlocked; inside, he'd stashed fishing gear, two
wooden chairs and --- I said a prayer of thanks --- an L.P. gas stove.
Standing on the bare lake, while he worked to fire up that heater, I
experienced the most absolute and enveloping cold I have ever known.
Lake Champlain is well over a hundred miles long --- in January, a
startlingly beautiful, utterly hostile icescape, where nothing stops
the wind. Not five layers of clothing, at any rate. Two minutes'
stunned appreciation of the view, and I was ready to huddle in the
dimly lit hut for the next eight hours.
There are several ways to ice-fish, but the one I learned required
simply sitting facing my companion, beer cans and bait board at our
knees, each of our four hands manipulating separate nylon lines that
trailed down through holes cut in the shanty floor, holes augered
through the ice, then down forty feet to near the bottom of the lake.
The lines were draped gently, gingerly across the tips of our index
fingers --- for maximum "feel" --- and we raised and lowered our arms
in slow, gesticulating rhythms. Smelt was our game, and there must
have been thousands milling about directly underneath us. Catching one
was less a matter of getting one to take the bait than of managing to
stab it with the hook and haul it out before it wriggled free.
The bait for fishing smelt is smelt: either a thin strip sliced off
the scaly torso or --- better than that --- an eye. I cannot believe
these offer nourishment to other smelt, but they do attract them to
the hook, which is what matters. My companion begged a few smelt from
a nearby shanty to get us started, in accord with an established
etiquette on the ice. Soon he was pulling up smelt caught by the
snout, the tail, or a gill or fin or by, as he affectionately called
it, the touch-hole. I would say he caught one fish per minute for a
solid hour, while I struggled to master the technique.
Finally I recognized a strike. It must have been a good one, for there
was no subtlety in my chilly fingers. I started yanking up my line ---
hand over hand, as he had shown me, tossing loops of fishline out
across the shanty floor. My loops came recklessly, knotting up at my
knees and feet. Then a bit of fishline touched the gas stove, melting
instantly. Hook, line, and sinker disappeared without a trace into the
lake below me.
"Ooops," I said.
"Hey, you're too excited. Just calm down." My instructor set new hooks
and sinkers on the bait board, then found and broke the seal on a
fifth of peppermint schnapps. "Take a slug of toothpaste," he invited.
"Get your nerves settled.
I took his advice --- he took his own advice, for that matter --- but
half a bottle later and without having landed a single smelt yet, I
felt my nerves perhaps were getting *too* well settled.
"You can't fish," he told me frankly. "Why don't you try cutting
bait?"
This was interesting. This appealed to the butcher in me. There is a
correct way to pop a smelt eye from its socket; if one does it
incorrectly, soon one's frozen fingertips are smeared with goo.
Sclera? Choroid? Vitreous humor? Whatever, when my fishing partner
placed a bag of taco chips between us on the bait board, fish eyes
unavoidably became the roe --- the caviar --- of our midmorning snack.
"You like blackberry brandy?" asked my fishing partner, opening a
flask.
By lunchtime, I knew more than I expected about smelt eyes, and he had
filled a two-gallon pail with smelt. We both were roaring drunk.
"Lissen, whuzoo bring to drink?" he asked me.
I opened my canvas bag and showed him. "Cognac."
"Whuzahellizconyak?"
"They distill it from champagne."
This sounded good to him; he took a long pull from the bottle. "Jesum
crow!" he hollered. "Thassaworse stuff I *ever* tasted!"
Taste did not deter him, though, and half an hour later he announced
that we should take the cognac on a little fish survey.
"*Fiss*shurvay?" I gurgled. Soon the two of us were lurching from
shanty to shanty, rapping on doors and investigating how our fellow
sportsmen were faring. Most seemed to be faring exceedingly drunkenly
indeed. And most had overflowing pails of smelt. Thousands of smelt.
More than fish, though, we surveyed an unending variety of sickeningly
sweet fruit brandies. Retaliating, my host would whip out the cognac
bottle from within his jacket.
"Whuzzat say?"
"Con*yak*. Thass *Frensh.* Just go on, try it."
"Good God Almighty!"
"Ain't that the worse stuff?!"
"Hey," I'd whine. "Ish cold out here."
By three P.M. on any given January afternoon, you can see some damn
funny driving as fishermen close up their shanties and try to head for
land. No enemy of fun, my driver spun his truck though several
graceful pirouettes, then stopped to climb out and barf
unceremoniously on the frozen lake. With an enormous and mutual
effort, though, we managed to adjust from the free choice of routes
which ice-driving affords to the seriousness and high purpose which
roads represent.
Which is to say, he got me home somehow. Night was falling.
Generously, he announced he wanted to divide the day's catch with me.
Equally.
"No, I couldn't take that," I protested. "*You* did all the fishing."
But he forced a pail upon me that must have weighed fifteen pounds.
"Take it," he insisted. "Hell, you cut the bait. And anyway, you walk
in empty handed, what's your wife going to say?"
*My* wife does not see me as a restless hunter, braving harsh elements
to bring home meat for the table. Good thing, too --- because
somewhere between my driveway and the front door, two thirds of the
fish he gave me spilled out in the snow. And I never even noticed, not
till March came and a thaw revealed several dozen smelt scattered
aimlessly across the lawn. My wife claims that we *did* eat several
smelt for dinner, though, that night. I have some vague recollection:
batter-fried, shrimpy little things with all their eyes popped out.
"How was your day of ice-fishing?" she no doubt inquired of me.
"Winter," I no doubt replied, "is one more day shorter."
reproduced here without permission from
_Moving Upcountry, A Yankee Way of Knowledge_ by Don Mitchell
Published by Yankee Books, Dublin, NH, 1984]
|
| 81.10 | | MRKTNG::VARLEY | | Thu Dec 19 1991 10:19 | 3 |
| The funniest fishing story I have ever read !! Thanks, John.
--The Skoal Bandit
|
| 81.11 | it doesnt ge any better than that!!!! | USRCV2::GEIBELL | KING FISHING ON LAKE ONTARIO | Thu Dec 19 1991 10:36 | 7 |
| re .9
and who say's ice fishing isnt fun??????
Lee **who cant wait for safe ice on sodus bay**
|
| 81.12 | | MRKTNG::TOMAS | JOE TOMAS @TTB | Thu Dec 19 1991 11:50 | 2 |
|
Yea...I schtill hate schtiff wadda! Whens da ice goway? Hic...
|
| 81.13 | | CUPMK::T_THEO | It's OK, I'm with the band. | Fri Dec 20 1991 14:03 | 8 |
|
Absolutely Hysterical!!!
THANKS,
Tim
|
| 81.14 | Gotta love it | SKIVT::WENER | | Tue Dec 24 1991 14:28 | 5 |
|
Being from Vermont and having fished for Champlain smelt on
occasion..... I can attest that there may be a smidgen of truth
to that there note... :') Merry Christmas - Rob
|
| 81.15 | | CUPMK::T_THEO | It's OK, I'm with the band. | Mon Dec 30 1991 15:37 | 17 |
|
One fine day a man who is an avid fisherman tells his wife that he and a
buddy are going off for some serious fishing the next weekend. He asks
her to please pack his clothes and stuff up for him, so that he can leave
straight from work.
The wife, however, suspects he is having an affair. Nevertheless, she packs
his fishing clothes and gets his tackle together, and kisses him goodbye
fondly.
When the husband gets home Sunday night, he says, "Honey, I sure did
appreciate your packing all my stuff for me, but you forgot my underwear."
The wife smiled and answered,
"No, I didn't. It was in your tackle box."
|
| 81.16 | | MSDOA::BEAZLEY | | Fri Jan 10 1992 22:06 | 61 |
| Ya kno not eberybody is a Cajun, but eber Cajun is a fishermun. So
mebbe sum ob chew out dere jes mebbe find out dat chew are a Cajun too.
Dis are frum de Loosiana Almanac, so I'll jes jut it in chere..
WHAT IS A CAJUN?
According to the history books, a Cajun is a descendant of a hardy
group of Nova Scotian exiles who settled along the bayous and marshes
of South Louisiana. The name Cajun(they tell us) is a contracyion of
"Acadienne-Acadian" So much for the textbook!
In other parts of the world little girls are made of sugar and spice
and everything nice, while little boys are made up of snips and snails
and puppy dog tails.
Little Cajun children are made of gumbo, boudin, and sauce
piquante-crawfish stew and oreilles de couchon. A Cajun child is given
bayous to fish in, marshes to trap in, room to grow in, and churches to
worship in.
A Cajun likes: Fiddles and accordians in his music, plenty of pepper in
his courtbouillion, shrimp in his nets, speed in his horses,
neighborliness in his neighbors, and love in his home.
A Cajun dislikes: People who don't laugh enough, fish enough, or enjoy
enough of all the good things God has given to the Cajun Country.
He doesn't like to be hurried when he's resting or distracted when he's
working. He doesn't like seeing people unhappy, and he'll do all he
can, or give all he has to bring a smile to a face stricken with
sadness.
A Cajun likes to dance and laugh and sing when his week of hard work
has ended.
And just as Saturday night at the fais-de-do replenishes his store of
energy and personal balance so he can meet the next week's chores with
vigor--Sunday at church refreshes his spiritual and moral values and
keeps strong his always sustaining faith.
A Cajun can be stubborn as a mule and ornery as an alligator. If he
sets his head on something, he'll fight a circle saw before he'll yield
to your opinions.
You'd as well argue with a fence post as try to convince a Cajun. And,
as fun-loving as he is, a Cajun can work as hard and as long as any
living man. He carved Acadiana by hand from the swamp and marshes and
uncultivated prairies.
But when the work is done and the argument is ended, a Cajun can sweep
you right into a wonderful world of joie de vivre with an accordian
chorus of "Jolie Blanc" and a handful of happy little words, five
little words to be exact:"Laissez le bon temps roullez" (Translated:
Let the good times roll!!)
Author Unknown
Dat jes about say it all bout de Cajuns.
Coonass
|
| 81.17 | true story | CSC32::G_ROBERTS | when the bullet hits the bone | Wed Feb 19 1992 09:02 | 5 |
| Blake Robinson caught a 6 1/2 pound lake trout last Thursday at Flaming Gorge.
No big deal you might say. Well the trout had a human thumb in it. The
county coroner thought it might have belonged to a person who lost a thumb
in a boating accident last summer. But authorities also say more than
five people drowned in the gorge and their bodies were never recovered.
|
| 81.18 | Yuck!!! | BENGAL::MURPHY | | Wed Feb 19 1992 09:39 | 6 |
|
Thanks...
Off to the hopper i go...
Kiv
|
| 81.19 | | CUPMK::T_THEO | It's OK, I'm with the band. | Wed Feb 19 1992 10:01 | 6 |
|
Well at least you know what thet're feeding on. I'll take some
crawlers and a box of digits please. 8)
Tim
|
| 81.20 | Horace | CUPMK::T_THEO | It's OK, I'm with the band. | Wed Mar 11 1992 10:21 | 49 |
|
All the talk of Haggis in Note 149 reminds me of Graham Chapman's
poem entitled "Horace". For your reading pleasure...
*** Horace ****
Much to his mum and Dad's dismay
Horace ate himself one day.
He didn't stop to say his grace,
He just sat down and ate his face.
"We can't have this!", his Dad declared,
"If that lad's ate, he should be shared!".
But even as he spoke they saw
Horace, eating more and more:
First his legs and then his thighs,
His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes...
"Stop him someone!" Mother cried
"Those eyeballs would be better, fried!".
But all too late, for they were gone,
And he had started on his dong...
"Oh! Foolish child!" the Father mourns
"You could have deep-fried that with prawns,
Some parsley and some tartar sauce..."
But Horace was on his second course:
His liver, his lights and then his lung,
His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue;
"to think I raised him from the cot
And now he's going to scoff the lot!"
His mother cried: "What shall we do?
What's left won't even make a stew..."
And as she wept, her son was seen
To eat his head, his heart, his spleen.
And there he lay; a lad no more,
Just a stomach on the floor...
None the less, since it was his
They ate it-that's what haggis is.*
* No it isn't. Haggis is a kind of stuffed black pudding eaten
by the scots and considered them to be not only a delicacy but
fit for human consumption. The minced heart, liver and lungs
of a sheep, calf or other animal's inner organs are mixed with
oatmeal, sealed and boiled in maw in the sheep's intestinal
stomach-bag and....
Excuse me a minute...
------------------------
From Monty Pythons Big Red Book
|
| 81.21 | Opening Day..... | DVLP23::WHITTEMORE | Carp Perdiem | Wed Apr 08 1992 10:52 | 18 |
|
I've put two files out on WFODEV::
OPENINGDAY.GIF - for viewing with XV
and OPENINGDAY.XBM - for viewing with UTOX
In UTOX you may need to pull down the EDIT menu and INVERT.....
PLEASE do not pull these files until after 17:00 EST or my system load
may reach the point where I have to delete them! Reprints available upon
request
Joe Whittemore - From where the Westfield
Meets the Westfield
By the Westfield
In Huntington (MA)
|
| 81.22 | I'd rather be... | DVLP23::WHITTEMORE | Carp Perdiem | Thu Apr 16 1992 14:42 | 10 |
|
I've put a post script file out on WFODEV::
RATHER_BE.PS
Joe Whittemore - From where the Westfield
Meets the Westfield
By the Westfield
In Huntington (MA)
|
| 81.23 | A little "true" story | USMFG::MOUELLETTE | | Tue Apr 21 1992 14:28 | 24 |
|
When I was about 8 years old I used to fish in this little pond
frequently. It was circular, about 75 to 100' across and was located
at a camp where my father was the part-time carpenter, plumber,
electrician, etc. It contained a few small Bluegills, Perch, and many
frogs and salamanders.
One day after a few hours of catching bluegills with my rod/reel, and
catching frogs with my hands, I had an idea. I was going to tell my
Dad that I almost caught this huge fish, but it got away. I went over
to where he was working and proceeded to tell him about the one that
got away. I indicated with my hands held apart how big the fish was,
must have been at least 30"!! Wow!, my Dad said. Then he proceeded to
tell me a fishing story of his own. He said many years earlier when he
was a kid he was fishing at this little pond without much luck. After
a while he felt a little tug on the line, he began to reel it in. To
his amazement what he had on the end of the line was an old rusted
lantern, still lit!! Needless to say I was completely engrossed in
this story. Then he looked at me real serious and said, "You cut that
fish that got away from you down to size, and I'll put that lantern
out". It took me a while to figure out what he meant, I was only eight.
Mike
|
| 81.24 | Humor etc. | DVLP23::WHITTEMORE | Carp Perdiem | Wed Apr 29 1992 16:59 | 8 |
|
For a limited time the following files can be found on WFODEV::
LARGEMOUTH.GIF
RATHER_BE.GIF
SMALLMOUTH.GIF
RATHER_BE.GIF
|
| 81.25 | typo-stutter | DVLP01::WHITTEMORE | Carp Perdiem | Wed Apr 29 1992 23:02 | 12 |
| .0 SHOULD have read .........
For a limited time the following files can be found on WFODEV::
LARGEMOUTH.GIF
RATHER_BE.GIF
SMALLMOUTH.GIF
NOT ---> [RATHER_BE.GIF] <--- NOT
OPENINGDAY.GIF
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
|
| 81.26 | What do I need ? | MEO78B::BONKIN::BOYLE | something clever and witty | Thu Apr 30 1992 02:48 | 4 |
| How does one read a .GIF file ?
Tony.
|
| 81.27 | | CREATV::QUODLING | Ken, Me, and a cast of extras... | Thu Apr 30 1992 12:02 | 5 |
| With a GIF viewer, what else. Check the dw_examples conference for
XView.
q
|
| 81.28 | to see them on the screen.... | BTOVT::BATES_R_T | ��t� | Thu Apr 30 1992 12:20 | 13 |
|
RE .26
If you want to view the files on your screen this is what I do.
Create the symbol:
gif :== $sys$login:xgifroot.exe
Then I just type the command GIF FILENAME.GIF
Of course XGIFROOT.EXE must be available in sys$login or wherever....
|
| 81.29 | Hi diddle de de use the viewer called XV | DVLP23::WHITTEMORE | Carp Perdiem | Fri May 01 1992 09:53 | 17 |
| > <<< Note 81.26 by MEO78B::BONKIN::BOYLE "something clever and witty" >>>
> -< What do I need ? >-
>
> How does one read a .GIF file ?
>
> Tony.
>
>
See the DW_Examples notes conference on SPEZKO::DW_EXAMPLES
topic #669 for pointers to 'XV' - IMHO the best viewer out to date.....
jw - fwtwmtwbtwih(m)
Post Script: I'll put them out there in a .PS and/or a .SIX format if there's
enough demand....................
|
| 81.30 | 'fraid this one's true | DATABS::STORM | | Mon Jul 27 1992 23:33 | 20 |
| I just had to post this, though it may cost me a fishing partner :-)
First the background: I had made arrangements with my fishing partner
to fish the Merrimack River last Thursday night. Since we both live an
hrs drive away, and not close to each other we agreed to meet at the
Salisbury boat ramp. I was running late when I realized the bearings
were shot on my boat trailer. It was too late to contact my partner,
so he ended up sitting at the boat ramp wondering what the heck
happened to me.
That was bad enough. Today I stopped by and had lunch with him. We
were laughing at ourselves and our misadventures and how many eels he
had bought and couldn't use. I asked him if he had also bought the
mackeral I had requested. He said yes and couldn't remember what he
had done with it. Then this pained look came over his face. The
mackeral was STILL sitting in the trunk of HIS WIFES CAR! (it's been
4 days at this point).
Mark,
|
| 81.31 | Yeeeech. | GNPIKE::NICOLAZZO | Over 5,000,000,000 served. | Tue Jul 28 1992 09:47 | 5 |
| re: .last
Oh god.
Robert.
|
| 81.32 | what seagulls? | PENUTS::GORDON | | Tue Jul 28 1992 12:40 | 7 |
| RE: last couple
And you wondered why all the seagulls were sitting on you roof
Even a lobster man would have trouble with that odor
Gordon
|
| 81.33 | 12 DAYS OF XMAS | TWOBA::HAYES | | Fri Dec 10 1993 11:02 | 130 |
| Dave Auger (Known as the Bait Master cause he smells like a POGIE)
scribed this 12 days of Xmas Song for me to give my girlfriend.
I used my decoder ring for her so that
she'd get the right stuff. If Dave ever channeled his creativity into
work, Digital would be profitable again.
A MERRIMAC RIVER FISHERMAN'S CHRISTMAS
_________________________________________
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me
a tin skiff on which to fish bass.
DEFINITION - TIN SKIFF = 16 FOOT ALUMINUM BOAT WITH 45-60 HP MOTOR, ELECTRIC
TROLLING MOTOR, LIVE BAIT WELL, HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS OF ELECTRONIC
FISHFINDERS, RADAR AND RADIO PRICE TAG = $8,000. OFTEN USED
TO SIT IN FOR HOURS BORED OUT OF ONES MIND WHILE BAKING IN
100 DEGREE PLUS HEAT WHILE AVOIDING SPENDING TIME WITH LOVED
ONES.
On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me
two graphite-rods and a tin skiff on which to fish bass.
DEFINITION - GRAPHITE-RODS $125 FISHING ROD MADE OF HIGH TECH GRAPHITE
COMPOSIT MATERIAL. SOMETIMES USED TO LITTER THE BOTTOM OF THE
OCEAN. USUALLY PRECEDED BY WORDS LIKE "WATCH OUT FOR THE
ROD". "OH SH__"! "NOT MY FAVORITE %$^%^^% ROD"
On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me
three lead weights, two graphite-rods and a tin skiff on which to fish bass.
DEFINITION - LEAD WEIGHTS = 1-3 OZ LEAD WEIGHTS CHEAP - $3. USED TO GET
YOUR HOOKS SECURED TO THE BOTTOM WHERE EVEN 100 POUND TEST CAN'T
PULL THEM OFF OF IT.
On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
four mackerel jigs, three lead weights, two graphite-rods and a tin skiff on
which to fish bass.
DEFINITION - MACKERAL JIGS = LITTLE DIAMOND SHAPE SILVER SHAPES WITH HOOKS
IN THEM THAT MACKERAL SEEM TO PREFER AS THEIR CHIEF FOOD GROUP.
$4 SHOULD BUY PLENTY. IF MACKERAL ATE SOMETHING MORE NUTRITIOUS
THEY'D BE AS BIG AS TUNA.
On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
five golden penns;
four mackerel jigs, three lead weights, two graphite-rods and a tin skiff on
which to fish bass.
DEFINITION - GOLDEN PENNS = VERY EXPENSIVE FISHING REELS USED FOR TUNA AND
SHARK FISHING. $400 TO $600 EACH. KNOW TO BREAK AT THE CRUCIAL
MOMENT OF PLAYING YOUR FIRST LARGE GAMEFISH.
On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
six Samual Adams, five golden penns;
four mackerel jigs, three lead weights, two graphite-rods and a tin skiff on
which to fish bass.
DEFINITION - SAMUAL ADAMS = MEDICINE FOR THE ANGLER THAT DOESN'T CATCH MUCH
ALSO KNOWN TO QUENCH THIRST WHEN YOU ARE OUT IN AN ALUMINUM
BOAT BAKING IN 100 DEGREE HEAT. ALSO USED TO SOFTEN THE BLOW
OF LOSING GRAPHITE RODS OVERBOARD.
On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me
seven poggies swimmin, six Samual Adams, five golden penns;
four mackerel jigs, three lead weights, two graphite-rods and a tin skiff on
which to fish bass.
DEFINITION - POGGIES = 12-16 INCH BAITFISH KNOW TO BE THE FAVORITE FOOD OF
LARGE STRIPED BASS, TUNA AND SHARKS. MORE NUTRITIOUS THAN
MACKERAL JIGS HENCE THESE FISH GROW LARGE. ALSO KNOWN TO BE
AN EFFECTIVE WEAPON TO USE WHEN SOMEONE FISHES TO CLOSE TO YOU
KIND OF LIKE A HANDGRENADE.
On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
eight fifty pounders, seven poggies swimmin, six Samual Adams,
five golden penns;
four mackerel jigs, three lead weights, two graphite-rods and a tin skiff on
which to fish bass.
DEFINITION - 50 POUNDERS = STRIPED BASS OF 50 POUNDS OR MORE. CATCHING ONE
IS LIKE WINNING THE LOTTERY TO A FISHERMAN. OFTEN USED TO
PREVENT SLEEP THE NIGHT BEFORE OPENING DAY OF FISHING SEASON.
YOU START DREAMING OF CATCHING ONE AND THEN STAY AWAKE.
On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
nine makos dancing, eight fifty pounders, seven poggies swimmin,
six Samual Adams, five golden penns;
four mackerel jigs, three lead weights, two graphite-rods and a tin skiff on
which to fish bass.
DEFINITION - MAKO = A SHARK THAT YOU WANT TO INVITE OVER FOR DINNER. SUPPOSEDLY
THE BEST EATING SHARK. GREAT FIGHTER AND SPECTACULAR LEAPER
WHEN HOOKED. ALSO WORTH MANY DOLLARS IF CAUGHT. IF YOU GET THESE
FIRST WE CAN PAY FOR THE TIN SKIFF.
On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
ten tuna leapin, nine makos dancing, eight fifty pounders,
seven poggies swimmin, six Samual Adams, five golden penns;
four mackerel jigs, three lead weights, two graphite-rods and a tin skiff on
which to fish bass.
DEFINITION - TUNA = LARGE FISH WORTH MANY $$$$. ONE 1000 POUNDER COULD
PAY FOR THE TIN SKIFF. THE OTHERS WILL COVER THE REELS ETC....
On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me
eleven dozen Gami's, ten tuna leapin, nine makos dancing, eight fifty pounders,
seven poggies swimmin, six Samual Adams, five golden penns;
four mackerel jigs, three lead weights, two graphite-rods and a tin skiff on
which to fish bass.
DEFINITION - GAMI'S = GAMAKATSU HOOKS. PURCHASED IN PACKAGES OF 3 FOR $3. ONE
DOZEN WOULD RUN YOU $12. 11 DOZEN WOULD BE $132. USE LEFT OVER
TUNA FUNDS. GREAT FOR USING WITH LEAD WEIGHTS TO ANCHOR THE BOAT.
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
a twelve hundred pounder, eleven dozen Gami's, ten tuna leapin, nine makos
dancing, eight fifty pounders, seven poggies swimmin, six Samual Adams,
five golden penns;
four mackerel jigs, three lead weights, two graphite-rods and a tin skiff on
which to fish bass.
DEFINTION - 1200 POUNDER = GINAT BLUE FIN TUNA OF OVER 1200 POUNDS. AT THIS
POINT IF YOU HAVE PROVIDED ALL OF THE ABOVE USE THE $10000 PLUS
DOLLARS AS A XMAS FUND FOR NEXT YEARS PRESENT 8*)
|
| 81.34 | ;-) | CAPL::LANDRY_D | Warbirds 1939-1945 | Fri Dec 10 1993 11:48 | 2 |
|
re: -1
|
| 81.35 | | DTRACY::STORM | | Thu Dec 16 1993 09:07 | 2 |
| That's great!
|
| 81.36 | Almost changed the sheets ;^) | CAPL::LANDRY_D | Warbirds 1939-1945 | Thu Dec 16 1993 12:38 | 6 |
| RE: .33
Printed it out and my wife read it while in bed last night.
She nearly lost it laughing so hard.
-< Tuna Tail >-
|
| 81.37 | | SCAMP::TOMAS | | Tue Feb 13 1996 15:21 | 14 |
| So there's this really frugal guy in his mid-40s who sees life passing
by too quickly and thinks he wants to buy a boat to go fishing and
enjoy life. So that afternoon he checks out boat prices at a couple of
dealers. After seeing just how much these buggys cost and being a
*really* frugal kind of guy, he decides to save his money.
The next day he reads in the obituaries that an old friend of his had
just died. That does it, he thinks, and runs out and buys a big,
shiney, expensive fishing boat!
A couple days later he's at his friend's funeral and runs into another
classmate friend. In a somber tone, the classmate spoke..."Too bad
about Tom's boating accident, huh?"
|
| 81.38 | | BSS::DSMITH | RATDOGS DON'T BITE | Mon Jun 10 1996 18:46 | 11 |
|
Seen in passing this past weekend!
Tackle shop in Deckers Colorado!
Flies and Lies
thought that was a perfect name for tackle shop!
Dave
|
| 81.39 | | BRAT::TOMAS | | Wed Nov 27 1996 08:35 | 21
|