Happy Sunday. Here’s a little humor to brighten up a week of acerbic political commentary.
As I’ve noted previously, I live near Talladega, Alabama (Ricky Bobby!), fairly close to one of my Army Buddies, Sam. Rare is the week that Her Majesty and I are not over at his place or he and his lovely bride, Sweet Allie, aren’t over to mine visiting me and Her Majesty.
One weekend some time back in the summer, I went over to Sam’s to swill some of his whiskey and try to choke down some critter he’d slain the previous week and vulcanized on his grill. We had a great night retelling war stories, and of course embellishing them—to the loud eye rolling of the ladies.
The next morning, we got up early to do some fishing. Sam was gonna show me a new technique for getting “the big bass,” involving the use of frogs as bait. We spent some time in the wee hours catching a bucket full of frogs, and then we headed down to the lake he lives on.
Well, for once, he wasn’t lying. Using frogs as bait worked like a charm. We were hauling them in hand over fist—until I got to my last frog. I put that critter on the hook and tossed him in. Next thing I knew, my rod was bent over like the Hunchback of Notre Dame hauling logs up to the Cardinal’s 7th floor apartment fireplace.
I’m thinking that I’ve hooked either a monster catfish known to inhabit that lake, or possibly an alligator that Sam swears he’s seen swimming therein. Nope. It’s a 3 1/2 foot water moccasin and this rascal has a death grip on my last frog.
So I grab this thrashing serpent by the neck and jerk him out of the water. Immediately his tail coils around my arm, squeezing it like my first date’s Father as he gripped my hand, quietly letting me know what time to have his daughter home. Try as I might, I can’t get this little (insert noun for male of uncertain parentage here) to turn loose of my damned frog.
Finally, I notice a bottle of muddy liquid rolling around in the bottom of the boat. When I queried Sam about its contents, he responded that it was a bottle of his brother’s home-made hooch that ”didn’t turn out all that great.” I figured, “What the heck,” and I poured a slug of that foul smelling stuff down the snake’s throat.
Next thing you know, the snake’s tail relaxed and fell away from my arm. His eyes glazed over and rolled back in his head. He turned loose of the frog and fell into the water. “Great!” I thought. I immediately cast the frog back into the water, hoping to snag one last largemouth.
Throughout this epic battle, I’d been sitting on the gunwale with my feet dangling in the water. As I was waiting for that last bass to hit my frog, I felt a tapping on my foot. I looked down, and guess what—it was that damned snake! He’s back.
This time with TWO frogs.
Mike Ford is a retired Infantry Officer who writes on Military, Foreign Affairs and occasionally dabbles in Political and Economic matters.
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You can find his other Red State work here.