Crappy Fishermen

The Magnificent members of the Huntfish Adventure Club (and Charlton M. Bouchemeyer, Pledge) took a field trip to Lanier one lovely spring night recently in search of Crappie. That's "Crappie" as in: the fish, not "things that are Crappy".

Before you get too excited and start pronouncing the fish "Croppie" - let me help you: it IS pronounced "CRAPPY" as in the word "Crap" with an "EE" on the end. Sorry, crappie fishermen the world over; you can try to distance yourself from the word "CRAP" all you want, but the letters just don't lie. You are, in a nutshell "Crappie Fishermen" and thats all there is to it.

The big idea on this trip was to pull up to a bridge piling about 10PM, tie off, set the lanterns out, grill out on the pontoon boat, fish 'till we got worn out and generally tell loud, riotous, soul-scorching lies until the wee hours of the morning.

Even with 12 rods out, I managed to not catch a single fish; but everyone else did (even CB who immediately fell asleep on a cushion with the dog, but woke up periodically to holler "I GOT ONE!").

We had a great time until we realized Fred, who had been nominated to clean all the fish, had been stealthily slipping them all back into the water to avoid the chore.

Consequently, we have very little to show for our troubles other than some dark circles under our eyes, an empty bag of Cheetos, and, in Judson's case, two fresh new scars from an absolutely beautiful double-finger-hook-set incident (he actually put a treble hook into each thumb, effectively handcuffing himself - something I've heard about, but never actually seen done before). Fortunately Hank is handy with a set of needle-nose, so we stayed out of the hospital.

I reckon maybe we're just Crappy fishermen after all.