Category: Bass

Pissin’ Off a Lady Who Has to Pee

Supper & a Deadly Weapon

Today is my birthday, so I am taking the day off to spend with my wife (Mrs. Fearless Leader) and little girls, Issy the 9 Year Old and Bailey the 5 Year Old. I’ll be back with a new dose of Dumbassery on Monday. 

 
In the mean time remember, you can pick your friends but you can’t pick your friend’s nose. Unless you guys are really weird; then all bets are off.
 
With that said, let’s go fishin’.
 
For those of you who are newcomers to Dumbass News, you may not know that I am a fisherman and a damn good one, too. Fish.Fear.Me. So, when a story is Dumbass News- worthy, I jump on that sucker like a duck on a June bug. And guess what? I found a fishing story that is Dumbass News-worthy!

In the winter, many residents of the northern half of the country don’t let frozen streams and lakes deter them from getting in a little fishing. They just get an auger and drill a hole into the iced up body of water, drop a line in that sucker and get after it.  Such is the case of a woman and two men who were recently ice fishing. One of the Cardinal sins of fishing is to not invade another fisherman’s space by fishing in the immediate area he is fishing in or to fish too closely to him. It’s just common courtesy, but if that rule is broken, it could led to unpleasant  consequences like a shouting match, fisticuffs or worse. Like being assaulted with a trout. What???!!!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, if you fish too close to another fisherman, he/she just might slap you upside the head with a fish. Fishermen are a serious bunch about their fishing hole being intruded upon. For example, a lady in Michigan was ice fishing when she felt her fishing hole was intruded upon by two men. This is where the dumbassery begins. The lady walked over to the men and asked them to turn their heads while she tinkled on the ice. When ya gotta go, ya gotta go and when you’re fishing, the world is your outhouse. Not that I would personally know these things <coughbullshitcough>, but when Nature calls, you’ve got to do something. But, I digress. The lady tells these two guys she’s gotta pee. The guys turned around as the dumbass lady requested, then she goes full tilt boogie bat shit crazy and smacks the two guys about the head and shoulders and the upper extremities of their bodies with a fish! I told you that fishermen are a serious bunch when it comes to “protecting” their fishing spot.

The cops were called and it was determined that the dumbass fishing lady was pissed off because, in her opinion, the two guys had put their shanty (portable ice fishing hut) too close to hers and she felt that a flagrant fishing felony was within the unwritten laws of fishing, so she bashed them with a bass. There’s a small matter that we haven’t discussed yet. We know that the two guys called the the fuzz and after being pummeled by a pissed off piscatorial perpetrator, these two dumbasses refused to press charges! Holy mackerel! What a couple of pansies.

I wanted to come up with a witty ending to this post, but I am drawing a blank. All I can say is that when you go fishing, be a good sport and don’t fish too close to the other guy. It’s really rude and
some folks, like the dumbass lady in the story, get a touch peeved when that happens. Besides, you never know if the other guy is packing a concealed catfish and he’s willing to use it. 

 
I’m just sayin’. 
 
Dumbasses.
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Fearless Leader Remembers Dad

Dad, Debbie & the Young Siblings

Today’s story is very personal. If you came looking for teh funnay, I can’t bring it today. Having said that, I think many of you will relate to what I am gonna write about.

8 Years Ago Today 

June 5, 2004 was just another day at the Dumbass Dome. So I thought.

I was doing the normal routine – having a beer for breakfast, smokin’ a fatty and getting tuned up for work. I was walking past the front door of my house when I saw a black Toyota zoom into my drive way. It was my sister, Cheryl. From Dallas. 100 miles away from where I lived. Instinct told me that something was wrong. Very wrong.

It was. Very wrong.

My Dad had died. Unexpectedly. He was 65 years old. Much too young to meet his Maker. He had been in the hospital for some tests, but I had no idea whatsoever that his condition was life-threatening.

Dad could not have just died. I saw him a couple of days before as he and his wife, Debbie, drove by my house on the way to theirs. I lived about a half-mile down the road, so used to see Dad and Debbie drive by all the time. He looked OK, if not a bit skinny (for him). We chatted for a second or two and I told him, ,”I love you, Dad’. That was the last time I saw my Dad alive.


My Dad
Cecil Shoemaker, October 6, 1938 – June 5, 2004, was Dad to five kids – me and my two sisters he had with my Mom and a brother and sister he had with my Step Mom, Debbie. Dad was a Country Boy from Troup, Texas. He was a truck driver (CB Handle – “Gunslinger”. Dad loved Western movies, especially John Wayne) for over 40 years and countless millions of miles. A simple man who worked hard for everything he got.

He was tough as nails and soft as cotton at the same time. Contradictory? Maybe, but that was the way he was. An enigma. I must say here, however, that the “soft as cotton” side of my Father came a bit later in life. He’d agree with that, I’m sure.

On my birthday one year, I coaxed Dad into going fishing at Joe Poole Lake near Dallas. We were having a few beers and chunkin’ spinner baits along side a tree line in the water and BAM! I had one! It turned out to be a largemouth bass weighing about four pounds. Dad was at the back of the boat smiling like he’d just won the lottery. You know, I think at that moment he felt like he’d just become an instant millionaire. I was somewhere in my 30s when this all took place, but there was something in Dad’s eyes that said he was watching his little boy land his first fish. You know what? I was that little boy landing that first fish. A flood of memories of fishing stock ponds in East Texas when I was a small child inundated my mind. Instead of being in my boat on a big ass lake near one of the nation’s largest cities, there we were – Dad, me, Grandma, Grandpa, my sisters and my Mom – catching crappie on cane poles at my Uncle Walter’s place in Betty, Texas. Dad beaming like I had just become a BASSMasters Champion. Like I was a little boy again. And for a split second, he was “Daddy” and I was five years old.

I shall never forget that moment.

Or Dad.

You Never Know 

Nobody was expecting Dad to die that day eight years ago, but he did and we can’t put sand back into the hourglass, so we all had to adjust to life without him. We have adjusted I suppose, but there are still times when I run into a situation and automatically think to myself, “I’ll call Dad! He knows what to do!”

Then reality sets in in as quick as a hiccup.

I write this today, not only to remember my Dad, but to remind you of yours. If he’s still alive, call him once in a while. Have a beer with him. Take him fishin’. Most of all, tell him that you love him.

It may be the last words he ever hears from you.

Dumbass.

I love you, Dad.