My father the voodoo fisherman

The other day I sat down and started thinking of all the times dad and I went fishing. Then I started counting the times that I outfished him. I didn't even have to use both hands. This really got me to wondering, am I really that bad of a fisherman, or is there some sort of secret weapon my dad uses to out fish me. I admit that I am not the best fisherman in the world, but everyone has a good day every now and then. I never seem to have one of these days. Recently I think I have figured out why dad always catches more fish than I.

I have come to the conclusion that my dad uses voodoo to outfish me. I can just picture him sitting in a candle lite room with strange Jamaican chants flowing out of his mouth. Instead of a voodoo doll dressed like his victim (me) he has an exact replica of my fishing pole. He holds the tiny pole in one hand and a twig in the other. Cursed chants flow from his mouth as he takes the tiny hook on my tiny pole and snags it on the twig. He snags the twig once for every time he wants me to get hung up while we fish. Since I am hung up half the time, I would say his trick works pretty good. However, I am only hung up half the time , What about the other half?

You would think I could surely catch a fish during the other half, right. Wrong! Although he hasn't been to Louisiana in quite a few years he must have obtained some cursed swampjuice somewhere. You know the stuff, it's made of bat tongues, turtle whiskers, and tainted urine from who know what kind of creatures. Probably ordered out of a Voodoo Illustrated magazine that he hides from the rest of the world. When he gets finished snagging my tiny little hook a couple hundred times, he starts on my tackle box. I can envision this slimy black ooze swishing around in my tackle box. This swampjuice impregnates my lures with some wretched odor that can only be smelled by fish. I would not be at all surprised if there wasn't a hallucinogenic fish drug in this swampjuice of his. Poor little fish swims up to my lure thinking it's an easy meal, then the drug zaps it. The fish starts to see all sorts of strange colors and shapes. Then fishy paranoia sets in and the fish is no longer after the lure, but the lure appears to be chasing the fish. I have often wondered why my lures seem to go where they want to and not where I intended.

I have also noticed that when I fish with my dad I always sit in the rear seat of the boat. I figured he sat me because he hates to paddle, but I am wise to his trickery now. That seat is cursed as well. There is probably some sort of midnight ceremonial fire which includes the sacrifice of chicken lips and nostril hair from the now almost extinct goosebilled platypus (much harder to find than a duckbilled platypus). Whoever sits in the rear seat is certain to have a bad day fishing. Now that I think about it I have often noticed a strange green powder covering that very seat. I thought it was only dust from the nearby alley, but now I believe it is ash from his ceremonial bonfire. This seat cursing must be for good measure just in case the other two curses don't work.

Of coarse I can't prove any of this. I have looked the house over for these Voodoo Illustrated magazines, but none can be found. I am now to the point of getting my own subscription in hopes of maybe counteracting any future curses he throws my way. Then maybe, just maybe I will be able to catch a fish every once in a while.