Newspaper Page Text
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The ADVANCE, January 17, 2024/Page 13A
Crankbait
continued from page 12A
life as we rounded every
curve at 75 mph in a big
ole sprinter van, and that’s
when he said it.
“I think I know what
happened,” he began.
“What do you mean?”
I asked.
Up until that moment
I did not think ‘what hap
pened’ was in question.
“I think it was the
glove,” he said to me.
“WTF? What are you
talking about — It was the
glove?” I answered, my ir
ritation level going from
about a zero to full scale in
a little less than a second.
Then, my beloved hus
band of nearly 34 years
proceeded to detail his the
ory of how this series of un
fortunate events occurred.
“When you got in the
boat you were carrying
gloves. I think the Strike
King KV Square Billed
Crank Bait got stuck on
one of your gloves and then
the glove ended up on the
back seat.”
That, he theorized, is
how the Crank Bait came
to be lodged between the
cushions of the rear bench
seat and ultimately im
planted deep into my ass
cheek.
As he spoke, I became
more and more annoyed
by his theory — his “justi
fication.”
“You mean to tell me
you are going to blame this
on a glove!?”
So I sat there, perched
uncomfortably on my left
hip, clinging to the armrest
to keep from moving any
more than necessary, blood
rushing to my face as I pon
dered the two possible sce
narios:
Scenario 1: In his
quest for a trophy bass,
while fishing earlier
in the day, he took the
Crank Bait off his line
and attached another
lure to bring him better
luck — something that
he does multiple times
per fishing trip. He sim
ply forgot to put the re
moved lure in the tackle
box and as we stepped
in and out of the boat,
the cushions moved and
the Crank Bait became
lodged and concealed
between the rear seat
cushions.
Or
Scenario 2: Perhaps
all of Bill’s hundreds
of fishing lures were
stowed properly and
safely. Then I entered
the boat carrying a pair
of gloves. I tossed them
carelessly up onto the
dashboard behind the
windshield, a solid 18
inches away from the
little plastic contain
er where the Crank
Bait might have been.
Then, miraculously,
the glove crawled over
on its own, and the
Crank Bait got stuck
to it. Then somehow
the glove made its way
to the backseat of the
boat, pushed the Crank
Bait down between the
seats and then by some
supernatural, unexplained
force, the glove made its
way back up to its spot on
the dashboard.
Friends. I ask you all:
Which scenario is more
likely?
We pulled into the ER
parking lot and I limped in
gasping with every single
step.
I explained to the tri
age nurse that there was a
fishing lure stuck in
my butt and I needed help
getting it out.
She promptly put me
into an OB/GYN room
saying with a compassion
ate tone, “It’s the most pri
vate room we have.”
A nurse was first to
assess my “situation.” She
had me lie on the paper-
covered table face down
and butt up and then she
swung a bright spotlight
around to get a closer look
at my denim-covered ass. I
felt her probing the afflict
ed area and I tried hard
not to flinch.
The way the Crank Bait
was embedded into my
keister through my jeans
made it difficult to see ex
actly how bad the situa
tion was, but she could tell
that at least one of the six
barbs had impaled me. She
said they have a little trick
called the “String-Yank Ma
neuver.” She explained that
they tie a string to the hook
and then, as the name sug
gests, they “yank” it out.
After her description
of the “String-Yank Maneu
ver,” she asked me if I was
okay to proceed.
“Well ...” I said, “that
sounds kind of painful.
What are the other op
tions?”
“There are really no
other options,” she said.
“Well ... if there are
no other options, I guess I
will have to be okay with it.
Let’s roll!” I said.
It sounded unpleas
ant, but I did not care. I had
a Crank Bait lodged into
my tushy, my jeans were
pinned to me prevent
ing me from pulling them
down to go potty, and I was
over four hours into a large
Aquafina and a 16 ounce
Diet Mountain Dew. Time
was of the essence.
She left the room and
said she would be right
back.
I prepared for the
worst.
Finally, Dr. Olyer came
in with his three-person
entourage in tow — nurse,
nurse practitioner and
paramedic. What a treat
to meet the doctor and his
medical coterie with my
butt up, spotlight shining
on my denim-clad but
tocks.
It was such an utterly
hilarious moment I could
not even find it anywhere
in me to be embarrassed.
I just laughed and in re
sponse, he laughed too.
“You will be surprised
just how often we have to
remove fish hooks,” he said
reassuringly. “But this par
ticular location is a first.”
Not knowing exactly
how to proceed he asked if
I could take my pants off.
“Hahahahahah! No,
that is actually part of the
problem,” I replied.
Then Dr. Olyer de
vised a plan.
Still lying face down,
prone, butt up, surrounded
by a group of sympathetic
onlookers, I, like an inch-
worm, hoisted my rear
end higher, reached under
my belly and unzipped my
favorite jeans. Then the
nurse kind of peeled them
downward like a banana,
stopping at the place where
the crank bait had stapled
them to me.
Finally, the doctor
could see it. Two of the
three barbs of the treble
hook were indeed pushed
deeply into my flesh.
So, with me on the
table, butt up, jeans folded
down, spotlight on my der-
riere covered now by only
my cutest pink-striped un
dies, Dr. Olyer and staff got
to work. I could feel them
moving around the treble
hook while trying to tie the
sting onto the barbs.
Then, finally the mo
ment of truth, as he in
haled and said, “This is
gonna hurt like hell. Are
you ready?”
I was ready and did not
even care one little bit how
much it hurt, how embar
rassing it was or how angry
I was at Bill’s stupid “glove
theory.”
I. Did. Not. Care.
“Ready!” I exclaimed.
And then ... he yanked
it.
OUCH! He was right.
It hurt like hell, but it was
fast and thank God it was
over!
But then I heard Dr.
Olyer speak the words that
nearly broke me.
“One down, one to go.”
OMG! I screamed
silently to myself as I
realized, “the two barbs
would have to come out
separately, one at a time.”
And then, he jerked
it again. And again, I re
mained motionless.
And then, right there
in front of the crowd of
medical onlookers, and
without permission, I
stood up, jeans folded
down exposing my pretty
pink striped undies, blood
running down the back
of my leg, and said “I’ll
be right back — I’m go
ing to pee.” They watched
me waddle to the door at
the back of the OB/GYN
room and into the rest
room.
When I returned, they
slapped a bandage on my
boo boo, and in no time
I was on my way back to
Shady Glade Marina and
campground.
Again, I swear this: I
was still not mad. But I will
note that it was a very qui
et drive back to Uncertain.
I think Bill may have been
a little scared of me.
To this day, over two
months later, Bill con
tinues to maintain his in
nocence in the ridiculous
misadventure, but I made
three important observa
tions:
First. Bill almost al
ways complains about how
much he dislikes my mu
sic, but on the drive back
to the campground that
night, Bill played my favor
ite playlist (John Denver
and James Taylor).
Second. On the night
when we arrived back at
the campground, Bill qui
etly went to work and pre
pared my favorite dinner
— salad with grilled chick
en and a cold Diet Coke.
Third. Days later when
we finally returned home to
Cartersville, he promptly
went outside and washed,
waxed and detailed my car
inside and out.
Ladies, I ask you: Are
these the actions of an in
nocent man?
In hindsight, the
“Crankbait in the Butt
Caper” was undoubtedly
a memorable adventure.
Despite the circumstances
that landed me in that un
forgettable situation, I can’t
help but look back and
find humor in that series
of events. And yes, while
Bill’s bogus “glove theory”
will live on in infamy, his
subsequent actions spoke
volumes, and actions speak
louder than words. Right?
And in the end, Bill
remains the “Catch of my
Life,” and I’m thankful to
navigate the boring and
mundane days with him, as
well as all of the unplanned
moments, regardless how
chaotic, embarrassing or
absurd. It is his unwaver
ing support and love that
stand as steadfast as an an
chor, guiding us through
life’s unpredictable waters.
I truly treasure him.
But we all know that
he left the lure on the seat.
VidaliA
FEDERAL SAVINGS BANK
budHoiine
•il, i
stl!**** >•' ■ wk-t-MHn
Julia McKenzie
Jmckenzie@vidfed.com
0:912-537-8805 ext. 137
300 Jackson Street, Vidalia, GA 30474