Earl's Bait Bucket Blunder: Catfish Assault on the Creek

Y'all, picture this: me, Earl, headin' out to the ol' creek at dawn, rod in hand, dreamin' of

a mess of fried bass.

I'd rustled up what I thought was prime bait—wrigglin' minnows in my trusty bucket.

Little did I know, somethin' was brewin' in there that'd turn my peaceful fishin' into a full-on frenzy.

I plop down on the bank, bait bucket close, ready to hook supper.

As I reach in for the first handful, the bucket erupts like a dang volcano.

Out spill not minnows, but a horde of pissed-off catfish, slimy and snarlin', floppin' everywhere.

Turns out, I'd grabbed the wrong pail from the shed—full of last night's catch, still kickin' mad.

They scatter across the mud, eyes bulgin', tails thrashin' like they got a grudge against the world, and

me right in the thick of it.

Before I can even cuss, these whiskered warriors zero in on my boots.

One latches on like a pit bull, teeth gnawin' at the rubber.

Another flips up, slappin' my ankle with its tail—stings like a bee!

I'm dancin' around, tryin' to shake 'em off, but they keep comin', turnin' my feet into a catfish

rodeo.

Hollerin' and stompin', I look like a fool in a bad Western, but twice as slippery.

Finally, I grab a stick and herd the dang invaders back toward the creek.

They plop in one by one, shootin' me dirty looks like I owe 'em an apology.

Breathin' heavy, boots chewed to shreds, I sit back with nothin' but a story and sore feet.

Lesson learned: check your bait, or end up in a finned fight club.

Y'all laugh, but next time, I'm usin' worms.