Gone Fishin'

So, it's that time of year when Dave starts thinking about our super fun annual fishing trip again.  He went out to the shed and pulled all the gear out to make sure we have everything we need.  And...then he brought the tackle box into the house...the tackle box that hasn't been opened for about a year and has been sitting in the hot, hot, hot shed.

Me?  I'm very sweetly (of course, as that's my pretty much all the time disposition) painting a picture at the table, minding my own business.

Dave?  He sits down at the table to join me, which I absolutely adore, and then he opens the tackle box.


"Gaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh...."  (That's the sound of the tackle box emitting a most undesirable odor.)


Big guy happened to be walking by.  "Dad, are you trying to kill mom?"

Dave:  "If I was trying to kill mom she'd be dead a long time ago."

Silence...

Dave:  "Just fart, that smell will cover anything."  Yeah, I'm not going to ask Dave if he meant me or the big guy.


Woof...where's the Febreeze?

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