I was just a kid when my uncle Gary first told me about the curse. Of course, at the time, he was standing in an icy river wearing shoes with carpet glued to the soles, so I didn’t put a lot of stock in what he was saying. But the longer I’m alive, the more it makes sense. The men in our family are fish cursed. This is a real thing.
Fish mock us and intentionally make us look bad.
Our father has the mildest case…or it’s a numbers game and he simply outfishes the curse. He was even elected to be president of a fly-fishing club. Uncle Gary and I, however, have a full-blown “Hope-Diamond” grade case, as if some distant relative had stolen the idol that Greg Brady found in a cave in Hawaii…except with fish.
While my uncle is mostly cursed with not…
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