Several years ago while fishing the Hoko with two other fly chuckers we stopped for a lunch break. Mory, who is famous for loose conduct,loose bowels, and is outwardly proud of his ability to "coat the bowl" (laying cable isn't a possible bodily function of his he claims), retired to the brush to punch the mid afternoon time clock. He was gone a longer than what should have been his alotted time frame for blowing mud at high velocity. However, he returned with his norm jovial grin, proceeded to sit down and reached into the cooler (next to me) for an oilcan of Fosters. At that moment Steve and I smelled a stench something akin to a bucket of rotten duck guts. As Mory reached for the cooler I sighted some unscenely and aromatic additions to the fleece gloves he was wearing. "Hey, uh Mory. There's somthing on your glove." I said. In horror, Mory saw the stain of the underworld he'd brought back from his sprayfest in the salal. "JEEZUS that stinks like $hit! Don't touch that cooler!!!" I screamed as I bounded out of range of Mory's mud pie stench. He couldn't figure out how the residue ended up on the palm of his glove and on the hand that stays inactive during the wipe. "Look at your shoulder strap!" I guffawed at him (from a safe distance of course). Mory had failed to keep his wader straps and farmer john polar fleece straps out of the blast zone, coated them, and unknowingly stuck his hand right in it when he yarded his gear back up. Made for a mess, but the dogs at the take out loved him! I think the St. Bernard is still waiting for him to return.
[ 10-30-2001: Message edited by: Chuckn'Duck ]
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Chasing old rags 500 miles from home.
Plenty of t-shirts with no sleeves and flannals with no arms. Also remember to pull hip boots down far enough! 
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