Inventor's Notes - Pisscala...

the “Mark IV” utilizes the fisherman's natural movement in walking to expell the fluid. I replaced the garden hose with a length of surgical tubing attached to the external catheter. A one-way air valve from a child's toy (which child and which toy is immaterial, it is sufficient to note that the child only cried for a moment. I gave the toddler a very expensive Swiss Army knife, with two blades and a quite workable saw, in exchange. Now, before you say I'm spoiling the child, I will note that one of the blades tended to swing open at inopportune times, so I was going to get rid of it anyway) was installed just below the catheter to allow air to enter the system, but no fluid to leak out. Now, for the brilliance of the new design -- the tubing ran down the inside of the left leg to the foot where it connected to a bulb pump from an old kerosene siphon; the soft plastic bulb fit snuggly under the arch of the foot. The outflow tubing ran back up the outside of the leg and exited discretely over the left shoulder. The simple process of walking was all that was necessary to pump the fluid over the shoulder and away.

I cannot begin to describe my excitement as I donned my waders at the riverbank. I had to walk only a few feet to determine that:

• The pump was functioning perfectly and
• The valve I removed from the child's toy was a whistle which emitted a loud leering wolf-call every time I raised my foot and
• The outflow tubing positioned over my left shoulder gave a sound like a Bronx cheer with every step down.

These, I knew, were just minor inconveniences; something to work out of the system during later testing. The day was perfect. There was a thin hatch of little brown bugs with a Latin name coming off the water; which I matched closely with a little brown fly with a rather disgusting name. Soon I had caught two nice trout, keeping a bleeder for dinner, when my morning coffee (Columbian, five cups with cream and sugar) signaled for an exit. Blithely, I let the forces of nature work. It took me but a moment to remember that the outflow required walking. I was positioned in water just an inch below my wader tops and walking was problematic; so I began to wobble from side to side, shifting from foot to foot. The whistle of the intake valve was inaudible through the water, but I could hear the periodic "Blaat" from the discharge tubing. A nearby fisherman was watching this exercise and slowly edging upstream; doubtless in order to give me more casting room. In a trice I was done and began mutely congratulating myself, imagining the response of a grateful public when the Pisscalator hit the market. The Pisscalator “Mark IV”was clearly a success.

As I walked the narrow path back to the car, I interrupted a young couple locked in a passionate embrace. With face averted I tried to squeeze past them when, in midstride, the young man reached out and grabbed me by the throat. "Why are you whistling at my girl?" he grunted. I looked up to where his face was suspended above me, seemingly adrift on shoulders whose muscles could only have come from bench-pressing Buicks. I pursed my lips, about to reply - though I felt that it would be indelicate and exceedingly dangerous to give a full explanation of the wonders of the Pisscalator in mixed company - when my weight shifted onto my left foot and the “Mark IV” gave a mighty raspberry.

I heard, as through a mist, "A smartass, eh?" and saw a fist the size of a Virginia ham cocked back, ready to strike. Should I inform him, I wondered, that I was not unaware of the manly arts; that, indeed, I knew quite a bit about pugilism and had more than once had my feet on the canvas as a youth (though, in all fairness, I had my cheek on the canvas within seconds). As these and other thoughts flashed through my mind, I heard the woman say "Oh, let him be, he's just a little guy." My burly inquisitor released his grip on my throat with the admonition, "Alright, but if I hear another whistle out of you, you're dogmeat. Now, get lost!", and turned back to his beloved. I had no strong inclination to become an Alpo supplement, but I was trapped in place. If I moved, the Pisscalator would whistle. I froze; immobile, willing invisibility. However, the young swain noticed after a moment my continued presence and snarled another guttural but easily understood Teutonic suggestion for me to leave. I slowly raised my left foot -- and the “Mark IV” betrayed me.

When I regained consciousness, I found myself on the forest floor; beside me lay my delightful Leonard Catskill 8' 3wt. Its three pieces had been multiplied to six and the Hardy Perfect was perfect no more. There were signs of blood everywhere and I was fearful that I might have -- in an explosive rage beyond conscious thought -- pummeled the young man with such ferocity as to seriously injure him. However, when I stood up, the pain of my broken nose and battered body provided assurance that the young fellow had probably been fortunate enough to survive our encounter.

My conscience clear, the Pisscalator and I alternately whistled and “Blaated” slowly back to the car. I have determined, alas, that the process of invention is too dangerous for a man of my years. I leave the Pisscalator Mark V for others to perfect.

© 2007 Reed F. Curry – text

© 2007 Eric Reaves – illustrations