This may be just a story, but here goes anyway...
When I was a young boy about 7 or 8 years old, my Dad and my uncle would take me down to the Congaree River to fish for bream along the banks. Some evenings, we would walk for a mile or so, each with thier own cane pole trying out different spots we would come upon. Well one day, I was in charge of the cricket bucket and slipped and fell and the crickets got loose everywhere. As I was scrambling to get the crickets back in the bucket, I had my right hand full of crickets, my left hand full of crickets, and nice big juicy cricket crawling up my left forearm. Now being only 7 and not wanting to let a single one of these crickets get away, I decided I was gonna catch him with the only thing I had left.... my mouth!! Well about the time I opened up and lunged for him, he jumped and lets just say the fish weren't the only ones biting crickets that day......
Now, I have no memory of that day, but that was the story my Dad told me and now you know why they call me the Toad!!!!![]()


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