Vend-A-Bait.

Ever since I heard the phrase, I could not stop thinking about it. Quarters go in, worms & nightcrawlers come out. Coins in, Insects out. It's purpose: obviously for the modern, on-the-go fisherman.

My first Vend-A Bait machine appeared in the backwoods of northern New Jersey. I don't remember the exact name of the town but it was something like Beemerville or Mastadon Lake. I'm sure you're already getting the heebie-jeebies thinking of what kind of people come from these places. Toothless, wide-grinned overalls walking hand in hand with a six pack of bud light. Cans, of course. They gather in bars with names like Bud's Pub-n-Grub & hold discussion groups on deer hunting and Crosby, Stills & Nash (no Young). These people who can chew through aluminum & collect colonies of ants under their fingernails would probably enjoy the sport of midget tossing if they'd only make it legal.

This particular Vend-A-Bait machine is located just two miles south of Wild West City where gun duels occur every high-noon & middle school children can participate in a field study of Real Ass cowboys. It's been a milemarker on every family trip I've ever taken to High Point State Park (the highest point on the east coast, I believe). We'd drive a total of forty-five minutes just to stand at the top of a phallic monument and try to pick out our own house.

"Look kids, it's the Vend-A-Bait machine!" my dad would exclaim on the drive over, as if dear President Kennedy was crossing the street directly in front of our van...

There is no point to this story, so stop digging for one.
I just had to remind someone that this shit exists. It's a remedy I've thought up to distract myself from my recent, chronic boredom: obsess about weird memories I can't shake & how they possibly shape my life now.

The moral of the story: It took me nineteen years to understand where I got all this learnin'. Now it's going to take atleast that much to reverse the effects of it.