Sure it’s morbid

… a leading producer of functional, sustainable Tilapia biomass …

With the Food & Drug zealots insisting it has to respire to be called “fish” – and the animal welfare crowd insisting it has to have a heartbeat to be an animal – and hence possess a soul, and with consumers adamant that it has to be boneless to be real food,  Madison Avenue has to come up with some catchy new phrase to describe the contents of  fish-like substance.

On the surface, it’s brilliant.

Note how weak it sounds when added to, “ %$#@*, that noxious bath of chemicals you’ve leaked into the water has nearly destroyed the Tilapia Biomass!”

Widows and orphans don’t exist with “biomass” – as it sounds too much like, “eww, hope I don’t get any on me ..” Now we can stomp life out of whichever species tastes best, without mourners or anyone protesting.

Love it.

Test: tilapia biomass, widows and orphans, real food, madison ave,

The only problem is the damn thing has to be taught how to swim.

You grab a gene from a Pacific Salmon, add a couple more from the Ocean Pout (or Conger Eel, at left) mash the syringe into an Atlantic Salmon egg, and watch the magic happen…

Once you cull the progeny for misshapen ogres and hunchbacks – and fillet what’s left, you’ve doubled your seafood production and the consumer is none the wiser.

As the FDA faces unthinkable hurdles trying to regulate these test-tube fish, producers exploit loopholes in food laws with great glee.

But AquaBounty says FDA cannot legally obligate the fish producer to label the product as anything other than Atlantic salmon. Anything else is voluntary.

-via AOL News

On one hand I’m not so sure anglers will lose out in the mix. At some point a couple of extra genes may produce a scrappy opponent that will provide great sport when planted illegally in a backyard pond, or even the kitchen sink.

As most fishermen rarely eat their catch, we won’t care too much when some lab coat wads a big needle up Mother Nature’s finest, we can no longer afford the outpouring of cash for a weekend-long pilgrimage to the Pristine, or the gear necessary.

AquaBounty says it has launched a “blue revolution,” which brings together biological sciences and molecular technology “to enable an aquaculture industry capable of large-scale, efficient and environmentally sustainable production of high quality seafood. Genetically altered trout and tilapia are the next to be offered up to the nation’s fishmongers.

Once trout hits the aquaculture cross-hairs we’ll see some plaintive bleat from our conservation organizations and the IGFA, but they’ll be steamrollered into quiescence because of the larger issue, world hunger.

If we know we’re headed down this path, the next Theodore Gordon may be the fellow that grows a boutique fish purely for the sporting crowd. Throw a little bluegill genes into some Bluefin tuna, and squeeze the result into something colorful, yielding the Gangsta Trout.

Able to swim at a reel screaming 40MPH, can sheer a seven weight in a single jump, and feeds on Asian Carp, Zebra Mussels, and small children.

In light of what is about to occur, I see the Carp crowd having the last laugh, “sure, the water is tepid and the fish have Roman noses, but at least they don’t share any genetics with a Snickers Bar…”

Genetic salmon, Ocean Pout, Conger Eel, Heath Ledger, gangsta trout, asian carp, IGFA, bold new world, aquaculture, fish genetics, carp, fly fishing

How to get the invasive message across to a public that flushes pet alligators down the toilet, tosses piranha into the Old Swimming Hole once they outgrow the Goldfish budget, or toss that Boa Constrictor into the brushy area where everyone walks their dog – as it would be cruel to dispatch the oversized SOB now that it strangled the neighbor’s cat.

… then again, it makes an awesome, albeit controversial addition to some fellow’s life list. A story that’ll fetch free beer for months on the retelling.

I can’t help it if your finger freezes on the third tap of flakes feeding your child’s pet – that lumpy orange behemoth in the video would make any fellow question his forthcoming liability.

… as for flies, I’d think an emergent Cheetos would be just the ticket.

Monster goldfish, invasive species, fish flakes, Cheetos, goldfish flies, frustrated biologists, fishing for goldfish

Adherence to the 3rd Rule ensures your friends and neighbors never tire of your oratory – you never repeat yourself either forgetfully or pedantically, and you must go fishing a lot.

I was in mid sentence, and that 6” black bass was now 14” – weighed about thirty six pounds, when a tremendous crash echoed above, a pale lightning bolt descended from the Heavens striking the 8” tree limb above me – and as I scattered for cover, impacted my truck in precisely the spot I’d vacated …

  … suggesting that even the 3rd Rule of the Sporting Fraternity has limits, and as He had heard the story enough times, was sending me a quick warning shot to restore the straight and narrow.

Me, I figure I’ll need to add six inches (and two pounds) to each retelling, so He doesn’t recognize the story as one already heard.

Full Disclosure: That Bass, was all of six inches, honest.

… and that branch was 16” if it was an inch – a veritable tree trunk even ..

Tags: The Man, warning shot, outdoor storytelling, fish stories, complete falsehood, born again

The first guy slept with Bob and comes to breakfast the next morning with his hair a mess and his eyes all bloodshot. 

They said, “Man, what happened to you?”

He said, “Bob snored so loudly, I just sat up and watched him all night.”

The next night it was a different guy’s turn. In the morning, same thing -hair standing up, eyes all bloodshot.

They said, “Man, what happened to you? You look awful!”

He said, ‘Man, that Bob shakes the roof with his snoring. I watched him all night.”

The third night was Fred’s turn. Fred was a tanned, older cowboy; a man’s man. The next morning he came to breakfast bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“Good morning!” he said.

They couldn’t believe it. They said, “Man, what happened?”

He said, “Well, we got ready for bed. I went and tucked Bob into bed, patted him on the butt, and kissed him good night. Bob sat up and watched me all night.

Tags: Outdoors humor, fishing

… do we pause and reflect, right innumerable wrongs, or merely gash ourselves over our lack of foresight in the indiscriminate use of pavement?

Never.

We find even more novel ways to eat the few remaining survivors, or grind up the heretofore inedible beaks, feet, gristle, and unmentionables – to make even tastier things that require us to kill even more …

Coarse fish point and laugh when they see that silvery salmon smolt wandering around befuddled – still woozy from the long bumpy truck drive, and sick from the toilet flush down the long corrugated pipe into fresh water.

“Dude, the ocean is that way, you’ll know because the water tastes like crap and there’s twice as many tampons … but I wouldn’t worry too much because you’ve got to get past that bigarsed concrete wall with the screen that sucks you into the whirling death machinery.

If you make it you’ll want to hug the far side near Antioch, otherwise you’ll get sucked to LA along with all them trash-talking Stripers, who’ll probably pimp you out to them largemouth in Lake Cachuma or Castaic – and you’ll be spending your best years selling crack on some dimly lit weed bed … if they don’t eat you outright.

… or you could take the red pill – that salmon egg over there, and wind up mashed and forgotten in a Styrofoam cooler with empty beer cans and leftover Cheetos … Sure, it’s cannibalism of a sort, but at least you won’t get the Screaming Blue Shitz from all that Ag chemical in the valley.”

Naturally, a few of us decry that wanton exploitation of such a precious resource, but only after we’ve caught our fill and want to preclude others from matching our war stories …

… so we can make another couple of million paving some marsh so’s we can sell salmon donuts, that use parts even the vodka crowd blanch at  …

Pampered and fed at the hatchery – head filled with nonsense about superior and noble, and some greasy-fat Pikeminnow fills them in on their destiny … you’d think we’d have the courage to do that.

Tags: salmon, smoked salmon vodka, salmon donuts, they were so thick you could walk across their backs, stewardship

I lack the Warden-aint-looking-Velveeta “rod holder”, the depth meter, but more importantly I’m missing that gracious and relaxed look that comes with consistent success.

I was too busy sulking to notice. Fishing is five grabs – and if you’re lucky enough to hook most of them it’s a good day; sunburn hurts less, dinner tastes better, and the mosquitoes bother some other unfortunate.

Me. Mostly.

I flopped around trying secret and double-secret, figuring with each new color I’d unlock the lake and its secrets, but it was for naught. The weather was friendly, yet the fishing remained deathly.

Not a Factor.

Why you keep a #10 Adams in a box of #16’s

After the sixth or seventh honey bee floated by I was rethinking the McGinty – and why hadn’t I been smart enough to have a half dozen at the ready…

Everywhere was “Pizza” water. Toppings included every terrestrial not supposed to be there, a smattering of everything that belonged, throw in some midges just to confound everyone and a rise was something to dread, not its normal welcome quickening.

Two fish over was the fellow that likes mayfly, and I’d just cast at the fish that prefers Ladybug…

… and that welcome breeze, the one that adds enough cooling to your burnt forearms so’s you won’t notice – suddenly delivers enough protein to wake up everything downwind plus sending the sunbathers screaming.

It’s the reason you have that one bedraggled #10 Adams in your box of sixteen’s – where you pray you used lots of black thread, because having tried everything earlier, you know you’re lacking ants of any shape or color.

A deft use of the nippers – a bit of artistic license, and sent on its way with a prayer. The first fish shakes it loose in midair, and with only four grabs left …

… that satisfying feeling of a solid hookup. Large meat heading for the weeds and suddenly 5X is too thin, gossamer even.

Suddenly everything looks better. The girls are prettier, the sky bluer, dinner is strictly gourmet, and there’s still some fish working. No one’s noticed – none have crept closer, and after those two Canada Geese trail past my fly …

NO. He did not just eat that…

(The honker is making a wry face, beak and tongue suddenly active)

… and the line is moving smartly from the slack position to nearly taught.

Time freezes.

The little Devil on my left shoulder says, “ Dude, figure she’s nearly eight or nine pounds, that bitch can peel line …”

The lesser Devil on my right says, “True, but you’ve got about 60 small children and parents on the beach to your left, that Honker is going to scream bloody murder, likely go airborne – and while you’re flying that kite with your click-pawl pointing its ugly finger right at you, the entire National Park Service is going beat you to death in a really public way.”

… so I feed slack as fast as I can, the Goose is still mouthing frantically and I’m praying the last of my five grabs is a clean miss.

Ptui … and the fly drops safely into the water.

Left shoulder Devil isn’t done yet, “Dude, that counts. It’s aquatic, it lives here – it’s natural, and it was a clean take.”

Right side responds quickly enough, “ An asterisk at best, what’s important is that as the National Park Service has recently converted from wheel guns to the Model 92 – featuring 15 in the clip and one in the pipe – they’ve stopped counting until the slide locks at empty.”

We all agreed that was a good point.

“Honest, Your Honor, me and Bob there – was actually shark fishing, and them chocolate swizzling Dutchmen just opened fire out of pure orneriness …

Yessir, it was my AK and the RPG was mine too, but we was toodling around looking for a big Finn to blow holes in – not them scrawny Dutchies …”

If Twinkies and coke could get Dan White a reduced sentence, I’d gamble Hizzonor was a fisherman and take my chances – hoping “Bob” could keep his giggles under control – and not blow snot all over my sweet smelling defense attorney.

Captured by Danish commandos, after having their inflatable sunk by freighter-based signal flares, five Somali’s are opting for the “we wuz merely fishing” defense …

Farah Ahmed Yusuf, 25, accused the cargo ship of attacking the Somalis after engine failure had forced them to abandon their shark fishing expedition and seek help.

"The intention was to fish," he said.

"As we came closer, we put our hands in the air. While we had our hands in the air, they shot at us. They attacked us."

I’d call it a dry, it’s mostly barbless, but I’m unsure whether it’s cast with a one hander or something bigger … I’ll take a dozen however – as an RPG would prove useful in heavy traffic.

… and only this oldie-but-goodie to demonstrate proper technique.

Tags: RPG, Somalia pirates, Fishing Defense, shark fishing, Dan White, Twinkies

Two fur strainers and a paper towel, and Starbuck’s is a distant memory.

With the entire angling world returning from three days in the piney woods with matching stubble and tales of hardship, I wanted to show solidarity …

Extra pioneer points scored for the remnants of blue green fur by the handle.

Tasted pretty damn good too.

Tags: French Press, French roast, inmate coffee, invention, dyeing fur, fly tying

… and as “Chee-tah” doesn’t play public courses it’s a surefire course lifelist for them as ply both crafts.

… he usually returns to the hole in the late afternoon, when most golfers have left the course. He slings casts right from the green. "There are some huge bass in that pond," he says. And there’s plenty of room for your backcast.

There’ll be plenty of incensed blue bloods with gendarmes at their beck and call, but it would make a hell of an alternative fly fishing video, what with the face paint, tallboys, and enraged patrons wearing plaid.

- via Forbes Magazine (click on the above to see the Top 10)

Baird is part of an unofficial PGA Tour fishing club, a group of players that brings along both rods and clubs to tournaments. The water hazards they avoid during competitive rounds? With rod in hand, those ponds and creeks transform into fishing sweet spots. Many courses in the country frown upon fishing the hazards, but look the other way when it comes to Tour pros. At Sawgrass, only Tour players are allowed to fish.

… legally, perhaps. But the half dozen lawsuits filed by Trout Unlimited, whose board members actually want to play there, but aren’t rich enough, will blaze the trail for the rest of us more pedestrian fishermen.

We’ll be quiet as church mice, and apologize profusely if some predatory heavy-gutted Largemouth decides to tail walk through the lilies and fetch both our fly and that errant tee shot.

Tags: PGA golf fishing, black bass, Tiger’s favorite 10 holes, golfing, Trout Unlimited, Tiger Woods