It’s editorial prerogative to have “moments” – a fit of pique that prompts you to hurl a magazine across the room,  vowing never to buy another. It wasn’t the magazines fault, it was the vendor advertisement that was the source of my ire.

Two fellows in a drift boat with the appropriate wading ensemble:

WHAT YOU SAY

I don’t care how many fish I catch, it’s just great to be out here on the water.

WHAT YOU MEAN

I’ve hooked seven and you’ve only hooked one.

Once it was the sport of Earls, Dukes, and Kings – now it’s just another counting exercise followed by a reason to tailgate others on the freeway. We’ve covered the counting issue before, as has the Trout Underground, but is that all that Madison Avenue can glean from the entire experience?

I find some guy I don’t particularly care for, take him out far enough so his Blackberry phone has no coverage, then piss on him about his skills until he slugs me?

…I probably have to work with him come Monday, so in addition to getting him burnt by the sun, not sharing the good flies, depriving him of Starbucks, and living off of Chicken Fried Steak cooked by teenagers, I am going to sum up his entire existence and find him wanting?

Pals can piss on each other with impunity, but these lads sound more like they’re dating.

Hey Mister Fatuous, obtuse, know-it-all, metrosexual, pissant – your idea of the Great Outdoors is throwing your dog’s crap over your neighbors fence, and hoping he doesn’t notice. You understand NOTHING, and a majestic panorama, an arrowhead, a glimpse of a real bear, a sunset, a solitary quail call, none of this will you comprehend, none will give cause for thought or pause your march back to your BMW.

I bet you put Ketchup on Steak.

…well, we covered the guy that thought up the ad, now about them guys in the boat…

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