In traditional ass-biting fashion the Trout Underground  has done me “Short Cast” dirt, flinging our entire editorial staff me under a bus for the quick chuckle, not realizing that I would be horribly offended at the notion of any woman assaulted by a frozen furbearer.

“Road Kill” now somehow synonymous with the “Singlebarbed Experience,” versus our association with any of the finer elements of our sport; like finely honed titanium, polished nickel silver, or the fine micrometer taper of a weak-walled, hollow Asian grass, that when dried was flamed by craftsmen scared to inhale … as they weren’t Man enough to flex Carbon fiber …

… given that my worst offense would be breathing new life into something crushed, lifeless and a rapidly bloating eyesore – should’ve bought us martyrdom versus the “hyuk-hyuk” bull’s-eye on our rear. Making it doubly painful knowing those whose aberration includes running them over repeatedly until tender and eating the remnants are, “conservationists” instead of blogdom’s laughingstock.

‘I used to cut up dead animals to see their insides and when I did all I could see was fresh, organic meat …”

Burgeoning ax murderers from the sound of it, and my worst merely skinning it downwind of its former owner – without permission, and without last rights, naturally.

I figure living in that mansion on the hill, overlooking his personal trout stream – and knowing I was travelling lent him courage …