I’m never quite sure whether it’s penance or revenge, but another stud angler shows us the meaning of commitment when his ashes are mixed with 30 lbs of groundbait and tossed into the river.
It makes the “I went three days without deodorant” adventure story tame by comparison.
Mr Hodge’s widow Caroline and daughter Sally were the first to catapult balls of the bait into the River Huntspill to signal the start of an angling competition among Mr Hodge’s friends.
Brownliners don’t have friends, so I’ll have to settle for my executor randomly mailing jars of my corpulent frame to a list of fly shops I’ve prepared in advance.
With the canny marketing savvy of the Trout Underground, and his ” .. the label is irresistible, because I wrote it ” campaign, I should be decomposing in almost every blueline Mecca the “lower 48” offers.
Then again, Tom Chandler could be pulling my leg, and I wind up as a hand cleanser … It begs the question, “Which great unspoiled angling paradise do you want to get dumped in, and why?”
Somehow I think ” … so Donny Beaver can drink me” may be the populist refrain…
There IS no unspoiled angling paradise. You can dump my ass in the Nestle bottling plant and let all those yuppies choke on me for all I care.
After a few years of brownlining, it’s likely your remains won’t be handled by anyone not wearing a bio-hazaard suit (I’m not even going to speculate about things as they are right now).
Just saying.
Go ahead, have your chuckle whilst you’re able – it’s likely going to be me, Jean Paul, and a lot of cockroaches come Armaggedon.
Whichever of them Phillipson rods is left after the fireball, will make a nice wading staff.
I think John Prine had the right idea, “give my stomach to Milwaukee if they run out of beer and put my socks in a cedar box; just get ‘em outta here.”