The gals in the lunchroom give me a wide berth as my work reputation has fallen from Epsilon Semi-Moron to neo-primitive Undateable. It’s what happens when the really soft – brightly colored tuft of hair in my hand is identified as real animal. In their mind I probably kilt the SOB in the driveway and don’t dare ask what my sandwich is made from …
Monday and Tuesday was Shad flies, and the brightly colored tufts of whatnot scattered about my vise were a magnet for the curious, until they found out they were real.
Watery Armageddon sank all plans of Shad and Wednesday I had shifted to trout, which has even more gross and despicable things that add to my legend …
Now the American has dropped 2000 CFS in a couple of days, and I’m back to bead chain and 0.20 lead. A wide gulf of empty tables separates me from the rest of the diners – but that’s not all bad.
At least I don’t have to answer the 10 Sacred Really Obvious Questions that You Shouldn’t Ask:
1) Is that a hook?
2) Do fish eat that?
3) Is that real fur?
4) are you a serial killer?
5) Did your Mother cut the crusts off your sandwich when you were little?
6) Does this make up for your having a small …
It’s scheduled to be only twice its normal size this weekend, but after six months of watching rain fall – my waistline is twice normal, allowing me to hold ground in everything but the fairway.
Next week I’ve got a date with trout again, so I’ll secret a couple of pheasant skins in my bag so I can sail them into the crowd whispering over at the Coke machine …
Makes you wonder what would happen if the butcher left a few feathers on those boneless skinless chicken breasts – and whether it wouldn’t induce mass hysteria or famine in the metropolis.
Tags : cro-magnon, trout fishing, shad fishing, serial killer, pheasant skin, undateable, American river flow, fly fishing, fly tying humor
Are you tying flies at work?
When I’m not mixing dubbing colors. It allows me to craft an additional 4 – 5 dozen flies per week, just enough to accomodate grabby-mitt pals and always have a dozen or so for me.
And here I thought you were independently wealthy. I was hoping for a scene someday out of the “millionaire” where I’d be wading in the mitchell and you’d appear (having jetted in on your private learjet) with a briefcase-hmmm better make that a duffle bag of 100s. You’d give me some casting tips, tell me how I’d tied my flies wrong (but keep at it) then vanish having dispensed your load of filthy lucre.
When asked who that stranger was I’d reply, “I don’t know, but the way he was talking about blue gill was making me uncomfortable.”
Like they say, “the best way to make a million in the fly fishing business is to start with 10 million, and lose the other nine.”