Blessed Mother of Compound Interest, don’t fail me now…  Five short years from now the Space Hilton opens, and you’ll want to be part of the festivities.

Think of it, the total domination of your fishing peer group, who are frantically stuffing their 401K on the hopes they might be able to retire, while you – the overconsumer, are planning the pinultimate fishing experience.

It starts with the “Hi Mom” pantomime, broadcast worldwide compliments of a Mission Control telephoto lens, followed quickly by the detonation of 1,900,000 pounds of liquid hydrogen and oxygen – propelling you into angling legend.

I don’t know what you’re gonna catch, I don’t know what they’ll be eating, but Stephen King likely knows (or can describe) who’ll be your guide. Consider tipping large, as you don’t want to piss off a Wookie.

No more double haul – shoot the fly line and 500 yards of backing with a simple flip of the wrist.  Dropped your fly box? No worries, it’ll make a crater in your backyard as soon as the orbit decays. No boundaries to Space, no daily bag limits either. You can kill indiscrimantly, as it will take the UN decades to determine which warden has jurisdiction.

After Oprah and Good Morning America have their way with you, National Enquirer and Star will make you a hot property,  when that crowd loses interest, you have a lifetime of income from angling shows, and fly fishing clubs. This trip pays for itself.