I had no idea I was in such distinguished company, the question is, which is the half that swears like a sailor?

“A U.S. survey of licensed hunters and anglers last year, commissioned by the National Wildlife Federation, found half of those polled identified themselves as evangelical Christians.”

All the fishermen I know are liars, boozers, womanizers, and would as soon abandon spouse and infants to chase the rumor of big fish, so which half am I fishing with?

I like to think that the flipped quarter sometimes lands on its edge, which explains my predilections, but if the last dozen fellows I fished with are Christian, it must’ve changed remarkable since the Lutheran brimstone of my youth.

It may be that I’m mistaking exclamation for invocation. When the guy next to me in the riffle yells, “Jesus H. Christ” – it may be a prayer to speed his reflexes,  I’m going to have to look closer next time. When the “GoddamnitToHell” wafts upstream – it may be a heathen swearing at weak tippet, or an invocation from a Christian – ensuring the fish he missed simmers for eternity.

Big fish can make any of us an evangelical, especially if they’re released prematurely. Moses might’ve parted the Red Sea accidental-like; after busting off a keeper the mighty oath parted the hair of the assembled tribes of Israel, the Red Sea, and the encroaching Egyptian army.

The Bible doesn’t mention whether Jesus was a good fisherman, I expect he spooked a lot of fish with the “walking on water” bit, sure is simpler than wading. I think I’ll go with the consensus on his skills, not because I’m currying favor – more of a professional courtesy.

I never saw much Christianity as a child, usually because I was in the corner facing the wall, and when relieved of that duty, it was to get a soap bar in the mouth. I never understood why the Lord insisted on such clean teeth, my head was underwater so I couldn’t make out the reverend’s explanation..

Technorati Tags: evangelicals, christians, fishermen, swear like a sailor

The statistics are plain, 100 million blogs exist on the Internet with nearly 100,000 created daily, of those 95 million are read by the author and his mom.

I figured that would dominate the gift giving this year, as I’d receive 40 copies of Strunk & White’s “Elements of Style.” Lord knows I’ve earned it, butchering the English language repeatedly, violating every rule held sacred.

I dodged the bullet, a whirlwind arrival with sugar laced goodies, followed by an orgy of rending paper, squeals of glee, and then a hasty exit.

My folks have given up trying to find something fishing related for their son, they’re just thrilled he continues to hold down a job. Ma ensures all the clothes are long sleeved or warm, knowing the kid is either wet or close to peril, and I ensure she’s right.

It was my brother that made the stretch this year, gifting me with the present every long suffering fisherman has contemplated but never had the courage to purchase. Correctly, he assumed rare moments exist where the fly box offers no encouragement, where the angler is completely stumped, and deception turns to anger…

Nothing like a German “Potato-Masher” hand grenade for the angler who has everything. It’s the first shortcoming I’ve seen on my Simm’s vest, no pocket designed for ordinance. I guess that means a new vest needed for next year, with my relatives there’s no telling what castoff NATO surplus is headed my way.

I don’t want to hear them giggles, likely you have a similar tale, involving; Japanese bubble-packed something-or-other, a saran wrapped fly rod complete with level floating line and reel, or a Penn Senator with a WF5F attached…

Next season if you hear some fellow downstream yell, “Fire in the Hole” – don’t think, hit the deck.

Technorati Tags: potato masher, grenade, don’t crowd my riffle, christmas, idiot brother