Category Archives: humor

Me and my muddy puddle aren’t a demographic

2009 Sage rod It’s all surmisal, but I always blamed BMW for the fetish over the lower case “i”. Rod makers are nearly indistinguishable due to exponential numbers and consonants. “Herd Beasts” as first one, then all of them engage in the practice – not to be outdone.

I’m sure hundreds of slides and dozens of Powerpoint presentations (replete with dancing frogs) show unequivocally that naming a new Sage line, “Bludgeon” lacks the proper fit to the demographic of married women – older than 30, with 2 children, whose median family income was $150,000 and above.

We used to call them “yuppies” in the old days – anyone who gravitated to shiny mechanical objects containing a lower case “i” … BMW was the culprit – and I’m sure marketing genius’s have some telltale statistic proving well-to-do males consider it a pheromone.

If it was that compelling we would have rewritten sizing on women’s underwear, losing the “DD” and adding the “i” – but I don’t ply their craft, so I’m hot air…

I’m Old School, where poetry should rhyme and the letters should mean something. I’ve always been leery of the “Beamer” naming convention, as it’s too close to software versions, “Windows 7 is buggy as hell, but we’ll get it right in Windows 8, trust us…”

At $800 per – I don’t have the luxury of “fool me once” – it’s safer to take a flyer on the Bludgeon 906 (9′ for AFTMA #6) – nomenclature we can feel and understand.

Most of us skipped Math class intentionally, opting for grades less than optimum, yet retaining some small dignity. It could be they’re attempting to confuse us thinking we’ve forgotten the laws governing additive or distributive mathematics.

They’re not far wrong, as asking a fisherman how much his fish cost per pound results in a panic look and vapor lock.

As even the vendors don’t know what their naming convention means, a decision made by some bespectacled fellow from Madison Avenue, here’s a reference guide to aid you in rod selection:

Xi2 (Sage) =  “Xi” is the roman numeral for eleven, times 2 = the age of the advertising executive’s girlfriend. That way he can offer the romantic gesture of gifting her a rod rather than a diamond.

It could also mean “excessive interest” – which is what you’re paying on the card used to purchase it.

VT2 (Sage) = Stands for Vermont, where Sage refiled it’s articles of incorporation. Vermont companies can better resist hostile takeovers via “poison pill” codicles, preventing Shakespeare from eating Sage like a tea crumpet.

IImx (Winston) = (sexual content) not suitable for this site. Gross.

X(raised to the power of)2s (Scott) = (pornographic content). Gross.

T(raised to the power of)2h (Scott) = Stuttering T-t-t-t-aper. Great rod, but the engineer has an outlandish speech impediment.

A(raised to the power of)2 (Scott) = Functioning Alcoholic, on Step 4 of the 12 Step program, likely his sponsor is at wit’s end. The rod lacks taper, as it’s only used as a prop to get out from under the watchful eye of spouse and dependants.

We’ve broached exponents, subscripts, roman numerals, and imaginary numbers, so what’s left other than scientific notation?

Let’s beard us some prophet, shall we

Tawdry is part of our nature, I suppose it’s because most of last year’s fashion hangs in tree limbs at the high water mark. Trout are supposed to flop out of a snagged rubber boot – yet the updated version prefers stressed Levi’s to cast off vinyl.

Click here for a message from Mr. Trout

Click the above for a subliminal message from Mr. Trout, hisself.

We suspected that wild fish were growing restless, what with all the attention thrown at their coarse cousins in brown water. A steady diet of dry flies quartered upstream is apparently losing it’s appeal. Too much “extended pinkie” to suit wild fish, they all want to go Brownline – where the creative types congregate amid rusting cars and old lawn furniture.

A desperate cry from the clean water, wild fish want out, so the hatchery trash may inherit.

I had no idea female hormones and heavy metal could be so damn compelling.

Thanks, Steve.

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My nomination for the Angling Hall of Fame, and he doesn’t even fish

My new hero It was one of those “Casper Milquetoast” guys, flinging me a magazine across the break room, “You fish, eat Salmon, lose weight.”

I swallowed the urge to squeeze his head until he screamed, figuring I’d get in trouble – and as he beat a pale skinned and hasty retreat, I glanced at the article in question…

It may be divine inspiration, but the deity gifting me is below ground, not above…

Even Oprah has sung the praises of this pink-orange fish on her talk show. What’s the reason for the popularity of the so-called salmon diet? Simple: it works.

Almost every couple has at least one member seeking miracle weight loss, and many consider Oprah to be as great a scientist as Sir Isaac Newton or Stephen Hawking…

Make salmon (or other fatty fish) a regular part of your meal plan. Aim to have fish about 10 times per week, whether in the form of a morning omelet, a lunchtime salad, or a dinnertime fish filet.

Consider the volume of fish necessary for 10 meals a week, and the exhausting effort you’ll have to put forth to provide a steady stream of fresh fish to the premises. Like canned vegetables, store-bought fish are minus all those important vitamins due to freezing and pasteurization …

(wink.) Which means you’ll have to go fishing to catch more. (wink.)

Hell, you might be forced to ignore the lawn, skip the visit from the in-laws, and forswear your afternoon nap.

Heavy, painful, sigh.

I’d salt the premises with unobtrusive yet strategically placed salmon-diet clippings, that way you can’t be accused of leading the mark witness.

I tried it at my house and it worked perfectly, hopefully my girlfriend gets back from fishing soon, I’m almost out of Salmon ..

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An interesting experiment, but I doubt we could agree on anything

Is it my turn to fish yet? If you think Chandler and I are up for this, think again …

I’m sure most of you snickered when I mentioned toasting the lads at work with your prowess afield, naturally you’re waist deep in water – and their waist deep in something else – when the Boss peers over their shoulder.

All those electronic gadgets are here – just a question of who you want to delivery the photo to – and what caption will best get their goat.

Two ghillies on the River Tay are already online, posting daily updates of the water, fishing, and including a photo of every fish caught that day. Enough real-time intel to keep some hopeful fellow glued to the screen as his fishing reservation approaches.

It’s also a double edged sword, if someone says “you should of been here last week” – you can look it up and call them a liar on the spot.

Jock Monteith’s blog, Speycasting is a great way to drive interest, and migratory fish being as fickle as they are – a sudden flurry of catching would likely enhance bookings. I can’t see it as anything less than a boon to both guide and client.

Then again, driving your cubicle mates batty over that really enormous brown would be worthwhile also – they don’t have to know it was the lad next to you that caught it, and you offered a sawbuck to hold it …

Collaboration is always a touchy business and the idea of the Trout Underground and Singlebarbed alternately fishing and hunched over a laptop is unsettling.

Why? Trout fishermen lie about the size of their fish, where brownliners only lie to law enforcement…

“Nice fish Tom, he’d go, what – nearly 11 inches?”

“No, don’t use metrics, on my fish use superlatives. A ‘Penultimate specimen’ sounds bigger, see – trout aren’t slimy, they glisten, the sky isn’t blue, it’s azure – imbue the reader with the entire experience!”

“Oh, OK – how do you spell penultimate?

” s-e-v-e-n-t-e-e-n   i-n-c-h-e-s, the ‘s’ is capitalized…

The Brownline convention will be held at Love Canal

Vote the Brown Line Throwing away both parties and starting anew may be the answer, what with the dismal offerings we’ve seen in past elections – whose debate may only be who slept, or didn’t sleep, with whom.

The Fishing for Words blog has a short piece to assist you in the forthcoming election, and we may be able to ignore the traditional schlock in favor of who fishes for what and how.

McCain may be a brownliner and Obama an independent with blueline aspirations, based on the featured quotes. Age aside, what may bring Sarah Palin into the picture is how toxic the effluent McCain is wading through.

A hardened Brownliner may be what we need – I’ll withhold my vote until I see what his gear looks like – and what patterns he fishes, as I’ve been sucked in more than a few times by publicity stills.

The last legitimate brownline candidate was Jimmy Carter, wading through his pond with a landing net, the direct method, eschewing all that expensive tackle – and it’s likely the Secret Service had to keep an eye on Bother Billy – who was known to light a stick of “really direct method.”

Our symbol would have to be the goat, only because they float so nicely, like one of those bloated beach seals – only hairier.

Funny how Ma’s pie never seems to make the hour journey

I suffered through one more outing suckling off the plasticine teat before adding lemon juice to the bag, just enough tart to take your mind off the rest of the taste – it’s cold, tastes like Pepsi Light, which I never could stand, but I’ll live.

You get a couple “old guys” in the crap water and elementary school reasserts itself; an artificial spry that lasts until the other fellow ain’t looking.

Saturday was solo and Sunday the Peanut Gallery showed – Singlebarbed reader, Igneous Rock – aka “older bro” – decided he needed to get bit, bad enough to flee the City.

It’s good to know that even in our dotage the testosterone playground  is still alive and well. Forty years ago it was who could run fastest, hit the ball furthest, and drink most-est. Now, with the weight of years, it’s who’s suffering more:

“That’s nothing, they want to replace both hips, I passed a kidney stone the size of a softball, and the doctor can’t explain why I’m still breathing.”

“Dude, Lameness. I’ve been diagnosed with three kinds of inoperable cancer, which are contentedly eating each other, they want to amputate both legs, and my doc says, ‘what circulation, I can’t detect a heartbeat.’ “

“What do you got, Blue Shield?”

“Nope, I got your Momma, right here …”

A couple of old degenerates, content to molest small fish and pound chest in the doing. Me, I fiddled with the endless cornucopia of odd variations created over the last couple of weeks, and color – lots of it.

I can’t say that the reception was much, but the tie-dye crowd would have appreciated the up-tempo changes.

Tweety-Bird is the hot pink, gold, salmon variant. Parrot is the multi-hued purple flavor. Bass ate both – but not the way they flock to the Little Stinking Olive.

I did get the physics right, as all the hookups are in the top of the mouth. The filamentous algae will cling to the hook bend on a traditional fly, and can increase it’s size by 4-5 inches. I was wondering whether this was part of the reason Carp flee in panic when my flies get within visible range.

Parrot Flavor, Bass like Purple Just methodically ticking through food groups, physics, and the engagement process, at some point I’ll discover what ails me.

In the meantime I’ll host the Big City Swells, carrying their luggage, kowtowing constantly, without hope that some of Ma’s baked goods will survive the trip.

Funny how they’re always misplaced. I do the “good son” bit, sending Almonds, Walnuts, and all manner of raw materials, yet each shipment is hijacked minus an apology.

Hey Meathead, remember when you took that long pull off my water bag, and you mentioned it tasted funny? The other end of the siphon was in the pooty water – and when you recover, you be sure to send me a card.

 

Shameless enlarged picture for Ma, of her baked goods hijacking oldest son – so’s she’ll bake even more goodies. As much avarice and profit motivated advertising as we’re able to stomach on Singlebarbed.

Cocoa Channel – Consumer Alert

An astute Singlebarbed reader checks in with this consumer warning:

“I saw your piece on the Chanel Rod, and it was most fortunate, as I was approached on Market Street by a shady vendor, selling ‘Cocoa Channel’ outfits – billed as Brownline couture.”

“I immediately went ‘Fist City’ on the perpetrator, confiscated the tackle, and ran like hell.”

That’s the public spirit I like to see, hardy pioneer resolve – no issue too big, no threat too intimidating that you can’t settle with a good hemp rope and an old oak tree.

Then again, the local constabulary likely doesn’t recognize our jurisdiction, what with “Roving Editor of Law Enforcement and Swift Justice” being out of fashion of late …

SMJ included photographs of the illicit goods – after wiping off most of the blood : 

Uh, wait a minute...

 Cocoa Channel Fly Box and flies …

... SMJ, I think there's been a mistake ..

Cocoa Channel Couture Reel case and matching reel

... That's the real thing!

 … Joe, that’s the real article, only the “Brownliner Limited Edition” came with the brown carrying case, whose serial number is the expiration date on the bleu cheese carton.

If it looks like Christmas outside and someone knocks on your door … don’t answer it …

Wolves identified as root cause of West Coast Salmon decline

Part Hollywood and part factual The Kern County Water agencies refiled their lawsuit against the California Department of Fish and Game over the Striped Bass depredation of Delta Smelt, and coupled with recent findings that wolves prefer salmon over deer, can another suit be far behind?

“Salmon is a safe resource in contrast to deer that could kick back and break your ribs or skull – which happens quite often with wolves. The fish is highly nutritious. Salmon offers a bit more protein but the real bonus is that it offers more fat. It has four times more calories bite for bite than deer.

We’re a silly and litigious bunch and anyone that filed the former writ and kept a straight face, should have no problem suing Idaho, Montana, and Canada.

Election year logic is always part Hollywood and part factual, I see the complaint as follows:

Since we haven’t yet agreed on the whole “human versus embryo” issue, it’s fair to say that the water evaporating off the rivers of California makes up storm clouds that rain on Idaho and Montana…

OK, sometimes they do that ..

Some innocent salmon Stem Cell in the throes of mitosis has to be sucked up in the water going skyward, what with all the estrogen and birth control residue saturating the watershed, feminizing everything – might spur a she-male to unleash something early.

As both Idaho and Montana, have propagated both wolves and habitat, wolves preferring salmon over every other furry critter – and the zygote being too small to see, it’s likely they kilt several dozen just by walking around – the rest they ate.

Still with me?

So the decline in Pacific Salmon is the wolves fault.

Wolves lack tangible assets, so we’ll sue snot out of anyone that every threw the mangy SOB a cookie…

She gave you that stern look and you put the candy bar back on the shelf

It’s not much of a glance – but it’s the best we’ve been offered to date. The fabled Chanel flyrod, priced at a paltry $18,000 dollars – is carbon fibre, and comes with matching reel and a box of flies.

Hell, that’s enough for half of you to ask Mommy can you … She’ll say no, and rightly so – everytime she’s mentioned Chanel to you – you rolled your eyes and forbade everything.

 

The case bears the all important logo, and a canny fellow would take a bandsaw betwixt the flaps, creating two purses – one for the missus, and one to auction off on eBay, defraying the cost of your purchase.

The fly box, with fetching chain adornment, will match nicely with the debutante-micro-dog crowd – all they ever carry is Poppa’s credit card and a condom…

 

We never use this stuff anyways, and likely the reel case would be a dramatic gift to Grandma – as a couture denture holder. A canny lad could come out ahead on the purchase – if good feeling has a dollar value.

I confess to being disappointed, all I can see is a synthetic grip, a full metal reel seat, a couple bugs in a box – and some nameless reel that doesn’t appear to be anything special.

As the real Coco Chanel was an ardent angler – I half expected them to come up with some form of tribute with both style and function. Instead, we get a warranty invalidated if the rod gets damp.

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There’s a conspiracy in here somewhere, I can smell it

It’s too simple to be on the level, and always alert for conspiracies, I figure it’s the latest CIA unmanned drone armed with a Hellfire missile. Some kid glued to a screen armed with a joystick, hoping Osama Bin Laden will let down his guard a little …

The Carp’s eyes are focused downward, implying both tone and lock – dead giveaway.

 

On the contrary, that Osprey has a legal hookup – as most fly fishing competitions require the hook to be imbedded anywhere in front of the gill plate.

 

Then again, there is another possible explanation – but who got the idea from whom?

Who was Glamorous Glennis? … anyone actually see her?

Via Dr. Todd of the Fishing History blog for the Osprey photo.