Category Archives: humor

A fat kid’s blog, masquerading as a fly fishing site

I think I’ve been outed … as I had the choice of painstakingly researching today’s post or scoring free food. You guy’s lost – but that holds for the bulk of my work..

Far enough from the creek to avoid most of the Mercury A.Wannabe.Travelwriter lured some unsuspecting landowner into thinking we represented a charitable organization, and they gave us pillaging rights to all the Black Mission Figs we could carry.

That’s not true, but embellishment always makes for a better story.

I read somewhere that a landscape shot leading a fishing article meant the guy didn’t catch anything – I use big fish pictures to draw your attention away from me scaling your back fence ..

This is a fat kid’s blog, masquerading as a fly fishing site. It’s revenge for picking me last on every sports team you captained in High School …

How many pheasant tails would it take to fill one of these? You ever wonder why we always have to do everything the hard way? Every trip is a memory exercise where the thousand things you need have to be rediscovered in every dark cranny of the house – then piled in the living room so you’ll remember to take them with you.

A couple of low wattage solar panels on the roof – a handful of quarters, and every nuance in fish mood, and every hatch countered.

Why not sandwich one of these between the Porta-Potties in the parking lot? You could make it eco-friendly by skipping the Plasticine container – just dump what’s owed you into your palm.

How many #16 Light Cahill’s do you think it’ll hold – and can that possibly be exhausted in a season?

Vindication, Now us Rubenesque types can wag finger

Food worth dying over Brownline authors are a sordid lot, living a half-life of darkened ritual, half truths, fawning groupies and poor diet..

Lectured repeatedly on how much Sodium my beef jerky contains, how the chocolate Old Fashioned is the work of Satan, and how countless well meaning health buffs with an unnatural interest in my colon would liberate me from chocolate and sprinkles. 

Now, a little payback is in order:

The Wake Forest School of Medicine report found that farm-raised tilapia contained higher levels of omega-6 fatty acids than foods like doughnuts and bacon.

Excessive levels of omega-6 fatty acids have been linked to a number of diseases, including heart disease, arthritis, osteoporosis, cancer, and depression.

So, after a long productive life enhanced by leafy greens and whole grains, you’re wheeled into my room – and while we both wait to expire -I assault you with tales of the glazed obscenity you should have ate instead of the eco friendly cardboard foisted on you at the health food store?

Sure, I’m headed for the “hot” place – but they got bacon there too ..

It’s Old School economics, and it’s never wrong

The BeFi Indicator, it's never wrong With the government tinkering with all the numbers, and the nightly news assaulting you with economic hardship typified by gas prices, foreclosures, and the decline of the US dollar, us fly fishermen are left in a quandary, is now the right time to buy a rod?

Us brown water specialists have lots of time to ponder on the really weighty issues, it’s the price of solitude – as the rest of you elitist sumbitches conspicuous consumers insists we fish downwind of everyone else.

The short answer is “NO”, now is not the time to be spending precious dollars on a luxury item, as according to the Brownline Economic Financial Indicator (BeFi, or “Beefy”) we’re in for an extended period of financial hardship.

Candy maker Hershey Co said on Friday it was raising U.S. prices by roughly 10 percent and warned that the higher cost of ingredients such as cocoa, corn sweetener, sugar and peanuts would weigh on profits.

The price of a Hershey’s with Almonds has predicted the ups and downs of the stock market with uncanny accuracy, and while the well coifed “suits” foaming from the safety of your television insist the Market is near a bottom, don’t believe it.

A 10% increase in the “Beefy”, means we’re at least 20 months from stability, and you’ll need that cash to pay for important staples like Whiting Saddles and fly floatant.

Mayhap I was a bit hasty on the whole Guiding issue

The Original Gangsta, characters all of them I want to be a Brownline guide, the fellow that props up a dusty 4X4, slouching nonchalantly while fingering all the sandwiches. After this weekend’s whirlwind tour of waterlike substance – and culverts containing same – I may have been hasty when I swore, “I will never guide again.”

Brownline fish are sophisticated, but not overly so; ATV’s mean we don’t have to carry “the Good Squire’s” luggage, don’t have to be quiet or stealthy, can discard beer cans without guilt, and yell helpful tips from the safety of the berm.

Blueline Guide: The Potamanthus Regenerarius will be coming off at 10 AM, we need to secure a vantage upstream so the “limp hackle, partially-reticulated-CDC-emerger sans  Carapace” can be fed downstream without drag.

More Tea?…

Brownline Guide: Put that big green fugger over by them bushes.

No. Them other bushes.

A little mystique will appeal to the 5 Star resort crowd; just enough to make heroic at the watercooler, and it wouldn’t hurt to nickname fish the “Ghost of the Flats”, or the “Phosphate Razor Blade,” adding local color.

Danger adds to our ability to charge huge bucks – so carrying some high powered, scoped cannon would be appropriate. It takes the attention away from your gut when silhouetted against the skyline.

Blueline Guide: Every so often you may run into a bear, just yell and it’ll scare them.

Brownline Guide: “Remain calm, hopefully we won’t run into any “Fescue Jaguars”, it’s mating season – them udders can get verrry sensitive – tear a man to pieces.

How old you say your daughter was?”

My ATV can carry a cooler in front and luggage in the rear. Slide to a stop in a spray of gravel and muddy water,  pose woodenly, “Kemosabe, Big Fish – him upstream.”

Blueline Guide: That’s okay, a little bleach and it’ll be as good as new.

Brownline Guide: Kemosabe, him no ride, him smell like butt.

We can dispense with the silliness, no insect mating rituals or environmental issues, just things you don’t want on you, things you want to bite, and things you shouldn’t step in.

Blueline Guide: There’s a rather rough element at that bar, mostly loggers – if you want a couple drinks afterwards, the lodge offers …

Brownline Guide: Pass your sleeve over the neck before you hand her back, friend.

With the rural-urban interface close at hand, a Brownline guide can make a helluva spectacle, a Wild West show complete with irate farmers, gunplay, and the Big Showdown…

GangBanger: We’ll start with the Pasty Face’s wallet, Holmes, then maybe we’ll want yours too ..

Brownline Guide: I ain’t been paid yet, draw that Smokepole and see who sucks dinner through a straw (wink, wink).

A couple “Alexander Hamilton’s” to pay the actors and watch the superlatives fly – makes me misty eyed, kinda what I thought guiding would be…

Blueline Guide: Today, we have a piquant roast duckling with a Rosemary Garlic rub, and Mango Chutney…

Brownline Guide: (from the bridge above) … you want that SuperSized?

I might miss the tinkle of crystal dinnerware – just a little bit …

I’m in the water mutating your villagers

My ticket to 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…

One of those Internet nuggets I overuse with relish

Yes, I’m still giggling over the “DIY” (do it yourself feature) of despair.com, source of all those spoofs of motivational posters that stare at us from waiting areas and conference rooms, the bane of corporate America. 

Truer words were never spoke

Don’t let me have all the fun, if you can come up with something better (which shouldn’t be that hard), share … nothing like “bearding the prophet” and slinking back into the bushes before they draw a bead on you.

Waders, Rod, Reels, flies, check .. foundation?

Cowboy up dammit, I don't want to hear you complaining about chaffing At least they’ve published a guide for guys to get them on without tearing them, from the angler’s perspective – that’s a start.

Back in the day, when the defacto wader was Seal Dri’s, I remember my buddies coyly hiding behind the truck as they donned pantyhose. It was unsettling, but layers were the only thing that allowed you to stand in icy water more than 20 minutes; pantyhose, followed by thermals, then pants, then those thin latex waders.

I was lucky enough not to have to grapple with transgender, as my brother had equipped us with O’Neil neoprene drysuits.

I figure this is where them 5% of anglers we lost over the last decade went, not sure whether they’re smarter than us or merely made of sugar, but I could embrace “manscara”eyeliner and “mancake” foundation – if they had a DEET base, and an SPF of 15 or greater.

If it repelled mosquitos and protected me from the elements, with a fitting that attached to my float tube pump, so I could apply mass quantities to large fleshy sensitive areas, why wouldn’t we embrace the change?

It may alter the parking lot ritual a dab, but so long as we can skip deodorant, we’d be happy, right?

For them as are not from California, and are recoiling in terror, relax. All you have to do is swear before you say certain words..

“Bob, pass me the %$#@ corn starch, these %$#@@ pantyhose are chafing hell out of me.”

We forgot the Conestoga when we started drinking Calistoga

Roughing It I’d like to call it wisdom, but that small voice from the Eternal Child Within suggests it ain’t smarts, it’s unwelcome gentrification.

Prior to age 30 a weekend fishing trip was a buddy calling Friday night with a twenty burning a hole in his pockets, a pack of bologna, and a blanket. As long as you had the cash to match his tank of gas, the details fell into place when the creek came into view.

As daylight turned to darkness, the absence of proper planning meant, “You didn’t bring a flashlight? Guess we’re sleeping here.” Meals were spur of the moment, “I got some bread, some moist toilettes, and … SWEET, Tic Tac’s …”

Years later, my coworkers and I are headed up to Manzanita Lake for the weekend, and the water cooler conversation sounds like the antithesis of all we held sacred…

“You aren’t bringing a tent? You ain’t sleeping with me!”

Nope, as compelling as your narrow arse is in the moonlight, I thought I’d just toss in a tarp and a bag and call it good.

“There better be showers at the campground. You think they have showers there?”

You’re going to be arse deep in water all day, you think bathing will be that much of an issue, and if so – what about simply going swimming, like Jim Bridger…

OK, so it’ll be steaks Friday night, but what about Saturday night?

We could fight over the bones the bears leave us, or we could break camp and return a day and half early, just before we starve to death.

What do you guys put on your steaks?

Teeth mostly, sometimes fingers.

I’m trying my level best to steer the conversation to the important stuff; ensuring everyone is bringing a rod, someone is packing a float tube pump, which fly shop we’re stopping at so everyone has flies, how old is your tippet, knotted versus knotless, and will “NumbNuts” remember to bring his wading boots this time.

They’re having none of it, good sports, but somewhere between 20 and 50 we lost or gained something. Creature comforts asserted themselves, and invulnerability or spontaneity were lost when old bones touched cold ground, with wood smoke no longer the after shave of choice.

Well, what about Breakfast?

That’s the meal you and Martha Stewart slept through, I call it lunch, which will be the first time my feet touch dry land since dawn broke.

To hell with tradition, them Carp have refined tastes

I’ve had ample time to get over them really monstrous fish kicking sand on my sandwich yesterday. I made a hasty pitstop at Joann’s Fabric’s and scored the necessary boa material – leaving the place in complete disarray…

All the old lady’s were having “hot flashes” when they found out the pear shaped male striding down the millinery aisle knew the difference between chenille and mohair, and when the aging starlet at the register asked, “Did you find everything you was sent for?” I leaned in close with my best “MacDaddy” squint, and said, “…sent for? Hell, ma’am I’m killing fish with this stuff..”

That set them hearts aflutter, and I beat a hasty retreat before I got called on the swagger..

I have to try this stuff out – and as I set the first hook in the vise, I’ve suddenly got cold feet. The San Juan Worm’s were for Minnesota, the good sister’s hydrilla fly was for Arkansas, and what I failed to consider was the influence of nouveau cuisine on them California fish. 

San Juan Sushi, California Carp Killer

Some modification was in order, and I set the boa yarn down reluctantly and start doodling on a napkin. A second cup of coffee vanquished my inhibitions and creativity came to the fore. The San Juan Worm was quickly adapted to California taste buds.

It would be so much simpler to live somewhere’s else…