Category Archives: humor

Remember Girls, the Sale starts tomorrow

These are appropriate for a guy

I’m guessing TC’s maimed finger has made him vindictive, it’s the only reason SingleBarbed is hosting the Maybelline fingernail polish ads all week.

I don’t think it’s a commentary of the kind and type of blog denizen we’re attracting, but if the population is now skewed to mostly women, I have little issue.

If the Trout Underground lightened up on the gratuitous soft porn posts, some of these nice gals would return. Pop always mentioned that, “I should feel as comfortable on the street corner as dining in the Governor’s Mansion” – and if the main event is discussion of Window treatments, so be it.

I’ll see you at the Macy’s line, say 5:00 AM?

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Don’t scream at me for help, just toss me your rod

That fellow is going to be missing some fingers shortly I always hated those horror movies that featured gelatinous monsters that squeeze under the door or ooze through a keyhole.

Why did the cheerleader always insist on walking the beach at night, everyone knew she was a food group based on the eerie soundtrack, if she’d taken off the Walkman she’d have known it too.

So why is it anglers share the same fate? There’s no soundtrack to warn us, but there’s ample proof something icky, sentient, and pissed, is headed our way…

I got it easy, as any colony based organism that is oozing across the stream bottom is going to pick the young fellow next to me – he’s less stringy, showers more often, and probably needs little accompaniment, at most a light Chianti or lukewarm Pepsi Light.

Violet Tunicate Foreign mussels and bunker oil is a tad offputting, but when the Violet Tunicate makes his move on my arse, I’m gonna stab his multi-threaded ocular ganglion with a lit cigar.

… would’ve saved the babe in the movie, except she thought they stank. Youth, shows you what they know.

Brownliners are surrounded by ooze, the hard part is determining the sentient and malevolent species. All of them move real slow, so there’s ample time to escape and evade.

After fighting off some particular sneaky Rock Snot, I had to ask myself, “what hideous crime did anglers commit that has all these oozing multicellular colonies wanting to get even?”

It came to me in a flash, if they was any bigger, we’d be eating them. Hell, we ate almost everything else in the water, in many cases we ate it twice..

Little wonder the gelatinous horde has a chip on its collective shoulder..

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Yes, but I thought that "big" portions were bad for you

KFC-Releases The SingleBarbed “Double Helix” award goes to the folks that married stem cells with dinosaur DNA to perfect the Tyrannosaurus Nugget. Hell yes it’s a crowd pleaser, as even the family canine can get in on the action.

While ancient DNA and laboratory cultures may save fisheries from extinction, prehistoric halibut could taste like toilet cleanser – you have to grow it first and find out, no?

Researchers were startled to find that most dinosaur-cultured meat lacks cholesterol, the prevailing theory is that since everything was chasing everything else, meat lacked time to grow any.

My, what big teeth you have, Grandma..

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I’m eligible but I’ll take the path less traveled

Wii fishing controller“Will that be paper or plastic, Sir?”

That “magic moment” happened to me a couple years ago, and in one stroke you’re removed from the ranks of “eligible bachelors” and inserted in your rightful place, “old middle aged guys.”

Watching my peers fight it off is a bit expected and mostly comical; the endless parade of fast two seater convertibles, the “Grecian Formula” gambit, and Botox everything.

It gets a bit scary listening to two erstwhile “normal” guys talking about “mango-aloe-tofu” face peels, but this is California – so I take it in stride.

I’m tempted to interject, “Guys, Botox your gut, ’cause even if the 19 year old’s are giving it away, they still hate fat, balding guys with sweaty palms…” – but I don’t, I pretend I didn’t notice – pour my coffee, and run like hell.

I’m taking the path less traveled. I’m going to sit at home with the gut flowing comfortably over the belt and pound snot out of virtual fish. Botox might be an option, but I’m thinking I might inject it in my wrist, so I can throw them tight loops, like when I was younger.

Christmas is enroute, and maybe this Wii thing has legs.

I’m scratching my head over the accompanying items; “fishing rope” is obviously fly line, but why would they insist on a 50mm plastic fish?

Is that somehow going to convince me I’m really fishing? If that’s the case, don’t include a damn thing, as most of the time all I catch is a cold. Beat the kids off is more my speed, perhaps torment the cat a bit…

Us fishermen can’t ever look at our sport through the eyes of someone who doesn’t fish, we lost that ability when we got hooked, but it’s times like this that make me wonder…

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Alien Civilization discovered, Little Stinking home to Homo Illiterati

Our foray into the creek this weekend yielded a stunning find of great archeological significance. Proof that a prior, potentially advanced civilization may have had its roots in the area.

Anthropologists speculate that the “Little Stinkers” have existed in the area for the last century (or more) and that many locals may even have interbred with the remnants of this agrarian society. I can only assume it was unwittingly.

Startled researchers discovered a primitive English dialect common to Stinker cave art and murals, the alphabet and caricatures bear striking resemblance to our own. Equally astounding is the depiction of six fingers on the human hand.

Little Stinker Rock Art, depicts victory over the forces of Authority

One rock mural depicts an ancient battle between what’s assumed to be early American settlers and warriors of this ancient sect. A depiction of an early  Conestoga wagon set ablaze suggests resentment for authority ran deep.

Special resentment must have existed for English teachers, as the dumbarsed redneck spelled “White” wrong.

Little Stinker Cave Art, as yet untranslated

I can only assume that they may have captured some settlers in an earlier engagement, and their education was incomplete. It appears ritual sacrifice was part of society, as many cylindrical aluminum receptacles were found nearby. Initially assumed to be grain storage, sociologists appear puzzled as to their actual use.

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The Blackwater of Brownlining

Brownline Recruiting Poster I’ve always considered myself a mercenary, a freshwater whore, willing to sacrifice morals and principles for a chance to get bit. It’s that predation instinct that keeps me abreast of the cockroach in the food chain, repugnant – but just try to get me out of your kitchen..

I’m gearing up for another “blueline” adventure – scarring the face of some pristine forested stream with my Brownline accoutrements and effluent sharpened reflexes. I’m thinking that the Department of Fish and Game should post special regulations for us – like the grocery store nearest the high school, “No More Than 2 students at one time.”

Brownlining > Bluelining.

  • Brownliners know constant adversity, there is no “best” time to fish, or “should’ve been here last week.” We wear radiation badges, and when that sucker goes red, we’re out of the water and headed for decontamination.
  • Brownliners ignore rain, wind, and cold – also all regulations and season closures. We must escape and evade irate farmers, gang bangers, and overly zealous ecologists just to get to the waters edge.
  • Blueliners require insect activity to fish, Brownliners are the insect activity.
  • Blueliners are incensed that others have the audacity to fish their favorite spot, Brownliners wait 15 minutes and when the interloper is overcome by fumes, we “roll” the bum and toe the carcass into the underbrush.
  • Blueliners must wash their waders to prevent the spread of foreign organisms, Brownliners wash their waders to prevent the spread of Cholera, Typhus, and Malaria.
  • Blueliners decry a beaver doing what comes natural, Brownliners welcome beaver – we saw the hair in the water and assumed it was another corpse.
  • Blueliners require wild fish stocks and pristine ecology to ply their craft, brownliners only require girls with low standards and questionable virtue. “Pristine” is an unopened Bud Light.

…and finally, Blueliners get wound up and pout when a harsh winter changes stream flow or heavy runoff obscures a favorite run with silt or debris. Brownliners welcome change because the “agents” of change are bigger, meaner, and outnumber us.

Where the Carp Sleep at Night

We’re optimists by nature, one man’s crap is another man’s holding water. Them effete blueline trout don’t stand a chance. 

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Salvation Army beats a hasty retreat, Giorgio Armani saves our Beloved sport

You thought I made this stuff up? Giorgio Armani introduces his latest line of couture fashion featuring a “fishing” theme. It may be dark when you roll out of that greasy sleeping bag, but that’s no excuse not to look your best.

Remember, some folks follow fashion, and some set fashion, and it behooves you to consider your spouse’s wardrobe before you go tossing them old waders in the trash.

Models wore fine mesh nets over their hair and the fishing theme was extended to shawls and shoulder shrugs in a lattice worn with slim silk evening gowns.

Gill nets are now haute couture, not the indiscriminate killers we once thought, but must be worn aggressively, paired fetchingly with a couple days growth of stubble, or last weeks underwear.

Please don’t confuse last year’s ensemble with this year; the hot colors are Sand, not Dirt, Rock Grey instead of Dingy, and Marine Blue. Any true dry fly fashionista knows the difference between Sand and Dirt, let’s not go there…

You’ll be thrilled to know those bulky Hydration packs are out, but form flattering clutch purses are back. If fishing sucks, rather than bemoan poor timing, assist your fellow anglers by dispensing fashion tips in the parking lot. Make sure that is a “blueline” parking area, us brownliners will take a dim view of both you and your ensemble.

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Fish are safe, but I am hell on dog catching

My numerous adventures on the Little Stinking netted me an invite to  the ranks of the landed gentry, but since I am a member of the working press of Brownlining, I have to use the servants entrance.

As Singlebarbed Dogwalking Services are the stuff of local legend, I get to care for Little Meathead and Big Meathead this week. This is heady stuff, as any dog reference is worth ten times the blog traffic that fishermen generate.

“Little Meathead” is a 60 mph hurricane, he eats, craps, and chases tennis balls in a single breath. “Big Meathead” is an old gal, she can burst up to 6 mph – but has to sleep afterward.

I’ve got 12 acres of walnut orchard bounded by a steep drop into the creek, and while I’m focused on Little Meathead killing everything, Big Meathead perches precariously on the bank. I see the peril, and start to form the “No” with my mouth – too late, Big Meathead is gripped by the Dark Matter surrounding the Little Stinking, and goes arse over teakettle down the bank and into the creek.

Little Meat thinks that ride is for him and does likewise. So I’m topside and dry, and they’re looking at me wondering why I don’t join them. 

I try my best “Nice Doggy, C’mere” – and it fails horribly. Big Meathead knows that she can’t make the climb back up, and I know I’m going to have to slide down the bank, grab her and carry her back up.

Did I mention I’m in my work clothes?

I make it to the water’s edge, and repeat the “Nice Doggy” bit, Big Meat wants no part of being carried, and remains in the center of the effluent with Little Meat swimming around in circles.

Briefly I consider my options… I could say, “Jeez, I dunno what happened to them, I showed up and they were gone.” Or I could go wading – in my work clothes.

I’m the Pied Piper of Idjit Dogs, and a casual onlooker would’ve seen me swearing, wading up the creek with two canines swimming behind me. Naturally the first suitable flat spot offered numerous handfuls of Poison Oak, just to make the occasion  memorable..

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Yo bg gddmn Fsh nxt 2 U

Coming to a stream near youGet with the program – now that you have the cell phone on your hip, isn’t it time to embrace text messaging?

Yes, I’m joking.

I’m just thinking past our generation’s quaint respect for the sport to see the tools the next crowd of anglers will deem essential. The combination of Internet gaming English coupled with the omission of vowels should make instream communication much easier and more verbose.

Tired of waving frantically to an angling buddy because your voice is drowned out by fast water?

“Bg fsh nxt 2 me, g3t y3r Btt dwn h3r3”

The guys that love Latin may be resistant, can’t say I fault them much as “Paraleptophlebia” should translate to “Prl3pt0phl3b14,” which should slow them on both the reading and comprehension tests. I expect them to figure out, “lttl3 brwn 16” is quicker to type and easier to read.

Phone on vibrate tucked into a strategic location, and you’re the portrait of the New Age predator.

C U on the fone line..

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