My penchant for twisted is well known, and there’s nothing like a bacon filled, transfat laden, gut bomb in one hand, and a greasy handful of sodium-impregnated french fries in the other, while reading about the perils of both on the Internet.

So I am absorbed in “We’re all Fat, and gonna die” when I espy the following:

Fast food appeals to humans’ primordial taste preferences for sugar, fat and salt, the preferences that an infant is born with.

Hold the phone, are humans the only animals so afflicted? Do trout have the same built-in appetites?

A fish in a typical freestone stream is somewhat stationary, the water traveling by at a reasonable clip, somewhere between 1 and 20 MPH. If a nymph were to dislodge itself and tumble through the water column, likely it would move at the same speed as the current.

To the trout behind the rock, that is fast food.

If scientists are correct, and salt, sweet and fat are neon signs saying “EAT ME” – then we’re missing the boat completely.

It gets way better.

“If you take a child who has been subjected to endless advertising for fast food, to peer pressure from friends who frequent fast-food restaurants and to the presence of fast food in schools, it’s not a big surprise that when given a choice between a plate of French fries or a bowl of blueberries, that child would choose the fries,”

I flip a Pheasant Tail nymph to a likely looking lie and no response. If I cast the same nymph 100 times it’s now “endless advertising for fast food” – and the other schooled trout will nudge the biggest fellow, “Dude, you gonna eat that, or what?”

Match the Hatch is yesterday’s news, “Supersize My Flies” is the new paradigm.

But wait there’s more, this revolution of angling theory is sweetened  considerably;

There may be another factor at work as well. Animal studies have shown that foods with poor nutritional quality can lead to nutritional deficiencies that might in turn lead to overeating. “If the diet doesn’t allow access to key nutrients,” Ludwig explains, “it’s possible that in an attempt to solve the nutrient deficiency, the body begins increased eating of everything.”

There isn’t much nutrition in a sparsely dressed Brassie, so if we cast at the fish enough times, it’ll be unable to resist and eat it. While loving the salty taste, there are no nutrients other than head cement, which compels it to eat everything in the vicinity.

As a gentleman, you let your buddy fish through the run, then you wade in and reap the benefits.

Science, you just have to think outside the bun.

Technorati Tags: transfat, fast food, sugar, sodium

On second thought, now might not be such a good time, what with the Preachers wife getting off with a slap on the wrist. It’s akin to the Loreena Bobbitt case, suddenly every guy on the planet wants to snuggle rather than snooze.

Then again, if she is ticklish, you may have found something, as that hackle looks like it will have her in stitches, or you’ll be in stitches – real ones…

You just never know what the Internet will display next, Fishing Earrings, designed for that highly charged romantic moment, in between her falling in, and your getting bit by Black flies.

Singlebarbed, cutting edge marriage counseling a specialty.

Tags: fly earrings, spousal abuse

I’m still struggling with the “bathe regular” concept, and the only “signature scent” I know is when someone complains.

Don’t mind me, I was just commiserating with the poor SOB I saw at the department store. This unfortunate had an anniversary to celebrate and was ill prepared to brave the Perfume Lady’s questions.

But it does bring to mind the gentrification angle, how the angling press is moving from guys with a day’s growth of stubble wearing yesterday’s shirt, to the new ultra clean, white smile, accessorized fisherman … like James Bond we can spend all day fishing, then slip into a white dinner jacket?

The folks here at SingleBarbed have always been free with our grooming tips,  we are poster children for a Beauty rut.

• When roughing it, use a disposable fork for a comb, they’re free with a McDonald’s Happy meal.
• Falling in to a river unintentionally counts as two showers. If you are wearing waders, then it is only one.
• Waders condense and aggregate pheremones, remember the fair sex is unprepared for that much masculinity
• Insect repellant mixed with wood smoke is an acceptable exfoliant

More importantly, if you have a significant romantic moment soon, and need that perfect gift, remember anyone can do diamonds. Get her that new fly rod you’ve always wanted, or a Lifehammer, anything’s better than facing the Perfume Lady’s scathing interrogation.

Tags: exfoliant, humor, anniversary

I am still scratching my head why the lowly banana bears the brunt of fishing superstition. Both me and Elvis figured bananas was a fine fruit, so how did the “if there are bananas in the boat, no fish will be caught” myth arise?

I read the available explanations, the most common is how a bunch of bananas held poisonous spiders and some sailors got the worst of it – but that was hundreds of years before the Internet, so the rest of the world would’ve taken a decade or two to find out.

I am much more willing to believe that bananas are found in tropical climes where gals wear grass skirts, are sun bronzed, and largely topless. Any fishing vessel from Northern Europe that laid in for fresh water would’ve been mighty hard put to go fishing after eyeballing that panorama. Bully beef and hard tack is fine, but a banana with a pineapple chaser must’ve tasted like divine intervention, or better.

A little credence to my theory is found in the “if a barefoot woman passes you on the way to the dock, no fish will be caught” superstition. Combine the two and we get what may be the real story, “If you are passed by a partially clad, sun bronzed, grass skirt wearing, tropical gal carrying bananas – you’ll forget about fishing entirely.”

Don’t blame me, you were the guys that clicked a hole clean through the gal in the fishing poster. I am just a victim of Sherlockian Deduction…

Tags: fishing superstition, banana superstition, angling myth

What kind of father figure are you to allow your kid to chew on his rod?

You get the wee tyke up at the crack of dawn under the auspices of “family togetherness,” you wad the child into a car seat, deaf to the defiant howls, drag him out into the chill dawn – ignoring pleas for “DeeMickey” … and in a crescendo of petulance, you stomp off determined to get some fishing done, leaving the toddler to the tender mercies of Momma?

Now, horrified you are looking at the paper and realize you’ve stunted the child’s growth, enraged his mommy, and imbedded yourself so firmly in the Doghouse, you might as well be the blanket.

You thought them SpongeBob rods was cute as hell, now that they’re considered leaden death, and being recalled by the millions, you got some ‘splaining to do, Lucy.

Yes, that’s a rolling pin Momma’s wielding, just bend over and Cowboy-Up. While you are taking that licking, just be grateful Ma didn’t make the connection between the diaper full of ball bearings and the missing jug of Salmon Eggs.

This is Petey, a small innocent juvenile brook trout with his entire life ahead of him. His only crime was getting too close to an enraged angler, now he is cowering in the dark, knowing his fate is uncertain.

Petey really wants to frolic in a cold trout stream, chasing mayfly nymphs and fulfilling his destiny. Instead, Petey is the Official Char of the Trout Underground blog – who is giving away a genuine Maine Canoe-hat. Unless said hat arrives on my doorstep by noon friday…

…That’s right, Petey Gets it!

Now let’s see whether TC can extricate himself from this bind, his Ma wants the hat, duty and honor dictate he surrender it, but Petey’s life hangs by a thread….

“Protect yourself from ‘phishing‘ attacks, don’t be lured by false web sites attempting to net your personal information.”

Is the indiscriminant use of angling metaphor proof that we have insinuated ourselves into every walk of life, every tier of society, and that our quest for world domination is nearly complete? 

Or is it merely that we’ve spawned societal intolerance, and are nearly on par with lawyers as the perennial joke-butt?

“There’s a ton of cash on the sidelines, and people are willing to bottom fish.”

“Police netted 13 arrests, a gun and drugs.”

Wall Street, neatly landed in our camp, and law enforcement appears to have taken the bait, all we need do is get our hooks in some politicians, snag a judge or two and we can bring the electoral process to hand.

The converse is unbearable to consider –  lawyers have had a decade to shrug off the harpoons of their detractors. Anglers are an impetuous tempermental lot, prone to being caught off guard, and sent reeling in disarray by public censure.

SingleBarbed opens another can of worms, and catches Hell in the process…

I was pulling my waders on when I heard an agonizing scream, a veritable death-rattle of a sentient human. In response, I half waddled, half fell into view of a horrific scene, an angler tucked into a fetal ball, with his pal administering last rites…

Fearing the worst, I duck-walked over to render assistance, prepared to tourniquet the missing limb, donate an extra kidney, or surrender a couple of pints of blood. On my approach, his pal looked up unconcerned, callously dismissing his friends condition, with, ” No worries, he forgot his fishing hat.”

Fishing hats are sacred stuff, and this poor fellow pounding the ground in agony knows what we all do – might as well turn the car around and go home, as that hat is the key to all success afield.

There are two Perfect Truths evident in a fishing hat; the first is that it’s the only possession you own that survived your first three divorces, and second, with fishing hats there is no fashion mis-statement, glaring clash, or styling faux pas.

The product of years of adoring neglect, stained by sweat, blood, and a bevy of unmentionables. Festooned with flies – most embedded by accident, torn, crushed, or rolled – it is the visual proof of the anglers ascendancy into Manhood.

Aged 13 years, like old scotch … and the salt seeping through the lettering is from real tears, as that was the year the Vikings demolished us in the playoffs.

You can forget about knots, mating habits of mayfies, ignore streamflows, weather, tides, and lunar phase, as every fishing trip will meet with “should have been here last week” success.

You are superstitious as hell, but that rabbit’s foot has finally been upstaged.

Imagine kissing your wife on the cheek with the exclamation, “I’ll be home at 6:00, make sure the fry pan is ready” – and mean it. Your beautiful golden haired children gaze up at you adoringly, you tell them “Poppa will be right back with dinner.”

Skeptical? This is heady stuff, and you’re going to owe me large.

Lucky is better than skillful and the makeover starts with the hat; your choice of Regular Lucky or Legendary Lucky. You can finally ditch that greasy old shapeless ex-lucky-fishing-hat,  for a “curly-brim” that oozes success.

Next comes the shirt, for the fashionista we have quantity, for the rest of us – steeped in sacred Ti extract  , blessed by Hawaiian Gods, we have the really good stuff. Don’t blame me if you become a chick magnet.

Not content with merely catching every fish within reach, add a regular lucky tie  and a pair of lucky stressed denim jeans, and start filling the freezer.

Wielding this much raw power is dangerous and can lead to accidental discharge, act responsibly and please change in a phone booth.