One fell swoop and the Department of Fish & Game will have to rethink both their  stocked trout program and trophy fisheries management. Harvard researchers have published a study that concludes that friends of the obese will likely become obese also.

Hatchery trout have tons of friends, and if the research is correct, all we need do is make 40% of them obese – due to six degrees of separation theory, we will have made all of the planted fish fat and lazy.

Prepare thyself for angling paradise – large, slow moving trout, whose only crime was associating with other larger trout. Fly tying will enter a renaissance period, as patterns trend towards sparse and even lo-fat dressing.

It shouldn’t be long in coming, a canny angler will start making room in his flybox for the new “staples” of fly fishing; The South Beach Nymph series, Richard Simmons’s cReel-A-Meal, and the Jenny Craig line of carb-free low water dressings.

We have an uneasy peace at my workplace, with “Hatfield’s” the golfing contingent, the “McCoy’s” the fishing crowd. It’s a separate yet equal environment with no “Tweeners” – guys that like both.

I expected the golfing crowd to be sympathetic, as their sport involves running around the out-of-doors flailing ineffectually at a dimpled white ball, whose flight is as perverse and uncontrollable as a trout’s idea of tasty.

Negative. You are either a Sith Lord or a Jedi Knight, never the twain shall meet.

I figured to beard the prophet, adding to the lunchroom fodder with some angling magazines thrown onto the rack at random. I had to do something as the Postman was starting to wink suggestively when he delivered them. (The phallic thing, see below.)

Now I Done it. The cry of protest was long and deafening, scorn followed in short order.

“So lemme get this straight, you drive for hours, get in the water, throw fake insects at fish with your pole, and if you’re lucky, you let them go when you’re done?”

Ayup.

“You spend thousands of dollars on gear, piss off your wife, abandon her for weekends at a time, then make excuses why you didn’t catch anything?”

Affirmative.

In rebuttal, “…but you guys do the same thing, drive for hours, spend the entire day cursing, spend thousands of dollars on gear and green fees, piss off the wife and make excuses why that updraft caught that  slice and how that broken window ain’t your fault, No?”

They looked at each other and agreed. “But we got Beer Girls.”

Seeing my look of confusion, “Yea, they drive around the course in a cart full of beer and stop at each group to see if they need fresh ones.”

Dejected and defeated, I left in haste. Golfers get cold beer delivered, fly fishermen get an overflowing Port-A-Potty, no toilet paper, with a door that was used to sight in a deer rifle…

They win.

We are assaulted each day by whom the Yellow Journalists would have us fear. Today I cannot trust; catholic priests, school teachers, online gaming parents, politicians, and spinach.

Hell, we knew about politicians, and every kid knows spinach is contemplating world domination – what was conspicuously absent from each media piece was the label, “fisherman.”

Are fishermen the new high water mark for morality? Not the religious-right flavor, perhaps “normality” is a better word. If true, are we prepared to assume that lofty mantle for the rest of civilization? Jerry Falwell wielded the Moral Majority into a ponderous political lobby, can we do less?

The election is fast approaching. Candidates we can decide later, as every fisherman I know is a dissembler, incapable of measurement in either metric or standard, they should do exceptionally well in Washington.

The 2008 Bull Moose Platform

Free trade with Canada and Mexico, remove all barriers to fish immigration, only stop all water leaving the US at the border.

Space is too damn expensive. Redirect Lockheed and Northrup Grumman to develop a superstrain of Eastern Brook Trout. Bonus payments if they use stem cells. PETA will balk, but the “Char Wars” program must be championed agressively.

To reduce our dependance on foreign oil, withdraw our troops from Iraq and redeploy them to New Zealand and Argentina, grant both statehood.  Now that we have all of the big Brown Trout, we can form a cartel.

I think I have covered both the “red” and “blue” states, anything else before we launch our convention?

Barry Bonds closes on Hank Aaron’s career record, and seems fated to earn an asterisk, Lance Armstrong is accused of doping, even his lack of a testicle is seen as an unfair advantage – so where is the International Gamefish Association (IGFA) and their drug testing policy?

Most anglers are doped to the gills – we know that. But who’s testing the fish?

Olympic squads have their score invalidated if any individual is positive for a banned substance – fishing is certainly a team sport, the difference is one of the “team” is unwilling.

Proof is abundant – even Fly hooks are “chemically sharpened”, yet manufacturers mention only vague references to “solvents” – before vanishing in cloud of tinted-sunglasses, and chauffeured Mercedes.

The water supply is a cocktail of drugs banned by the Olympics, yet the IGFA requires only a sample of tippet and a certified weight to record the catch for posterity.

I smell conspiracy – somewhere in all this is a blue dress, a half dozen Budweiser lobbyists, and Payola.

The most sinister development to date – and is flying neatly under the radar of most of the angling brotherhood.The “anti-addiction” pill is akin to a viral juggernaut, and we sit complacently while our wives, girlfriends, life partners, and significant others, plot our demise.

This is the fate-worse-than-Death, as the pill will likely be sold over the counter, and “Doctor MoM” will be ending all of our “addictions” to Playboy, swearing, Sunday morning football, fishing, and … you guessed it … BEER.

Dubious? Skeptical? Eat this…

“Right now, more than 200 addiction medications are being tested.”

Use your fingers; gambling, drugs, smoking, fast cars, fine scotch, cuban cigars… I’m out of ideas at 7 – leaving 193 unnamed addictions they are already testing.

Left to your “better half” your Sundays will now be filled with drapery treatments, scented candles, and the millinery aisle. You laughed when you made her watch re-runs of the Stepford Wives, now your bamboo rod will be holding up her tomato plants.

“In 5 to 10 years we will be treating addiction very differently” predicts Nora Valkow, a psychiatrist and Director of the institute of drug abuse.”

Ms. Valkow is the great grandaughter of Leon Trotsky, yes – the Leon Trotsky, beer and fishing are toast, apple pie and Motherhood to follow. You’ve been warned.

Scent is why NASCAR kicked our collective butt; BBQ, spilled gasoline, hot dogs, and clouds of rubber smoke, invite the crowd to be part of the race, not just spectators.

Flyfishing footage is tame in comparison. TV analysts relies on the same hushed tones as Golf announcers, reinforcing the notion that we are intruding, and no cheering please.

What’s needed is flyfishing scent, applied to your fly. Bass anglers and deer hunters have had this for years, both enjoy higher viewership and audience participation than flyfishing. Doe urine and Crayfish guts may be crucial to regain our rightful place in the Nielsen ratings. 

Now some slow talking southerner can hawk “Scent of 1000 Nightcrawlers” directly to the camera, as he applies a generous dollop to his fly. Women will no longer want to fly fish, as a vigorous squeeze results in a “Oh God, I got some on me!” scream. Blue collar stalwarts will flock to the sport again, as “Mashed Stonefly” proves itself well matched with Ritz crackers and beer. Talented anglers will no longer have to work for a living, as corporate sponsors scour the landscape for the next Richard Petty.

Angling announcers will regain their voice, from towers decked with Pepsi banners and inflated Skoal cans, and color commentary will no longer be passive as anglers “trade paint” in the riffle below. “No Bob, he’s not drafting, he’s holding Andy’s head under water – now a kick to the groin area, what a Cinderella story for the youngster from…”

All that’s needed is a little scent, maybe some bikini clad sponsors, and a couple of anglers that can say, “I’m going to Disneyland” – with  a straight face.

Before the viewing public is completely saturated with the Reality Show phenomena and discards the genre like disco, can’t we get one lame fishing show?

Curt Gowdy started it all, grabbing every major sporting figure of his day, escorting them through bramble thickets and poor ratings, to shoot the Crazed Alsatian Wildebeest, or similar bovine concoction…

American Idol is so … yesterday, isn’t the stage ripe for an angling knock-off?

We take a couple of hopeless urbanites into the Canadian wilderness, require them to tie flies from lint found on their clothing, subject them to every blood sucking organism that exists, weigh their catch and prepare it as an entree for the judges.

Ok, we’ll give them no cooking implements, and one spice…tarragon?

It may well be the death-knell of the entire genre, but that would be good too.

I am thinking Marilyn Manson  and Donnie Osmond as the first match, each accompanied by a seasoned guide, as a tie-breaker we can have Tonya Harding stalk them both…

I’m visiting my buddy the other day and chattering away in the background is the TV, featuring Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. Normally I can ignore the hubbub, but this movie features an enormous sentient Tootsie Roll that emerges from Space, threatens the Earth, and is likely to wrinkle Capt. Kirk’s uniform really badly.

The premise is that the intrepid decrepit crew  – must journey back in time to get two whales that talk the same language as the gi-normous candy bar. 

I’m galvanized into thought; what would happen if a giant sentient Tootsie Roll did exist, and it came back to Earth to talk to the fish?

I’ve caught a lot of fish and would they rat me out? All of the callous treatment and nonchalant heave-ho back into the water and now I’m liable for all them widows and orphans? Fast forward through the hundreds of gut hooked salt water fish of my youth, the 8% death rate of all those trout released – yet died despite my attempt at resuscitation ..

Who would the Tootsie Roll hit with the Death Ray? Dame Juliana Berners?

My pal may have come to my rescue, nonchalantly removing a Gorton’s Fish Stix frozen dinner from his fridge. Chuckling while pointing at the box, “Dude, this Guy is Toast!”