Tag Archives: angling humor

Flavor being secondary to function

PBJLike all weighty discussions between anglers, the notion of what sandwich makes the best accompaniment to fishing is the source of both ire and amusement.

Anglers aren’t likely to pay  attention to expiration dates, certainly the talented ones don’t, and given our propensity to wad leftovers between two sodden slices of Wonder bread, we’re not known for our palate or presentation skills either.

Most admit that, “…does it go with beer?” serves as the only reasonable criteria, but there are the dissenting opinions  …

Mobile anglers will insist the resultant meal should transport well and shouldn’t leak – which effectively eliminates anything with tomato slices, BBQ sauce, or sauerkraut.  Fly fishermen dominate  this category given how the dimensions of the pocket dictates what fills it, and the condition of the foodstuff when deployed.

Boat anglers are most likely to compile the “Dagwood” variant, combining wondrous towers of cheese, veggies, and meat – knowing it will lie undisturbed in the cooler until needed. While known for their ability to transport delicacies into the thick of the fishing, boat anglers are paragons of lunchtime generosity, often sharing their architectural marvel with their quarry when the swells get rough.

Anglers unsure of their success afield will insist whatever it’s made from should have a significant layer of cheese, giving them the dairy-feather double threat.  If the fish ignore your feathered offering, perhaps Pautske’s “Balls O’ Sharp Cheddar” may be the reversal of fortune the trip requires.

Yet with all the careful planning and ritual, most anglers dine on disappointment come mealtime. Most miss the mark when they produce the shapeless lump from pack or vest pocket, whose condiments were buttressed via the fly floatant and DEET that osmosis drew from an adjoining pocket.

Recently I’ve pondered this self same issue, and after considering the various camps,  and the merits of Roast Beef and Sprouts versus Corned Beef with Swiss, I can tell most anglers are missing the Big Picture …

… the greatest angling meal of all time is the venerable Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich, and for the obvious reason – it being the only sandwich found in your vest from last month that you can consume with guilty pleasure on this trip.

No need to scrape the Green Stuff, that’s pure Penicillin, which is right up there with “juice cleanse” on the Wellness scale .

Dame Juliana Berners, or at least Bill Dance

My mistake was assuming angling’s Sacred Cows were deserved of update.

Societal norms seem to be edging away from nobility and leaning toward PBB (People Behaving Badly), given the constant fare of reality shows punctuated only by political fits of pique, including references to genitalia and tweets musing on which candidate’s spouse is “hot or not.”

heston

Those hoary Cornerstones of Angling, those ancient stone tablets upon which are etched angling’s most holy truths; “dollar for the first, dollar for the biggest, dollar for the Most,” and “if you kilt it – you eat it,” – I thought were hopelessly out of date now that fish come from McDonalds and “catch and release” is something you practice at a bar …

This weekend I was fixated on a top water plug watching it burble across the lake’s surface, and my phone chirped, featuring a picture of a smallmouth and the legend, “first fish, Smallie about 2 pounds.” It was from my fishing partner who had rushed ahead to fish a comely looking point and was now out of sight.

As we had agreed at our last accounting, the Hoary Ancient Stone Tablet Rule dictated fish that count towards an angler’s total must be accompanied by a picture or a witness.

But that was then, and this being now …

PBB fish

… I sent him back this obviously … er … lethargic candidate, who was hooked in acceptable fashion, and while the fight was lackluster, was released back into the lake with a flourish. I think the legend of my text went something like, “…  1-1, we’re even.”

As you’d expect my pal was incensed as his version of angling justice was inscribed by Dame Juliana Berners, or at least Bill Dance, and his indignation was apparent, “that fugging fish is dead!”

I could see his point. The eyes being opaque, most of the color being leeched from the torso, and the ample girth stemming not from  food – but rather trapped gas, which added fetchingly to the candidate’s visual weight.

… my recently crafted PBB rules of Angling, suggest the hookup was legitimate, the fight being less than desirable, yet the required photo was taken with all possible candor. I replied with similar PBB passion, “ … eat me, fucktard, it still counts …”

I was attempting a PBB witticism, but possess no skill in the subject matter. I can only assume something similar is what’s “bleeped” out of the television narrative.