Broadcasting from high atop the Bilgewater Building in Dogpatch USA, hello and welcome.
We are a small mob of unkempt flyfishers with a blog. We’ve stared at enough water and felt enough piscatorial vivacity in our mitts to maybe have some things to say about it. You might disagree, but here you are anyway. Did you bring beer?
We’ve stumbled out of a variety of regions and fallen together on the internets. We’re pretty much staunch localists who are still stoked about the rivers, lakes and beaches we’re lucky enough to call our home waters, and wanted to get the words down before life goes and robs us of the alphabet. And we want to have a good time doing it.
You should also expect stuff that’s only marginally fishing-related, maybe, if at all, because we’re prone to strange compulsions. We tend to poke a lot of fun, because we like to laugh, and we believe none of this should be taken all that seriously. You like to laugh, right? Good answer.
We hope it suits you. If not, well, you’re still here so hand over that beer, dammit. Like democracy, the price of awesome ain’t free.
Buster Wants To Fish
Wook lurches after fishes in the Central New York hinterlands, battling snow devils, howling packs of rust belt coyotes and great clouds of vampire bugs. Pennsylvania’s much more pleasant, really, and the trout are bigger, so you should go there. Wook enjoys defenestration, syncopation, smartassery and Smuttynose Old Brown Dog. Wook assumes you can swim.
g_smolt spends winters running trap lines deep in the Alaskan interior and his summers relocating “nuisance” crocodiles in the Nile River Valley.
g_smolt bowls a perfect “300″ 60% of the time.
g_smolt has his pants tailored with an extra crotch panel so as to not affect his award-winning roundhouse kick.
g_smolt once beat a yeti at checkers.
g_smolt endorses Archie comics.
It wasn’t the planes that got him, it was g_smolt killed the beast.
I like monster trucks and long walks on nude retirement beaches.
Nachos are good for my labido.
Cheeseburgers, extra mayo, served by toofless mountain folk.
Grub Steak sandwiches. Yeah, well, Google it.
Git-boxes and corn squeezins. Buy or sell.
Gaper is probably drunk right now, tapping away at some old-timey typewriter pretending to be Hemingway when, of course, we all know he’s more of a Fitzgerald.
Oh yeah, he might also be fishing.
fishingjones gets his powers from Earth’s yellow sun.
A duck’s quack doesn’t echo, and only fishingjones knows why.
fishingjones is pleased to meet you, hope you guess his name.
fishingjones has an irrational fear of blue towels and paprika.
fishingjones breeds champion miniature dachshunds, and hunts wolverines using only his dogs and his childhood Swiss Army Knife.
fishingjones can easily out cast the Rajeff brothers, but wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.
fishingjones detests butterflies.
Tosh is a 4-time Soul Train line dance champion.
Tosh owns several successful bean farms in Bolivia.
Tosh is an accomplished tuba player and as a youth, formed the Austin Tuba Skiffle Band.
Tosh has begun training in preparation to go into space.
Tosh was sheriff of this county when he was 25 years old.
When he was ten, Tosh won the Texas state champion hog wrastling contest with a time of 4.26 seconds.
Tosh only consumes fat back, chitlins, legumes, and fresh cream.
Tosh routinely catches IGFA world records, fillets them, and gives them away to friends.
Tosh uses shotguns as body pillows; his preference is a Benelli, but he has been known to stoop to Remmington 870′s in a pinch.
Stoney will stop at any truckstop diner named EAT to try their chickenfried steak, cold milk and whatever looks good in the pie case. Stoney prefers metal to plastic, wing windows to a/c and mono to flouro. Formerly a prolific angler Stoney only fishes for winter steelhead anymore, and then only when the rivers begin dropping and clearing and only for that very moment. Stoney does not waste his time.
Born into a posh, genteel life in the Irish countryside, TheUglyMerican decided at an early age that there was more to life than harassing peasants and yelling at the help. After the fiasco in Kedai Mulong, the Malaysian governments subsequent banning of all things Irish, and the refusal by the Irish to let him back in the country, he settled in Alaska where he took up the distinctly American pastime of harassing fish and wildlife.