Oh hi. You were searching for porn, but now you’re here. Ha.

It’s time again for Fun With Buster’s Search Stats, which is nearly as lazy as posting YouTube videos but without the additional effort necessary to type something even marginally related to fly fishing.

Honestly, we were just checking the stats following the most recent western PA bigfoot story, because we inadvertently became a destination for precisely those searches back in 2008 or so, which we found hilarious. It appears that letting the place go dark and then moving to WordPress has eliminated that particular comedy vector, which MAKES US VERY SAD, GOOGLE!

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Graham Roumieu – http://www.roumieu.com/ – buy book!

So the search stats are now dominated by the word “fuck,” which, ok, isn’t terribly surprising to anyone who knows us. Sorry Mom. Some of the more entertaining examples include:

fish time fucking
fishing for as to fuck full
fucking is right or wrong
wrong way fucking
fuck after fish work
new fishing fuck american
wwwfuck me buster

OK so you were looking for weird porn and landed here because you’re desperate and will click on anything. We’re only sort of sorry for disappointing you, and not at all for missing an opportunity to get these new readers. We hope you kept trying. Fortune favors the bold, and all that.

aboy stands at river and off with finger fucks wally

Dear Wally: Google responds best when you close with “warmest regards” or “love always.”

big hackles fuck

I’ve said this very thing before tossing the fly in the bluegill box. Those fuckers will eat anything.

fuck you bat signal

I could never understand why the Penguin was such a fearsome villain. I mean, he’s not at all physically imposing, and who’s not going to recognize him and call Commissioner Gordon before he waddles away with the big heavy gold bird statue or whatever? Testify, Oswald.

real fucking recreation area

Someone was very frustrated by all of the fake ones?

fuck me while i pollute the air while it stinks x

I’ve got nothing here, but it’s included for, um, posteriorerity. You’re welcome. Now for the rest:

limitations associated with marginal cotton

While I’m sure there are some, or even many, I can’t imagine needing to Google for them, or being presented with a link to this place and thinking “THAT is just what I need right there!”

light sabre wound stickers

Fly fishers have a thing for stickers. Normally they’re from gear manufacturers, but we’re not here to pass judgement on your particular nerdflavor (looking at you, spey geeks).

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flycandy

Ok, got it. More Fly Candy photos. We can do that. On it.

 

Birthright

The threat of losing our public lands looms large. That threat grows, passing like wildfire through halls of Congress and state capitols, spreading its invasive rhetoric in our communities. People with soft hands and expensive suits tell us “It’s just transfer. It’s not like we’re selling them.”

It’s not just transfer. And it is a big deal.

 

Raise Your Voice for America’s Public Lands – sign the Trout Unlimited Public Lands Petition

Check out the stories of TU’s “30 days of Public Land” Here

Gone, Gone, Like the Snows of Yesteryear

“The ugly fallout from the American Dream has been coming down on us at a pretty consistent rate since Sitting Bull’s time — and the only real difference now […] is that we seem to be on the verge of ratifying the fallout and forgetting the Dream itself.” – Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72

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Turn around, puppy, she’s standing right there.

If you’re lucky in 2016, maybe you’re better off than your parents or grandparents. Maybe you got a better education, or are able to own a home. Maybe you’ve got a pension (ha, Google it). Maybe you’re simply able to negotiate a stroll without being harassed, beaten, tazed, or straight up shot dead. And maybe your own kids will be better off than you are. That’s what most parents hope for, anyway, but look at the rising costs and disappearing opportunity for nearly everything, and that hope might feel increasingly desperate.

Those of us lucky enough to be U.S. citizens have a heritage that’s the envy of the world. Millions of acres of wild land and clean water are bequeathed to all of us as a happy accident of birth, or the fortunate benefit of negotiating a long and costly immigration process. And in the absence of property or money or opportunity, we can at least pass this inheritance along to our kids, as long as we’re vigilant and the well isn’t poisoned.

And, you know, if it isn’t stolen by greedheads like the American Lands Council and their pet politicians, who are attempting to force the divestiture of our public land and water to the states, where they can be, or in some cases must be sold off to private interests who can keep your kids’ dirty feet from soiling it ever again.

Screw that. Start here, and here, but don’t stop there. Raise hell. Don’t be forced to tell the kids that you’re sorry, but you just didn’t do enough. It’s easy to type words about heritage and the home of the brave, but that doesn’t amount to a hell of a lot when they’re willing to set the dogs on you.

Better Enjoy It While You Can.

The divestiture of public land to the States makes me angry. I mean really damn angry and the question is why?  Superficially I don’t fit the demographic that supports the “let’s keep the Fed’s managing the land” side of the argument. I’m a forty-year-old white male who’s married with no kids. Instead of writing this post I should be abusing my male privilege, sitting back mulling my lack of genetic legacy and letting the place burn. Because when it comes to the future I’m guessing my knees have got just enough cartilage left in them for another twenty years of stumbling through steelhead creeks and carrying dead ungulates up and down mountains. After that, the chances are I’ll be done. And there’s no way there will be enough environmental degradation in that time frame to impact my hunting and fishing in any meaningful way.

But here’s the thing, I’m an immigrant. I chose to come to the United States and became a citizen. For me, the idea of Freedom is synonymous with public land. Where I grew up in Europe there is no concept of public lands for hunting and fishing. Private landowners control not only access but also the animals and fish that live on their estates. Hunting and Fishing are the purview of the aristocracy, merchant bankers, and hedge fund managers. If you can’t pay then you can’t play.

In the United States things are different. We, The People, own millions of acres of pristine wilderness. Wilderness we can all legally hunt and fish without having to glance over our shoulders for some irate blunderbuss wielding aristocrat. It’s a unique situation. But times they’re a changing. There’s some major fuckery going down in the Senate. The crux of the matter is a Republican move to sell off public land to the States. No big deal, right? Except it is a big deal. Land held in a State trust doesn’t guarantee public access. In fact many States forbid access without the user, that’s you,  purchasing a permit or a lease. Don’t believe me? Here’s what Colorado’s State Land Board’s has to say on the matter:

“State trust lands are not open to public use except when leased to a specific party (private or public).  Any interested party may apply for a recreation lease on state trust land. Common uses include hunting, fishing, hiking and horseback riding.“

It doesn’t stop there. Once the land is transferred to the States, they are compelled by legislation or their constitution to manage it for profit. If they can’t do that then they are obliged to sell it. The amount of land that has been sold off by Western States, land that they received in their Enabling acts, is staggering. Nevada alone received 2.1 million acres at statehood and has sold over 1.9 million acres. And Nevada isn’t an outlier, all the Western States have done the same and there’s no reason to think that they won’t keep selling the land they receive in the future.

So the questions shouldn’t be why the hell am I so angry about the transfer of public lands to the States? The question is why aren’t you?

Very Seriously!

The very possibly alien minds at Bentley’s Mulliner coachbuilding division have produced – no, I’m sorry, painstakingly handcrafted a fly-fishing edition of the Bentayga, which Bentley describes as “the fastest, most powerful, most luxurious SUV in the world,” and the world describes as “a middle finger to the people and their fish, built for obscenely rich asshats who purchase their investments from a coachbuilder because they couldn’t possibly do something as plebeian as shop for a fishing car.”

bentley-bentayga-bentley-bentayga-mulliner-fly-fishing-pic2-1024x1024

Argyle! Adjust my cap to a jaunty angle, and make this fly thing work.

My word, the excitement. Over at Autoblog, they’ve declared that “This Bentley Bentayga takes fly fishing very seriously”. Hmph. Bully. Indeed. Let’s see what Brandon Turkus has to say.

“Mulliner’s upholstery and trim expertise is on full display – everything in the kit is either covered in saddle leather with white contrast stitching or finished in Burr walnut.”

I don’t know. Is it Corinthian? If it’s not Corinthian leather, then you’re sure to get burrs in your walnuts.

“The four leather-wrapped tubes on the underside of the tonneau cover house the fishing rods, while the master tackle box, refreshment case, and a box for stowing waders and boots sit on the cargo floor.”

At least that’s what you can tell Pater so that he doesn’t discover that you’ve packed it with Peruvian blow for the weekend’s canned snow leopard hunt. Is this really what constitutes luxury? An insanely expensive Subaru Outback with some boxes in the back? WTF is a “master tackle box?”

“Mulliner loaded down the tackle box with tools, cotton, hooks, and feathers to tie flies, and it includes four reel cases milled from solid aluminum.”

A very seriously serious fishing coachbuilder would go on at great length about hook bends and hackle grades until I wandered off to get coffee. I’m fairly sure that “cotton” is thread, but not for the proles. And aluminum reel cases? To protect the Bogdan until Nigel drops it on a rock?

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Nigel Incubator-Jones

Is that solid Corinthian al you minium?

“The best thing about this kit is the lengths Mulliner went to in order to keep the rear of the vehicle dry and fresh – the floor is waterproof and there’s an electronic dehumidifier to keep things from smelling funky.”

Oh heavens no, not funky, we’ve been splashing in water with fish, we must smell like flowers. Do the windows go down? Can they throw in a towel, or maybe a solid gold box of baking soda?

At Edmunds, they make a very clever “hook luxury buyers” joke, and go on to say…

“For the first time with Bentayga, the SUV features Mulliner “welcome lights” that project the Bentley and Mulliner logos on the ground when the doors are opened. But fussy buyers can also have any personal logo or graphic added as a custom option.”

IT COMES WITH A BAT SIGNAL FOR DOUCHEBAGS!

dit-segnale

Robb Report adds…

“With a 6-liter W-12 engine that allows a top speed of 187 mph, Bentley’s luxurious all-wheel-drive fish-finder will help ensure its owners are the first at their favorite spot while landing bragging rights to boot”

Atomic batteries to power! Turbines to speed! Blast off for Douche Planet fishing holiday!

jc

Yeah. Anyway, Bentley is taking fly fishing VERY VERY SERIOUSLY, YOU GUYS!

Bentley-Bentayga-Fly-Fishing-edition-specs-600x330

Florida is a burning trash heap, but it doesn’t have to be

It should come as no great shock to anyone that the state of Florida, is well, a state of disgrace. We’re not just talking about my good buddy Florida Man lobbing alligators through drive-thrus, or leaving his kids in the care of strippers at Thee Brass Flamingo while he goes on a meth binge; rather, we’re talking about the governance, or rather, malign negligence of the state government when it comes to enforcing, or even just giving more than a passing glance to critical issues like water quality.

The three main pillars of the Florida economy are agriculture, tourism and real estate development. Basically, 2/3rds of the state economy depends on attracting people to the state temporarily, and then convincing them to stay. What’s been going on lately is that entrenched agriculture interests, like Big Sugar and the muck farms around Lake Okeechobee, have been royally fucking the Florida Coast. And by royally fucking the coast, Big Ag is not doing the other two pillars any favors. Normally, issues like water quality should stand on their own, but being Florida, you’ve got to screw with the Mouse and the Developers to get any attention.

The Lake is basically an agricultural sewage system now, and due to decisions made, christ, like 75 years ago by the Army Corps of Engineers, the outflow from the Lake doesn’t pass through the somewhat cleansing system of the Glades. Giant canals are dumping fertilizer and runoff contaminated water directly into rivers and estuaries, causing algae blooms, fish kills, and making life in those areas miserable. Peruse social media and images of algae rafts and fish carcass choked waterways are more common than they ever should be.

It doesn’t have to be this way, and there’s something you can do to help. Go to http://gladesdeclaration.org/ and sign the petition. We’re joining up together to help get state funds to restore natural water flows out of Okeechobee through the Everglades.

Helping Florida out, well, it helps all of us out.

 

Free the Collect!

“On the lower end, two fair-sized streams drained the interior. One rose from a series of springs that poured forth from hillocks around today’s 20th Street and Fifth Avenue. The Saponickan band living there called it Ishpetenga. It flowed southwest into the Hudson near the mouth of another trout stream. This one had its origins in a deep, fair-sized pond where Worth and Centre streets now cross. It flowed northwesterly, almost in a straight line, and became the course for today’s Canal Street. The pond was known as The Collect. The Dutch name for this trout pond was derived from one of its beaches, which they which they called Kalk Hoek – Chalk Point or Chalk Hook. It was given the name because the early Dutch settlers came here to collect the shells of freshwater mussels, which were ground and added to the mortar used to build their homes. When the English took over management of Manhattan in 1664 they assumed many of the Dutch words already in use for geographic features. Their inelegant pronunciation of Dutch turned the monosyllabic word “Kalk” (or “Chalk”) into the dissylable “Kal-leck”- hence, “Collect.” The pond’s name had nothing to do with collecting water in the area, as some writers have suggested, although it did have two small feeder streams. For decades, in the 1600s and 1700s, it was the source of drinking water for all of lower Manhattan’s residents. The Collect and its associated streams contained brook trout as late as 1740.”

– from Brook Trout by Nick Karas

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…and a shovel and a fly rod!

And Then There’s Just Not Giving a Shit

This sort of douchebaggery should be painful.

slob

You should be forced to swallow this, you damn dirty chimp.

You watch, some Saturday afternoon right after cartoons, humanity will be wiped out by ridiculous alien invaders, and it WON’T be because they want our planet or our women or our precious bodily fluids, oh no. It’ll be because we’re bigger jackasses than them. Nice going, Skeeter.

romano

DURRRR!

Lake Titicaca

Dear Asshat Who Low-Holed That Sweet Tailout From Under Me Yesterday: Yes, you’re a pinner, and there’s no doubting the effectiveness of your floaty toy and sac antics. But you’re also a thoughtless inconsiderate slob of a toolshed no matter what gear you’re using. As for not being thrown in the drink, you’re welcome, but I hope that when your wife picked you up later she promptly punched you square in your stupid face. She looked like the type. Anyway, now your backside gets to enjoy a moment of interwebs fame with a juvenile bit of Photoshop fun.

lowholio

“I am ALL bunghole!”

Sanctuary!

A long cold hinterland winter here in Freestonia doesn’t mean that the fishing stops entirely, but it does slow down, and that means increased exposure to the noisemakers. You know, the ones that force-feed us the narrative of our lives, that thin clammy broth of postures and judgements and cheap shiny plastic crap that we can’t live without. The noise comes from the tubes, the mailbox and the halls of power in 30-second sound bytes and bumper sticker platitudes, telling us what’s important, what should be dismissed with scorn, conveying our targets for rage and humor. Even the goddam Olympic Games, something that’s supposed to celebrate the hard work of dedicated amateurs, shows up shrinkwrapped in disposable computer-animated bubble packaging that’s obviously been designed and focus-grouped years in advance, complete with instant blowdried celebrity hero toys ready for tomorrow’s water cooler worship. Collect ‘em all, $14.99.

shaunwhite

Fully Articulated Flying Tomato

(Haha see, Shaun stowed away on Tuesday’s delivery and stocked all this sk8punk stuff in the dead of night, because he’s a subversive nutty scamp®. What can we do? On sale now.)

The noise is the anthem of the Transnational Lizard People, who purely through the power of cash have erased the importance of place, allegiance to country, recognition of borders, and necessity of breathing, eating, drinking and being of this place where we plant our feet. They recognize no law, no neighbor, no change of season or migration. They experience no hunger or sickness or fear. No disaster matters, except as an opportunity to pad those numbers. Their decisions and actions bear no consequence, aside from possibly being hauled before a Congress of their own creatures for an afternoon show trial, let’s get it over with so we can all go get drinks. With any luck they’ll soon have cash-powered spacecraft so they can all lift off and blast each other with beams of numbers that used to represent something of worth, and be free of the bothersome bounds of the human experience. Man, we’re all such a nuisance.

But here’s the thing: we’re not all where we’re supposed to be, fretting over today’s manufactured outrage on one side of an aisle or another, shaking our heads about who’s fucking whom and oh how could he do such a thing? Sometimes we very deliberately dash out of the pasture and do things that the handlers never counted on. See, there are no blue lines on their demographic maps. They can’t conceive of a shade of green in winter-dormant cedar and water that’s deeper than the one in their veins. Eventually we’ll probably be rounded up and put down for the greater good of the herd, but we likely won’t hear them coming.

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You say something?

Calling H.G. Wells

timemachine

It’s worth a shot.

The final couple of work days before a fishing trip are probably best used as an exercise in patience, something fisherfolk are supposed to have in voluminous reserve, but for me they’re mostly spent almost telling coworkers to go piss up a rope. My brain checked out a few days ago, so making time pass by being productive, while laudable and maybe even expected, is a joke. So instead I’m left searching for alternatives, like:

  • Chew off own face (not arms, I’ll be needing those)
  • Create ridiculous new fly designs, give them names like “spleen venter” and “jeebus fucking fuck”
  • Stand outside cafeteria window, grease ferrules while performing rod-section-up-the-nose trick
stevemartin

TA DAAAH!

  • Piss up a rope
  • Write self-evaluation, give self high marks for “not murdering you all in your sleep”
  • Tie on big pyramid sinker, practice double-hauling at lunchtime joggers
  • Get head start on three-days-in-wool-and-waders body funk, offer hugs to middle management
  • Attend status meeting, assign new names to coworkers like “Bait Bucket Joe,” “Pete the Pusillanimous Pinner” and “U. Barking Idiot”
  • Stabby-type foul-mouthed blog posts, try to make keys fly off
  • Take steroids, get huge, bend time and space

Any and all further suggestions are welcome in the comments. Well, they technically won’t be welcome until next week, but you get the idea.

The Return of the Extra Stabby Fisherman

frustratedsn8

TASTES JUS LIKE CHIKKEN!!

To the lurching yappy meat puppet in the office across the hall, whom I’ll call “Dick” though it’s not the name on the door that you refuse to close while you’re hollering into your bluetooth growth like a big buttery dolt: tomorrow I’m going fishing, to a place full of water and chrome where this mocking clock has no meaning, with good company and good whiskey and fire. I’ve been looking forward to this for a while, but first there were the home repairs that got put off all summer, and a deadline, and then a foot of snow, and then Halloween and an election. But now suddenly they’re past, so I’m kinda keyed up you see.

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photo by Ginseng Sullivan

Now normally when you heave into view and begin your noise about your bike, or shooting woodchucks, the two things that your pachinko machine of a brain has identified as our common interests (woodchucks? really?), I’m able to zone march straight to my happy place. That’s right, those nods and uh-huhs are about bright water and forest smells and was that a rise right there? Caddis? Even when you’re not talking to me, you’re still talking, Dick, and your HARF HARF laugh operates on some hellish frequency that penetrates walls and headphones. But I’m normally happy to just crank the volume and forget you and the oxygen you’re using. We’re good.

But today there’s a bluebird summery day blasting through the windows and my happy fishing brain place is making me want to chew my arms off, so I can’t go there, and I’m left with nothing for you but thoughts of twisting your head off like an apple stem, shoving your darling little espresso glass in your mouth and then kicking the whole mess into a steel garbage can with an oh-so-satisfying crash and rattle. And then rolling it down a hill in front of a speeding bus. A burning bus full of angry hungry bears. Shut up, this is my happy place, not yours.

Your soul is an old dirty bug jar,
Wook

stabbyol3

Warren Ellis Technologies, where the future is NOW, DAMMIT

 

Bush Admin Attempts a Parting Upper-Decker

deckerus4

Awwww MAN!

Apparently not content with trashing the kid’s room and putting out their Kools on the floor, the Bush administration is shooting for a last-minute rogering of the Clean Air Act in the form of a new EPA rule weakening pollution regulations for power plants, allowing them to increase emissions without adding controls.

And as a special bonus, they’re also “expected to decide in November on another eleventh-hour rule that would allow more power plants to be built near national parks and wilderness areas.”

Whatever happened to just pardoning a few crooks?