YOURS TRULY: I need that signed document as soon as possible.
THE IMPETUOUS: I sent it two weeks ago via Priority Mail.
YOURS TRULY: Ok…thanks.
[two minutes eleven seconds later]
THE IMPETUOUS: Have you checked your mail in the last two weeks?!
YOURS TRULY: Uh…I’ve been fishing.
[nine seconds later]
THE IMPETUOUS: That’s what I thought.
YOURS TRULY: Hmm…almost sounds like nagging.
THE IMPETUOUS: I hereby declare that is precisely what it is.
The old and bitter hold steadfast on the shop floor, waxing irritably of bygone days i.e. before anglers wore Buffs on the rivers. Then claim they are the reason Buffs exist to begin with. The audience would rather choose their flies and GTFO. Sitting at the bench, mumbling to yet another derivation of the RS2, dreams of book contracts dance in their heads. Only five copies will ever sell. Damn that YouTube.
No time to sum up a fishing story. Because there isn’t one. Gas prices are too high, enthusiastic friends are few, and/or the lawn needed mowing.
THE OLD AND BITTER: You put in as much time as I have and you would be old and bitter too.
NOT SO INNOCENT BYSTANDER: Not a chance. Nobody is getting dragged into that grave you’re digging but yourself.
The rest are having the times of their lives, casually deferring the tales to those that can tell them better. Getting hassled for having so much fun, and finding fun in that too.
MG signing off (because Chupacabras exist, and so do old, bitter fly anglers)