Streamer fishing is getting to be all the rage these days.
With the new materials and refined tying techniques available some of the streamer gurus are whipping up some pretty amazing patterns…and giving them some pretty colorful names too; too colorful if you ask me. I get it that the names are funny in a good ol’ boys club kind of way, but dammit! They have seriously fouled up what was going to be a great fishing trip for me, and I’m not happy about it.
I wasn’t always this bitter, brooding, stick in the mud. I enjoy an occasional raunchy joke, now and then. In fact, I was a relatively normal, mild-mannered man. Up until, well, this weekend, when everything fell apart. It all started innocently enough, I came home from work to finish up some yard work, prior to the weekends long-awaited fishing trip. Nonchalantly, I tossed my wallet onto the nightstand and went outside.
Not more than half an hour later I had managed to gather and coax a pile of damp leaves to burn, when my wife came out to see me. Let me just say that the leaves weren’t the only thing ablaze that chilly afternoon. She was mad as a hatter about something and it was just a matter of 3…2…1 seconds until I found out what it was.
“So, where exactly are you guys going this weekend?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
“We were going to head up near Erie. There should be some brown trout and steelhead up in the streams. Why, what’s up?”
“Really? You’re going fishing? Where again, exactly, are you going and what exactly are you doing?!”
She grabbed the hose lying on the ground that I had brought out to control the fire. (You know, safety first.)
“I told you: Erie. To. Go. Fishing.” I mocked, “What is wrong with you? You’ve known about this for weeks.”
“Oh, really? Do they have a sex dungeon in Erie?” She blasted me with a shot of icy water straight from the hose, right in the nether region. I staggered back.
“Oh, never mind” she said “Apparently Casey is taking care of that.” Another shot of icy water hit my groin.
“WILL YOU STOP WITH THE HOSE ALREADY?!” I shouted.
“Really? You want me to stop doing this…?” I took another shot of water, this time to the chest “Or this…?” Another shot hit me square in the face.
By now I was soaking AND furious.
“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?” I lunged forward attempting to grab the hose but she avoided me and wrestled me to the ground where we rolled over and over the now soaked, but still smoldering, leaves. Eventually we both sat up exhausted and filthy. She’s much stronger than I realized, or I’m much weaker. Both of which are distinct possibilities. We were covered with remnants of burnt leaves and ash and mud. We sat in silence for a few moments, a stalemate brought on by our mutual need to breathe.
Finally I managed to pant out, “What… the heck… are you talking… about?”
“This paper fell out of your wallet” She shoved a slip of paper at me. “Explain it!”
I read the paper:
‘Jed- two-bit hookers’
I let out a slight, poorly timed, chuckle.
“ZIP IT, MISTER! Apparently, you’re responsible for bringing stacked blondes and Nancy P!” she roared. “Whoever the heck they are!” and she jumped up, grabbed the hose and proceeded to water me again.
“Wait a minute, will you wait for one God forsaken minute! You’ve got it all wrong….” I sputtered, holding my hands out in front of me in a vain attempt to shield myself from the stream of ice water as I walked towards her before disarming her.
“…those are the names of fishing flies.”
“Bull! You’re lying to me and you’re not even a very good liar! Who the heck names a fishing fly two bit hooker?” She snarled.
By now I’d had enough. I grabbed her by the wrist and led her, writhing and cursing, into the house and up the stairs to the computer in the loft.
I typed in a few keys on the keyboard and lo and behold, a website appeared, complete with pictures of exactly what “sex dungeon” and “two bit hooker” flies looked like.
Her anger subsided, but just a little, so to be sure it was all put to rest, we followed up confirming that “Nancy P” and “Stacked Blonde” were also the names of actual fly patterns and not women of ill repute.
“Oh. Ok.” was all she said before she went back to doing whatever it was that she was doing before all the madness started.
It turns out that Sex-dungeon and Two-Bit Hookers are good flies. Damn good flies. Big, meaty browns with kypes big enough to hang jackets from crush them, along with the Nancy Ps and Stacked Blondes. Unfortunately, I don’t know this firsthand, and am merely passing along the stories that Casey and Jed shared, as they texted me photo after photo of the fish they were catching while I was stuck at home cleaning and shampooing ash and mud out of the carpet. And it chaps my cheeks to think that all of this could have been avoided if they’d simply named their flies something a little more domestic, like Gallon of Milk, or Loaf of Bread.