as the “fish of a thousand casts” here on earth, up there the Musky is commonly called “the fish of ten casts”.
Walleyes, as well as large Perch and other pan fish abound in the Heavenly lakes. Huge Big Mouth Bass are vicious in their attacks of artificial lures. Because fish dinners are provided free of charge in Valhalla, all fishing is Catch and Release, thereby releasing the fisherman of the onerous job of convincing his wife to scale and clean the fish.
The seasons of the year are divided according to interest and usage instead of chronologically. If you prefer to ice fish, the Winter Sport Season of Paradise has lakes frozen over three hundred and sixty five days a year (366 during leap years). Special frozen lakes and rivers are reserved for Sturgeon spearing. Ice shanties and spearing blinds need never be removed from the lakes since there is no spring thaw in that part of Heaven.
In the Summer Lake Fishing Section of Heaven, all outboard motors are required to start on the first crank. They use neither oil nor gasoline and deep cell batteries for trolling motors never have to be recharged. Lakes and streams are not crowded, rod tips are never broken and there is no DNR. That’s why they call it “Paradise”.
As a special favor, St. Peter reviewed admission records back to the time the Place was established. Except for the Saints who netted fish in the Sea of Galilee before getting religion and giving up the sport, no fisherman has ever been admitted to Heaven. Fishermen were and continue to be such terrible liars that not one of them has ever come close to meeting the heavenly SAT exam requirements. This accounts for the fact the lakes and streams are never crowded.
Having never been known to treat the truth with anything but the highest degree of respect, I fully expect to be allowed to enter the Elysian Fields. I look forward to fishing in Paradise (but not in the immediate future). You, on the other hand, should preserve no such hope or expectation since the potential of your going to Heaven is limited to the point of being nonexistent. However, an alternative is open to you. Since you cannot possibly go to Heaven, I refer, of course, to the potential of your enjoyment of fishing in Hell.
Though not a fisherman himself, Satan has not overlooked the establishment of special facilities for those of his guests who engaged in the sport while on earth. After all, many of his resident clientele are fishermen. (The largest local population is made up of women. Recently an Affirmative Action Regulation has been adopted and in the future no more men will be admitted until a one-to-one woman to man ratio is attained.)
Charon, the boatman who ferries the condemned souls over the River Styx and up to the gates of Hades, operates a fly shop and a guide service on that river. Due to the large number of fishermen, used car salesmen, politicians and attorneys dying and being sent to Hell, the poor fellow spends most of his days operating his ferry. The time available for river guiding is quite limited.
(For the information of all of you hunters, Cerberus, Hell’s three headed dog guarding the entrance to Hades, is an excellent bird hunter. When the dog is not engaged in ripping the stuffing out of the new arrivals, Charon will rent him out. The animal loves to hunt upland birds and has been known to point three Hungarian Partridge at the same time.)
At the Gates of Hell, the River Styx is too warm to support trout of any sort. Small Mouth Bass and pan fish are about all that can be caught on that part of the river. Trout fishermen are advised to travel a few miles up stream where a water temperature of 60 degrees is maintained throughout the year. Brooks, Browns and Rainbow are all present in both large numbers and sizes.
The trout are attracted by only a few artificial flies. They are the Hellgrammite, Black Prince, Gray Ghost and Golden Demon. Lake fish, of course, prefer the old fashioned Daredevil.
Hell is graced by a large number of officials from the various Departments of Natural Recourses. This accounts for the multitude of intricate, conflicting and incomprehensible regulations which govern stream, lake and fish management. In spite of their presence, the Hellish fisheries have always and will continue to contain record sized trophies.
Before preparing for your trip to Hades, you should be aware of the fact that down there the hunting and fishing seasons are perpetually closed. That’s why they call it Hell.
There was a terrible fuss over at the Hillman’s last Saturday night. It all started when Jerry and Joy invited What’s-Her-Name and me to their house for a six pack of milk and a hand of Trivial Pursuit. Whoever created that game hates civilization and is out to destroy us all.
First of all, I’ve never been able to develop great enthusiasm for any game that isn’t played with two or five dice. Those which require only one die are not natural. How can you roll a seven? Just try playing Liar’s Dice with only one cube. It’ll shorten the game and take all the fun out of it.
The world would be better off if there were no “one die” games and if Congress really had our better interest at heart, they’d stop posturing and making meaningless, self-serving speeches and pass a law to suppress all one die games.
Second, I lose patience with games that cheat. A little sleight of hand by the participants at the poker table is to be expected and adds spice to what otherwise might be a dull evening at deer camp - although it sometimes results in gun shot wounds. All other games should be honest.
In Trivial Pursuit, if your answer isn’t right, you lose. I’ve got no problem with that general thesis - but the damned game lies. It’s worse than a waste of time. The game of Trivial Pursuit should be outlawed - if only for the children’s sake. Society has an obligation to educate them and it can’t be done if people insist on feeding them a lot of false information through that ridiculous game.
Now friends, if you are skeptical, just listen to what happened to me last Saturday. Everything started out nice and friendly and Joy explained the game. As I understand it, you shake the one die, move a marker in one direction or another and then the person to your right asks a question. Simple enough, right?
I positioned myself to Jerry’s right and after he shook, I asked him: “Just where were you last fall when you ran into all those coveys of Ruffed Grouse?” He told me it was none of my business and I got a little disgusted with him right then and there. It didn’t seem to me like he was playing the game.
Then I think Joy changed the rules. She told me I couldn’t ask the questions. The game did the asking and the questions came printed on a little card. The one Jerry got was: “Name the starting line-up of the 1922 Chicago Black Sox.” Jerry could only remember eight, so he lost.
It was What’s-Her-Name’s turn next and I didn’t particularly like her answer to the question: “What is the most intelligent sub-human primate?” I suppose she meant it as a compliment, but I gave her a dirty look anyway.
This business about the game asking the questions wouldn’t be so bad if the questions made any sense, but it doesn’t take much time to figure out the fellow who prepared the questions had a diseased mind. Who but a person suffering from serious psychic disorders would write a question for the Sports Category as follows: “How many hoops are there in an Association Croquet Court?”
I don’t want to offend all of you croquet shooters. (I had a cousin who used to do it. He was a strange cousin.) Still, I really don’t consider croquet to be a sport and I think it amounts to out and out fraud to put that question in the Sports Category.
This whole concept of letting the game ask all the questions casts serious doubt on its basic fairness. Not only that. Some of those questions would tax the memory and knowledge of Mr.
