Daily Fishing and Outdoor Report
Fish Patches for Feeble Anglers;
Don’t Go Headlong Into Eternity
MANN’S HOOK ASS-URED PATCH: I just have to pass on this little chat I had with an angling gal I’ve known long enough to be, let’s say, blunt with her. I noticed she had lost a bit of weight and told her so.
Man note: It is always just fine to tell a woman it looks like she has lost some weight, even if she’s three sizes larger than the last time you saw her. It is catastrophically incorrect to ever ask a woman if she is pregnant, even if she’s only minutes away from delivering quadruplets. It is admittedly awkward to tell a poppingly pregnant woman that it looks like she’s lost some weight but I still believe it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Anyway, over the past few years, this angling gal had gained a tad of weight. In fact, a tad can’t get much larger before it officially becomes, like, a boulder.
Last summer, her fluke-obsessed husband quietly took advantage of her newfound berthiness. During those ocean fluking times when the wind was really crankin,’ he’d convince his spouse that it would be a perfect time for her to slide into the water to cool off. He’d then have her hold onto the end of a rope and tread water. That slowed the drift down real good.
“The little lady’s in, Charlie We can go back to 2-ounce sinkers,” the captain would tell his crew.
She’d be in the water a goodly while until, “Honey, I’m getting cold.”
“Now, sweetie, just think of all those big fluke you’ll be able to clean later on. Atta girl, you’re a champ.”
Charlie would shake his head and say, “That was some find when you met her, Cap.”
However, when I saw the gal last weekend, she was surely getting lighter and so I told her so. That’s when she nonchalantly told me she was using “the patch.” I first figured it was a cigarette issue. “Don’t you usually gain weight when you’re kicking nicotine?” I asked. That’s when I got educated on (gospel truth) the “diet patch.”
Yep, turns out you can now supposedly slap on a magical fat-loss patch and the pounds just melt off. I have no idea where they end up.
Not that I said anything then-and-there, but: My ass they do! And profoundly dissatisfied customers who have tried this gobs-be-gone gimmick back me here. The federal government ain’t buying it either. It has repeatedly fined the likes of Rupert Murdock for hyping the skin-deep scam. The problem is the federal fines are tallied in single-millions of dollars while the profits are in the tens of millions.
Despite the fatty fraudulence, I have to respect this diet patch-believing gal friend of mine. Therefore, I’ll modify my ridiculing of the fat-melting scam by fully agreeing diet patches might just work – providing you slap the damn things over your mouth.
What’s more, the diet patches are still on the market, making conmen some fat profits. Hey, if you can’t beat them, conjoin with them.
I’ll therefore soon be marketing Mann’s “Hook Ass-ured” fishing patches:
Tired of angling for hours on end only to go home fishless and hosting a second-degree mock-worthy facial sunburn? Well, Mann’s “Hooked Ass-ured” fishing patches will wipe the laughs off the faces of those sunburn mockers, as you hoist a stinger so loaded with fish that feral cats begin high-fiving you.
“Hooked Ass-ured” patches are embedded with rare and costly fish-producing herbs, first discovered by ancient races of people -- and thought to be used by famed heroes like Attila the Angler.
The skin-colored, waterproof, adhesive patches can be slapped on virtually any part of any body and have been scientifically proven to increase angling success by as much as ten fold – and often as much as ten times.
Within mere minutes of applying Mann’s “Hook Ass-ured” patch you’ll be yelling, “Fish on!” – for at least the next 12 hours of angling. (Warning: Do not apply if not going fishing.)
A Brant Beach angling patch customer writes, “With Mann’s angling patch, I can now fish the puddles that form on the Boulevard at high tide and catch fish galore. It’s amazing. Thanks, Mann!”
And it’s not just local praises being poured on. The Mann’s “Hooked Ass-ured” patch was recently awarded the renowned Tangerian Tendril of Patch Excellence.
“The Tangerian Tendril further confirms what I’ve always said, ‘When your angling ass is on the line, Hooked Ass-ured will bring home the bacon fish,’ “ said Jay Mann, patch founder.
A homeless man on Nebraska Avenue texts: “I love Mann’s angling patches. And I’m not just saying that because I was offered free food. The patches also help mend holes in my tent – and soon fish keep trying to get in!”
Another happily-married customer emails: “My wife used to say ‘You couldn’t catch a fish if it jumped out and bit you on your fat, lazy unemployed ass.’ Now, I wear the patch and I find it a breeze to catch fish that jump out and bite me on my fat, lazy unemployed ass. Thanks Jay Mann.”
And the emails just keep coming: “I’m the prince apparent to a throne on the little-known island-nation of Hibrentius, located between Demark and Japan. I have set aside $2.8 million for you personally, should you help me hide large amounts of American money from my wicked brother.”
If you’re an angst-filled angler, dreading your next fishless outing, order a packet of Mann’s “Hook Ass-ured” patches for $13.99. Order today and receive a totally free packet of patches by simply paying $13.99 to cover shipping and handling (shipping and handling not included).
“I truly stand by this patch -- right before I slap it on.” says Mann. “So, you lousy anglers, get out there and slap yourself silly, then watch your usually motionless rod go crazy!”
Do not use the patch if you’re pregnant, thinking of becoming pregnant or are just generally horny a lot.
(Oh, I’m gonna catch hell for this.)
DEATH VIA IMPATIENCE: As a public service, I try to occasionally write on issues that might serve the survival cause for my beloved readers, whoever the hell you are.
Per custom, I’m going to circuitously approach a deadly road deranged trend I’m seeing out there, one that just about snuffed yours truly last week. The advice contained herein, as the saying goes, “Could save a life, including your own.” More importantly, it could save my life and the lives of people who owe me money.
My near-death experience took place as I was legally zipping at 45 mph, northbound on Rte. 9.
I must note I was particularly attentive, compliments of my latest liquid energy ooze called Synergy, comprised primarily of a foul fungus called kombucha. It tastes very much like, well, a foul fungus. However, it’s a fungus that grows on you, so to speak. When I was introduced to it, I spit out the first few mouthfuls, “This s*** tastes like a fungus or something.” After the first few spits, I pondered the aftertaste and thought, “Hey, this ain’t half bad.”
Then the kombucha energization factor kicked in. My eyelids flipped open like those window blinds that suddenly shoot up and flap around up top. Bring on “Jeopardy.”
While this might seem like one of my traditional transitory blogs, where I merrily meander every whichaways, I truly believe the drink’s attentiveness boost might have saved my keister – and led to this public service warning.
As you might recall, I was driving north on 9. It was late dusk. A fairly typical late-day train of southbound traffic was heading toward me. That was when the male driver of the vehicle leading the southbound pack, quite legally and appropriately, flipped on his turn signal to make a right turn onto, I believe, Oak Avenue. And just like that it was death being thrown up for grabs. The SUV vehicle immediately behind the turner, driven by a moderately old gal – and I certainly got a look at her! -- just couldn’t wait one frickin’ bloody second for the turner to do his thing. To zip by the turner, She insanely, absolutely moronically, swung into my lane, head-frickin-on!
Now, I have to sidebar a bit because, truth be told, this could have an obituary air if it weren’t for a gift I’ve had since childhood. I’ve been blessed with some kick-ass reaction time. In fact, as a kid, I was the quickest to respond to everything and anything. The only problem was my processing time wasn’t always up to my reaction time. Someone in our kid-time “gang” would yell, “Run!” and I’d hit the dirt. I was actually always more worried about the potentially painful warning “Duck!” so before I actually took heed of what was being shouted, I defaulted to my royal reaction time and hit the dirt at any yelled warning. This wasn’t the best thing. Take for instance, when we were throwing rocks at passing cars. “Run!” would mean a hit had been made and the hitee had slammed on the brakes and was getting out, hellbent on rocking our worlds. And I was of course on the ground, ducking. I then let brainpower take over.
“Hey, you little bastard, were you one of those punks throwing rocks at my Studebaker!?”
“No, sir! I saw them little bastards and thought they wuz throwin’ rocks at me. I hit the dirt.”
“Oh, I see. Here let me help you up.”
“Hey! There they are!”
“Now what the hell you doin’ back on the ground.”
That tale told (a true one), it was absolutely reaction time luck that I swerved onto the shoulder – and partially into a frontyard – that I somehow missed head-oning that lady. And I could see she knew she had just about met eternity – a very time-intensive place. Not only did I get a micro glance of her beyond-terrified face as my headlight illuminated her moronic move, but I looked back and saw she had actually pulled onto the shoulder, likely looking back to see if I had managed to miss the huge tree I had, in fact, barely missed in my ass-saving swerve. The entire line of traffic behind her went into that “Did you just see that?” mode.
By the by, if anyone reading this saw the incident – my large red GMC truck with decoys and high-flyer in the back is highly see-able – please drop me an email. I truthfully hold no grudge.
Anyway, in just the past six months two hideous accidents caused by the exact same impatience syndrome have taken place locally. One, in Barnegat, instantly killed the driver, who turned into oncoming traffic to avoid waiting one single second for the turner and met a large truck. The other identically caused accident happened on 539 and left the roadway covered in glass twisted metal and blood.
Interestingly, I talked to a police officer who couldn’t agree more with my assessment of that scenario – and its growing frequency. He noted it was related to road rage, something that has escalated to near the top of accident causes.
Hopefully, amigos mios, this blog might make a few of you a lot more patient, allowing someone turning in front of you to make a full exit. It take a whole 2 seconds out of your life – as opposed to …
BRANT BEACH SAND START: The gears are rolling to get the Brant Beach beach repair/replenishment project underway. It should start next month. We kinda dodged a bullet when the work wasn’t done late last year – at the height of the striped bass fall run.
It’ll be about a mile’s worth of beach fix.
Of course, anytime you talk LBI replenishment you get the indubitable bubble-up response, as late-coming opponents froth forth from the woodwork. Their yawnably tired complaint is that any resurrected sands will be gone in nothing flat, due mainly to worldly erosion trends.
I won’t get into the fact the rise of the sea rise juggernaut is now being questioned even by those who first predicted that all coastal regions would be consumed by the break of a nearby dawn.
As far as beach salvation goes, I’ll stick with nostalgia ticket. As long as I, personally, get some more fun years out of LBI’s beaches screw all you numbnuts naysayers.
I’m now in it for the short haul, dude. So f-off!
Hey, I’ve done the long haul here -- and it was beyond incredible. Ya really should been there, newbies. Those ancient hot summer LBI beach days and nights offered as much fun as the law allowed – and then some. For me, I’ll always peak thinking back to the mid 1960s, as I rode through Beach Haven in a top-down 1959 Chrysler Imperial with two surfboards inside – propped on the passenger’s side front seat -- as I sat in the back seat behind the driver, sun in my face and feeling too cool to even compute.
Those top-down days have been the essence of LBI’s magical sands -- and it still is. Screw your, “Oh, it’s all gonna erode away” negative BS.
Now where was I? Oh, the federal sand fix coming to Brant Beach.
Firstly, it’s a done deal. However, it might also seal the deal, meaning it could be the last of the new fixes via that 1990s federal agreement.
Guess what? Even I can live with that. Thanks to littoral drift, LBI’s beach future is sitting pretty, sand-wise. Southbound sands from replenished Harvey Cedars, Surf City and Brant Beach – all projects contracted to go on for many decades to come – are filling in the beachfront’s hollow spots.
Admittedly, Beach Haven and Holgate are in the throes of an erosion event that even LBI’s trickle down sands can’t cure. However, an entire set of emergency measures kicks in when beach things go catastrophically south.
For near-dead Holgate, I’m hoping an ocean-to-bay breakthrough will wildly activate our 2nd District Congressman (fairly powerful Frank LoBiondo, if reelected). He’s a bit new to us – part of the congressional rearrangement in NJ -- but super aware of fishing, coastal and beach issues.
I think the Queen City’s south end erosion woes are nearly to the point of activating the state’s own beach-saving emergency policies. Emergency measures, including big sand fixes, come in through the front door, so to speak. No big long-term plans and such, just a whole lotta sand in short order. The only way naysayers can stop that is to do a Tiananmen Square type stand-about.