You remember the other day, when Shermp, the Woman Who Would Be Stooge wrote that Obama plans to “end fishing by humans?” Well, her claim — as improbable as it may have seemed — has been confirmed by Townhall columnist, part-time pastor, and full-time Mack Daddy, Doug Giles. Now ordinarily I wouldn’t put much faith in Doug’s testimony, since he devotes most of his professional life to bearing false witness, and doing to the English language what the Romans did to Rabbi Akiva. But as anyone familiar with Doug’s boudoir shots knows, he also spends a considerable amount of time on hair care, and restrictions on angling will not only affect his ability to massage Omega-3 fish oils into his scalp, it will also impact his hair product endorsement contract:
“People often ask me, ‘Doug, how’d you get your hair so lustrous and manageable?’ And I tell them…”
“…it was the Salmon Mousse™!”
Hey Obama, Keep Your Hands Off My Fishing Pole
As usual, Doug is using reverse psychology in an attempt to get a handjob from the President.
God, I love fishing. I dig fishing almost as much as hunting (almost).
The major drawback being that fish are too hard to hit with a shotgun while they’re still in the water, but if you wait until after they’ve been landed and then just shoot them in the head, execution style, your boat will probably sink.
I love it so much that I moved to a place that is one of the top angling spots in the world: Miami, Florida. And you know what? I milk these waters as much as a working man can.
And Doug’s a hard-workin’ workin’ man. Granted, his Townhall column doesn’t seem to require a whole lot of research, beyond opening his blast emails from Fox News and the RNC, but coming up with all that Dr. Smith-style alliteration is probably exhausting. He’s also the Senior Pastor of a church that meets one day a week in a Residence Inn, then vanishes without a trace, like Brigadoon; nevertheless, these ecclesiastical duties are so taxing that Doug was once compelled to lay down the law about the way he wants annoying parishioners to treat their clergyman:
Do not call him every day to discuss your dorky problems. We all have problems. Suck it up.
Be self-motivated. You shouldn’t need a cheerleader to rouse you in the morning. If you do, then get some Tony Robbins tapes.
Lose you codependency upon your pastor and other church leaders. Grow up, Dinky.
Send him, once a year, on the church’s dime, to D.C., a serious worldview conference, and on a month’s paid vacation.
Stock his library with the history of the Jews, of Rome, of Greece, and of Western Civilization.
Make sure he is able to study four hours a day and exercise one hour a day.
Do not call him after 9 pm unless one of your relatives or friends happens to have passed away.
There’s a game we used to play as kids, usually when bored in the back seat of a car. Actually, it wasn’t so much a game as a sort of competitive ambush; whoever was the first to spot a Volkswagon Beetle would turn to the adjacent child (preferably a little brother or sister), punch him or her in the arm and shout, “Slug bug!” Well, I’d like to propose an Internet-friendly variation: Whenever you see this photo…
…punch the nearest wingnut and say, “Smug Doug!”
Anyway, back to Doug’s hard life of rising before dawn to milk the seacows…
Arriving at our strategic and wild location and having the privilege of watching and listening to that which is untamed waking up and beginning its tooth, fang and claw survival of the fittest exchange with Mother Nature. Life and death in its purest form, Nancy boys.
It appears Doug is either calling his readers effeminate, or Grosset & Dunlap is attempting to wring more money from the readerships of The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew books with a new, hybrid series.
I am iron man. Dun, dun. Dun na dun dunna dunna dunna dun dunna dun. As a young squab, the whole fishing enchilada, from soup to nuts, represented what Bryan Adams called, “The best days of my life.”
So if I’m following Doug’s memoir correctly, as an immature pigeon he liked to hum Black Sabbath songs while fishing for seven course Mexican meals, which he would presumably later serve to the love of his life on her mama’s porch, where he’d tell her a bunch of lies about his music and how his crappy band was going places, until it all exploded in shrill, impotent rage, before eventually devolving into bitter tears and inconsolable self-loathing.
Anyway, he likes to fish.
With the busyness of college, getting married, raising little girls, making money, and kicking ass, I got out of the fishing groove until I moved mi familia to Miami where I became a fishing kid again and quickly returned to my angling roots.
Well, according to Doug’s bio, he “earned his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Texas Tech University and studied for his Master of Arts in Christianity and Culture from Knox Theological Seminary,” so I guess he owes some of his angling success to all the time he saved by not completing his Masters. And after all, what’s more important to a minister? A graduate degree in Christianity and Culture, or a smelly creel?
After a couple of years of getting settled in, weeding through the rip-off charters and bad captains, I landed on two Capitans
And what a hot, humid, rum-fueled night that was.
After the Lord blessed me with those two leads I quickly called my dad to get his butt on a plane to bend some rods South Florida style. And oh my God have we crushed the fish.
I’m happy for Doug that he and his father have such a close relationship. I wish I’d spent more time with my dad, although even now I don’t particularly yearn to call his butt and bend his rod and then step on some seafood.
Not only has pops been a part of many insane hauls, but my wife and my two infamous daughters have, as well.
I guess the younger daughter’s into prostitute cosplay now too.
Matter of fact, my girls grew up catching big game fish on light tackle twice their body length without daddy’s help. That’s how they roll, boys. Grow a pair or go home
So Doug’s offspring like to dress up as whores and deep sea fish. And they have testicles. This is, if you’ll pardon the expression, one nutty family.
In addition to my familial fishing trips, we have had the pleasure of fishing with folks from all over the world and from every conceivable walk of life: from diplomats, bestselling authors, pundits, big name rock stars, Fox News contributors, missionaries, attorney generals, terminal cancer patients, and good buddies at church, to at risk teens without hope and without a clue.
AT RISK TEEN: I’m depressed and suicidal, and I don’t know what to do.
SOCIAL WORKER: I’ve got just the thing. I’m going to send you to a minister whose church is in a motel.
AT RISK TEEN: Um…That sounds kinda…creepy.
SOCIAL WORKER: Oh, don’t worry, he’ll probably just take you out on his boat and show you his painting of the Lord’s penis.
AT RISK TEEN: Um…
SOCIAL WORKER: And he might bend your rod.
AT RISK TEEN: Yeah…See…
SOCIAL WORKER: Relax, his daughters will be there.
AT RISK TEEN: Oh.
SOCIAL WORKER: They’re hermaphrodites.
AT RISK TEEN: …
SOCIAL WORKER: Do you have a whore costume?
We have always had an amazing time, sharing in our mutual addiction that we seek no cure from (i.e. the screaming reel).
SOCIAL WORKER: Also, his tackle likes to shriek at people.
The fish we have caught, of which I have the pictures and videos to prove, include: giant bull sharks, lemon sharks, great hammerheads, black tip sharks, spinner sharks (the most enjoyable shark to hook), dusky sharks
In case you’ve forgotten, Doug’s bio used to list “shark master” among his honorifics, along with “Bone Daddy” and “Rug Doctor.”
We have caught them all: small, medium and large. In the gorgeous ultra marine blue seas of the Atlantic, to the gin-clear flats of Biscayne Bay, down to Key West, to the murky fish-rich waters of Chokoloskee, the Ten Thousand Islands area, and the gorgeous, uninhabited sanctuary of Flamingo.
Well, uninhabited except for the two drag shows nightly at Club Sabor.
All around the personal pursuit of my finny little friend, my life and my relationships have been greatly enriched via stretched monofilament and high-pitched Diawa drag screams.
Like I said. Anyway, Doug also thinks Obama is going to ban fishing by humans, and he has one word for you: Scream.
My advice to fishermen everywhere is to refuse to be silent and scream now via phone calls, emails and faxes to your reps as loud as your Penn reel would wail with a 50lb kingfish strippin’ off its line.
For more info on what BHO and his tree humping boys plan to do…
SOCIAL WORKER: One last piece of advice: when Pastor Giles has you out on his boat, far from shore, and he starts screaming about humping and stripping –
AT RISK TEEN: You know what? Actually…I’m cured! It’s a miracle! Thanks anyway. I, uh…I gotta go.