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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…”

douggiles.jpg

“…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…

SmugDoug.jpg

…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.

29 Responses to “The Hipwaders of the Fisherman”

Scott, honey, you know that I adore you, right?

Well… having just finished my TV dinner for the night, and then damned near having LOST IT as soon as I read far enough down to see that SECOND PICTURE — I wish to fuck and back that I had you within arm’s reach to SMUG-DOUG the living SHIT outta you!!!!!!

Fuck, I knew the fucktard was a creepy little BASTARD, but the pancake-makeup-free WEASEL FACE in that second shot made me wanna barf-up my TOENAILS. Y’ever done that, Scott? Barfed-up yer toenails? IT IS NOT A FUN PASTIME. It’s not even something that I would wish on anybody short of Karl Rove… well, Timmy Teepell, yeah, but that’s another story.

I am NEVER gonna get to sleep tonight, I can see that now… gonna be heartburn, the hair-trigger gag reflex, and flashbacks of THAT FACE, alllll fuckin’ night long.

THANKS EVER SO, DEAR HEART.

Mary’s just damned lucky that I don’t hold your cruelties against HER, and that her birfday prezzies are already finished, packaged, and ready to go to the P.O. tomorrow, if they don’t want more than ONE arm and ONE leg to get it there.

dammit… I hadda get up and go clean the spittle/bile offa my reading glasses after that last round of gagging…

“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.

Okay, THAT was worth it. Not worth the dry heaves, but worth the effort to try and slog through the rest of Doug’s narcissistic self-worshiping wank-fest. He really does look into the mirror when he jacks-off, doesn’t he. {{{{{{SHUDDER!!!!!!}}}}}}

“Also, his tackle likes to shriek at people.”

Now, see, you just handed yourself the PERFECT straight/set-up line for a whole JAX-beer-cooler fulla “tackle” gags, but whattaya do? Just speed right by it, leaving the tacky puns trapped inside MY skull, bouncing around like escapees from Toon Town! And THEN —

“…and high-pitched Diawa drag screams.”

?!?!?!?!??!!!! Scott! Dood! Come ON, man!!! Yer killin’ me here!!!

Lastly, I did make the horrendous mistake of going to Dougie’s “column” (gag! choke! retch! hork! barf! spew! choke! gasp! gag! choke! choke! choke!), and aside from the very-troubling “Ad” featuring a 14-year-old republicunt girl in a t-shirt that says, “I’d Rather Be WATERBOARDING,” — I cannot believe that anything this fucking stoopid actually walks upright, let alone gets PAID to scrawl shit THIS appallingly, infuriatingly ILLITERATELY ***BULLSHIT***!!!!!!

Quoth The Wanker, Nevermore (at least NEVER THE FUCK AGAIN, I can promise y’all that!): “For those who say, ‘Ah, it’ll never happen in America,’ that’s probably what some folks in Ontario thought before the World Wildlife Fund and the International Fund for Animal Welfare completed their successful campaign to convince the Ontario government to shut down one of the best managed big-game hunts in North America, which crippled many small businesses and the tourism economy of communities across northern and central Ontario.”

Um.

ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIDDING. ME. ?!?!??!?!?!!?!?

This douchebag tries to align THE END TO DISGUSTINGLY UN-sporting CANNED MOTHERFUCKING “HUNTS” FOR POACHERS WITH TRUST FUNDS to Obama “wanting to END FISHING”?!??!?!?

Has he EVER actually READ ANYTHING in his ENTIRE LIFE, and if so, HAS HE EVER COMPREHENDED IT?!?!?!?

Dammit, I knew that I left Miami too soon. If I’da knowed that Dougie was ’round them parts, I coulda stuck it out for a couple weeks or months, living in the truck, to find THAT fucking moron and keep him offa the innernet toobs, out of print, out of motel rooms, and away from trouble youth PERMANENTLY.

And ANY motherfucker who considers CANNED HUNTS to be “REAL HUNTING” — has never made a clean, honest kill in their useless soft-handed pantywaist lives. No, I don’t hunt, never could, but by damn, I know the difference between HUNTING and POACHING. And any pussy/psycho-cunt who needs helicopters and FARM-RAISED LIVESTOCK to feel “macho,” to think that they’ve actually “hunted” anything — should’ve been sterilized at birth and banned for life from ever owning a firearm, crossbow, longbow, or anything more dangerous than a bottle rocket.

Don’t mind me, I’ll just be in the bathroom, wasting an entire TV dinner. Thanks, Scott!

Does Doogie’s Dark Passenger go along with him on these “fishing trips”?

Your tackle would shriek too, if you tucked it as tightly as Doug must to become Daiwa Screams. All that manly manliness is HARD to hide. He should take his own advice and suck it up.

I milk these waters as much as a working man can.

Well, there’s your problem right there, PimpDaddyD!

Do not call him after 9 pm unless one of your relatives or friends happens to have passed away.

Son arrested? Don’t call. Lost your job? Please, I need to watch House. Wife’s turning tricks with the neighbors? Child, please! Where do you think she is now?

punch him or her in the arm and shout, “Slug bug!”

FYI, Scott, it’s “Punchbuggy”. Which would translate to Punchdougie.

Life and death in its purest form, Nancy boys.

I wonder if he’d be all Rambo if a gator was found gnawing at his leg in the morning?

As a young squab, the whole fishing enchilada, from soup to nuts, represented what Bryan Adams called, “The best days of my life.”

TRANSLATION: When I was a young chicken, I would 69 with a lot of my chickenhawks.

And oh my God have we crushed the fish.

That’s a vice charge in most states.

We have always had an amazing time, sharing in our mutual addiction that we seek no cure from (i.e. the screaming reel).

That’s the last dance at the hoedown on the A1A.

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

Wow. How manly a man! I’m impressed. No simpering little porgies here on this list!

Project much, there, Dougie-boy?

Here’s a thought for you, my son: I scuba dive with those sharks. It doesn’t take a real man to stand in a boat from the comfort of a chair and reel one in.

It takes a real man to swim in the water column, eye to eye with a lemon shark that’s suddenly snapped around and made a bee-line right for you and your daughter.

In other words, PastorPrime, my *daughter* has a bigger nutsack than you do, coward.

Oh, yeah, the primal, bloody, tooth-and-fang battle to outsmart a fish. Exhilarating.

I gotta admit that, like the Elvis impersonator who has to decide on limning the Sideburned Swivelhips, Vegas Lounge Act, or Bloated and Dead on the Crapper Elvis, the Giles of the Pastor Doug’s List of Don’ts and Don’t for Parishioners is my personal favorite. It was the end of Rebranding #1, which had turned the former JD–and angler, as it turns out–with B&E and drug beefs in his jacket from Troubled Teen specialist to megachurch wannabe. And when that didn’t pan out he told the paying customers to quit bothering him. It culminated in this remarkable document, which–in case you don’t read Junior High–seems on the verge of admitting he’s an utter fraud, or cheated on his wife with the mailman, or something.

It’s like reading Hemmingway. Without writing ability. We can only hope he follows Ernie’s footsteps very, very soon.

My theory? He’s hoping for a spot in the next Hiaasen novel. Hint to Doug: It’s not fishing if they’re in a barrel, just as it’s not hunting if they’re in a pen.

Christ, what an insecure pussy.

Scott, you keep getting funnier, but I honestly don’t know how much more of these tiny, tiny dickbrains I can take.

Matter of fact, my girls grew up catching big game fish on light tackle twice their body length without daddy’s help.

Bet that’s what he told Hannah when she came whining for help with her legal bills.

“I milk these waters as much as a working man can.” …. “My love and my lady is the sea”!

“Survival of the fittest.”
Is that what he really believes? The culture wars must be winding down. I guess a bad day fishin’ is still preferable to a good day o’ praisin’.

I think he’s sporting lip gloss in the first picture.

This is what happens when middle aged fratboys find jesus.

“…We has caught them all: small, medium and large. In the … blue seas of the Atlantic, to … Biscayne Bay, down to Key West, to … Chokoloskee, the Ten Thousand Islands area, and the … sanctuary of Flamingo…”

Yes, Dougy and thousands, or millions of other cretins have “caught them all” i.e.: harvested the oceans to extinction of most fish…

That’s why people are talking about halting, or regulating, over-fishing.

“Survival of the fittest.”

Yeah, that got to me, too. Is he insinuating that HE is the “fittest” of all those wild animals, snarling and clawing his way to catch a shark? (Ooooo! Sharks! Scar-RY!)

Besides, I think Darwin said: “Survival of those best able to adapt.” Fitness doesn’t really come into it.

Kwillow
It wasn’t Darwin who coined the phrase “survival of the fittest;” it was his relative Herbert Spencer, the father of “social Darwinism.” Charles, incidentally, had little patience with that reactionary ideology.
Funny how Pastor Doug supports the inaccurate interpretations of Darwin, but probably not the accurate parts. Of course, he tends to take the most mean-spirited ugly parts of the Bible and leaves the compassion and equality bits.

Thanks histogeek! Its been a long time since I read up Darwin-ism. I think I’ll start over; it never gets dull, does it?

It is highly ironic that the people who insist Darwin was a heretic liar, and the earth is only 6,000 years old, also like to use “social Darwinism” as an excuse to further victimize the ‘weak’.

I remember a made-for-TV movie where the Hero rescues his (to be) sidekick from death-by-falling-under-a-train. The sidekick-to-be says “I knew you’d help me! The Strong Protect the Weak!” at which the hero replies “The Strong EAT the weak!”.

The rest of the series wasn’t as interesting as the beginning promised. I don’t even recall the name. Only it was in the early 70′s.

I adhere to the “help the weak” philosophy myself. Weak, sickly, handicapped and even mentally retarded people can contribute in positive, significant ways to the Human race. Even Heinlein has his “mental defectives” be telepathic, and indispensable to the regular people (Howards). That was before he became a reactionary sorta-fascist, though.

You know, looking at that second picture, I would expect tanned skin on someone who does all the fishing he claims to do. I mean even with, say, 50 weight sunscreen, you will still get darker. Just sayin’…

Those pictures are icky. It’s A-

“World O’ Creeps”

“I milk these waters as much as a working man can.”
Truly, he is a expert at trolling and a master baiter

I have lost the link, but I once read a blog commenter who said something like “there should be a German word for a face that begs to be slapped – something like smirkensmakken.” Describes Pastor Giles perfectly.

Hey, Scott referenced my attempt at funny! I feel… well, less unfunny. Thank you, sir.

As for Pastor Doug, a restroom in some Miami public park, unknown by the rest of us for the moment, waits patiently for the small but important part it shall play in Doug’s future.

FYI, Scott, it’s “Punchbuggy”. Which would translate to Punchdougie.

Damn right!

“God, I love fishing. I dig fishing almost as much as hunting (almost).”

And almost as much fun as picking out Hannah’s ho clothes.

Hannah spoke at our local Republican fund raiser. She cut her fee from 3k to a thousand bucks. That’s only $10 an “um”. God told her to do it, the United States must remain cool, and Holland sucks.

Hannah’s story

That second photo of Doug? I thought it was taken in a (posh hotel?) public lavatory, and given the angle, the photographer was probably standing on a toilet.

Or Pastor Giles is a midget.

“Klapsgesicht”: Slap face.

God, I love fishing…

Knowing it was Doug, I read that as God, I love fisting.

Fish? Enchilada? Soup? Nuts? Is this an experiment to see how many culinary images can be mixed into a single metaphor? Perhaps he was hungry when he wrote that paragraph.

Perhaps he was hungry when he wrote that paragraph.

Considering his last column was filled with sexual innuendo and he was writing about the vajajay, you’re probably write.

And you’ll notice he continues that meme by picking on fish, which is some sort of rightwing social justice code.

Scott’s the master for being able to get off some crackin’ funny lines in response to that disturbing wave of sludge. There must be a seething, venomous, hunched gnome of infantile anger and desperate inferiority under Giles’ moussed, sneering facade. After reading that, what sane person would want to be in the same room with the guy, much less seek spiritual advice from him??

Something to say?