Meditations on Fishing

There comes a time in every man’s life where he, being of a wealthier standing and possessing a reluctance for physical exertion, takes up a new hobby. This proud son, much like his bucket-hat-wearing forefathers, discovers the secrets of life and meaning in himself by luring in creatures to admire. He will never possess such creatures, but will touch and should I say fondle these slimesters until they squirm away. Our hero is, of course, a fisherman.

Fishers have found a new target recently: Exonains. Donned with a pair waders and four extra socks, these “apex predators” dangle their bait of “Important Updates” from “The University” above our heads like some sort of sick Spongebob crossover episode (“How could they be dangerous? They’re covered with free cheese!”) Can we ever escape these E. B. White  loving, “Once More to the Lake” reading, endlessly catch and releasin fishers in pursuit of a childhood thrill they’ll never experience again? Will we ever free ourselves from this ceaselessly “Important Task?”

We must educate ourselves on the dangers of the least physically demanding sport. We must keep in mind that standing around waiting for a quarter pound sunfish or an overly eager 8th grader is not just a hobby. Fishing is a way of life. When we understand this, we can divert these fishers back to their smaller (though equally intelligent) prey.  We must remind ourselves that this is not“The Most Dangerous Game.” This is, if anything, “The Most Mildly Irritating Game.” We cannot get baited hook line and sinker by frat boys in high-end  flip flops. We must stop fishing at the Academy, or else risk become a group of floppy craniates.