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From the Editor (June 2006) I took up a new hobby. The choice was difficult. Do I take up fishing, or do I pick up a vicious meth habit? With fishing, I could easily spend a lot of money on gear, travel expenses, and beer, the official energy drink of BassMasters. With meth, I could easily spend lots of money on something that would guarantee a high while avoiding the risk of a rusty fishhook in my septum. Ah, the eternal question: tetanus or tweaking, I mused. In the end, I found myself with a cheap fishing pole in one hand and a tackle box in the other. For those who haven’t heard me lament, let me say that fishing is not my forte. I haven’t caught a fish in over a decade, despite numerous attempts. My total fish count during my twenty-five years on this planet is 2. If I were a baseball player, I would have a batting average hovering just above zero. I’d be sent back down to the minor leagues, where they’d openly mock me before sending me down to little league. Before the pre-pubescent punks could call me names, though, I’d beat one of them with a bat and make an example of him. What’s the matter, kids? Where’s your spirited chant of “easy out” now? Whenever I mention my predicament, the unsolicited advice flows. “What are you using for bait?” they always ask. “Well, I’ve tried live bait, artificial lures, and a little thing I like to call ‘here fishy fishy.’” “How’s that work?” “I repeatedly say ‘here fishy fishy’ in a strange voice until someone calls the cops.” “Here’s some advice. Quit talking to me.” No matter what advice I receive, I just can’t break this slump. Perhaps I should have chosen that meth habit. I hear it’s sweeping the nation, much like the Charleston (what a crazy dance). Nevertheless, it looks like the only fish in my frying pan will be from a can.
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