Confessions of a Meatchunker

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Posted by Gman on July 22, 1998 at 12:34:48:

Now I'm clean, of course, but yes, years ago I used to be a meatchunker. I stalked North Georgia, persuing the Noble Trout armed with a steel spinning rod, my face grimacing spasmodically, occasionally giving off wicked chuckles. My cousin and I kept everything we caught, most of the time tossing excess fish up on the bank. We were awful back in those days; when we came across a flyfisherman we would go upstream from him, drop trou, and send a couple of "brown trout" his way.

All that changed when I saw a Movie. Actually, THE MOVIE. I remember it like it was yesterday; my wife had to do a book report on a movie before she could graduate to the eighth grade, so she talked me into seeing The Movie. Yes, you've seen it too; in fact, maybe some of you were there that very night. There was a young on the sidewalk carrying a sign that read, "Save Our Streams, Darn It!" His name was Eric, and there was an older guy clubbing a hippie in the parking who I'm pretty sure was named "T" something or the other.

But I digress. It was early in the movie, and I hadn't gone thru my first pack of Red Man, when I noticed an awed silence around me, saw tears on the faces of men. Imagine that; fishing becoming a New Age Religion! The idea began to catch on, and when I left the theatre, I noticed a certain glow on the faces of the audience that had not been there before. It was, dare I say, Enlightenment.

But it came slow. The next day, disturbed and uncertain, I went fishing, but the old thrill of using worms was gone. In the succeeding weeks, it just got worse, and I did some terrible things and chunked some terrible meat. In my desperation, I began chunking nightcrawlers, cans of Spam, entire turkeys, but to no avail. The feeling was gone, and it even affected my love life. The fish, metephorically speaking, was down. My wife left me for her English teacher.

Then it happened. I broke my steel rod prying my pickup out of a ditch and had to borrow a flyrod Buck, who owns a pawnshop. I felt a tingle when I held it in my hand, but when I got in the water, I swear it was a jolt. A beam of sunlight actually fell upon me, and I swear I could hear Enya singing in the background. I caught no fish that day, but I knew my future was sealed.

Now, I'm very successful and no longer work at the pulpwood mill; I'm an investment banker, a Vegan, I drive a Beemer, and date an airline stewardess who once was a White House Intern.

But you know, sometimes, in the dark of night, I miss those meatchunking days, their heady, yet guilty excitement. So I'm not a cured meatchunker, just a recovering one. One day at a time.

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