In this issue:

• Golf or Fly Fishing: Which is dumber? by PSF
• The Frugal Fly Fisherman
• POUCHED TOBACCO REVIEW
• Three Articles -by Pastor Don Fortner
1. Three Things That Will Guarantee A Happy Home
2. What Does Every Woman Want And Need From A Man?
3. What Does Every Man Want And Need From A Woman?

1 June 2001

Dear Bishop Hackle:

Well, my dear Bishop, tonight I'm sitting in front of Mr. Fuller's iMac (the computer choice of God's elect, by the way) typing a letter to you while smoking a bowl of my soon-to-be-famous Battenkill blend. No person on the planet, I dare say, has ever put together a tobacco more perfectly suited to the peculiar taste of a true outdoors man. Delightfully aromatic, yet bracing without a bite, this mixture is masculine in the finest sense of the word--not at all effeminate like those fruit flavored cavendishes preferred by your exceptionally delicate palate.

Undoubtedly such gender oriented speech offends your liberal sensibilities, but guess what? Too bad. From now on the practice of accommodating myself to the prevailing canons of political correctness is over. "Plain talk for plain people," shall be my motto, and I intend to live by it till I die. And, you know something, Harry? Wonder of wonders, the average New Englander happens to possess enough common sense to actually recognize the linguistic elegance of certain nouns and adjectives, especially when they're appropriately descriptive or contextually inclusive. Amazing, huh? What he/she doesn't appreciate, however, is stupid sounding phraseology which serves no other purpose than to advance the various social agendas of egalitarian bigots who regard themselves as the rightful custodians of postmodern culture.

Words wield a phenomenal ability to transform dominant ideologies, my friend, chiefly because of the intrinsic symbiosis between language and thought. To alter a given society's perception of reality you merely have to change how its power brokers speak and write, and then patiently wait for their influence to affect the drones. In due time there'll be a hearty en mass reception of countless ideas previously rejected by a saner populace. Perhaps that's why your books are finally making money.

I alone have taken up the resistance. Just watch, one day when history cycles around to patriarchalism once again, I'll be hailed as a hero, a visionary, an avant-garde protector of the proper organ for popular communication. Therefore I gladly embrace the title of Father McAllister, and will deliberately refuse any future advancement proffered by the ecclesiastical establishment which may modify the moniker.

Since arrogance is obviously a besetting sin of mine, I'll be so bold as to state exactly why I'm spending a long restless night at Perry Fuller's humble abode. Quite honestly, the esteemed editor of THE CHURCHWARDEN happens to be a surprisingly lousy fisherman. If that pipe puffing Presbyterian had to depend on stocked rainbows for survival he would have expired long ago. The avowed purpose of my uncharacteristic sleep-over is to get us both on a particular river well before daylight in order to pounce upon the trout unawares. I'm figuring if we slip into the water incredibly early, when the fish start feeding, the first flies they'll see could be ours and perhaps Mr. Fuller will not have to burden his poor readers with yet another cleverly spun tale of imaginary success. Under my expert tutelage at least there's hope.

Perry often complains about the Scantic, how his much abused stream is usually cleaned out by Mother's day, etcetera, ad naseum. Frankly, I don't understand what he's babbling about. From the middle of March to the present moment I have consistently caught five or six pigs whenever I've been able to make the trip. Although Woolly Buggers and Orange Stimulators hardly project the image of etymological orthodoxy, such patterns are quite effective nonetheless. Should Mr. Fuller employ the two in a floater/dropper arrangement and still hook nothing, I'm going to suggest miniature golf as a preferred recreational alternative .

A grand bit of rejoicing before I close my obnoxious little letter: Angela Moore, Perry's daughter, appears to have accepted Christ as her Lord and Savior. It will be a treasured privilege to pray for her regularly. I relish the obligation immensely.

Sincerely,