THE IZAAK WALTON ANGLING SOCIETY
for the ABOLITION of DOMESTIC CHORES
word count: 1,399
The domestic chore is a tool of enslavement—an ancient evil first used by Mesopotamian women to keep their men from going fly fishing—which is, sadly, still much in use today. Of the many nefarious forms domestic chores take—painting, cleaning gutters, and roof repairs, to name a few—the most egregious by far is yard work. With its gardening, weeding, trimming, raking, watering, and mowing, yard work alone can keep the unwary angler off the stream for years at a time.
I first became aware of the potential danger of domestic chores one morning as I was resting on the couch, sipping beer, listening to the comforting sounds of my wife getting ready for work. She came into the room and stood over me with fists on hips and the look of a hard drought on her face, telling me in no uncertain terms that there would be no more fishing until my chores were done. With that, she handed me an unreasonably long list of chores and stormed out. I checked the calendar to make sure it wasn’t April Fool’s Day, grabbed another beer, and began planning my day. While looking over the list, it occurred to me that there was a good chance for a caddis hatch on the river that day. I figured the best thing to do was go check on that hatch before getting sidetracked by chores.
After the divorce, I realized just how much fishing time had been wasted on domestic chores and threw that yoke off entirely. In no time at all I had healthy stands of sage, thistle, dandelion, morning glory, and tumbleweed—hardy perennials that require virtually no maintenance. The only problem I ran into was with the tumbleweeds. They tumbled . . . on to my neighbor’s well-manicured lawns . . . spreading seeds, hate, and discontent. But the benefit of having more time to devote to the life-enhancing pursuit of fly fishing far outweighed those concerns. My married neighbors, however, remained shackled to their garden tools and lawn mowers; it was heartbreaking to see their sad faces as they toiled away when I laughed and waved to them on my way to the river. I spent many a sleepless night contemplating their plight.
I had long been aware of the spiritual nature of fly fishing and how the rhythm of the rod put you in tune with the rhythms of God and nature. With my liberation from domestic chores and more time devoted to fly fishing, my spiritual growth had been remarkable. I felt divinely inspired to spread this “good news.”
I formed the Izaak Walton Angling Society for the Abolition of Domestic Chores (I.W.A.S.A.D.C.) and began holding meetings in my garage to plan my neighbor’s emancipation. My success in gathering converts to the cause was met with much wailing and gnashing of teeth from their wives—further proof that my message was divinely inspired. I took it as a sign.
Finding myself liberated from gardening duties but still in need of fresh produce, I began going to the farmers market. I found it much cheaper than gardening, and the time saved by not having to plant, weed, water, and harvest was much better spent working on my spiritual progress through fly fishing. I would go every Saturday morning, load up on a week’s worth of fruits and vegetables, and be on the river by noon. The only problem was the cost to my Saturday morning fishing time; however, once I began preaching my gospel of liberation, that problem quickly resolved itself. The neighbor’s wives began greeting me in their driveways by throwing tomatoes, onions, bell peppers, and summer squash. Thus making my trips to the farmers market unnecessary, freeing up my Saturday mornings for fly fishing. Which I took as a sign.
My relationships with my neighbor’s wives followed parallel downward trajectories, starting with the first time I took their husbands fly fishing. The wives noticed a correlation between their husband’s enthusiasm for fly fishing and their dwindling bank accounts, and although I had done my best to minimize the financial impact by selling some moderately used, outdated equipment to their husbands only slightly marked up from cost, I was blamed.
As fly fishing became more and more central to their spiritual growth, my neighbors began sneaking off with me at every opportunity to go fishing, missing at times what their wives termed “life events,” such as, anniversaries, graduations, birthdays, and on one occasion, a mother-in-law-funeral—though to be fair, we did swing by the cemetery that day to pay our respects and show off that 24” cutthroat to Castretti’s brother-in-law. Indeed, their dedication to their spiritual growth had been commendable. I was eventually banned from holiday dinners, barbecues, and all family functions when one of the wives overheard me giving some much needed marriage counseling.
When Liddelberry told me his wife had insisted they go vegan, I listened in horror to his tale of life without cheeseburgers, bacon sandwiches, and three-meat pizza. I could tell by his sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and shallow complexion that he was already in a weakened state and in immediate need of my expert intervention.
I told him to get 6 cases of beer and four cartons of cigarettes and go home and put them by his favorite chair. Then I told him to strip down to his skivvies, sit in the chair, drink beer and smoke cigarettes, throw the empties on the floor, and crush the cigarette butts out on the carpet. “Don’t shave, bathe, or go to work,” I advised. “After about three days, she’ll leave. Then you can clean the place up, take a bath, and eat all the meat you want.”
So it came as no surprised when my message of liberation from domestic chores was met with robust, organized resistance.
One night at the garage, I was passing the collection plate when one of the congregation spoke up, “I thought this money was for beer and chips.” To which I replied, “Yea verily.”
“This ain’t beer, it’s Old Cincinnati,” said Wheedlemire. “How’s come we’re drinkin’ Old Cincinnati and you’re drinkin’ Guinness? . . . What’s that noise?”
“Sounds like somebody’s got a loose fan belt,” I said.
I looked out the window and reported, “It’s just a bunch of women carrying torches and garden tools.”
Peeking out the window, Henman shouted, “IT’S OUR OL’ LADIES!”
“Fear not, brethren,” I said. “We have nothing to fear from these women if we stand united in our convictions. Somebody hit the lights . . . brethren?” When I turned around, the brethren had vanished, having fled out the side door.
The women marched in single-file and informed me that their husbands would no longer be allowed to “come out and play,” as they put it; there would be no more garage meetings, no more consuming alcoholic beverages without adult supervision, and no more fly fishing when there was work to be done. Furthermore, I was to stop filling their husband’s heads with nonsense about freedom from domestic chores, which they called “duties.” In short, I was to cease and desist. I was horrified and filled with righteous indignation at such heresy. I pointed out that fishing, especially fly fishing, was a holy pursuit essential for spiritual growth, and that their husbands were following in the footsteps of the Apostils. I told them to “let my people go fishing.” . . . But I think it was when I said something about fly fishing for Jesus that things got ugly.
They threatened legal action, property damage, and bodily harm: they said they would report me to the authorities (apparently there was some outdated law still on the books concerning property upkeep and bringing down surrounding property values); burn down my garage (a particular focus of their anger for some reason); and stomp a mud hole in my butt. Their bulging eyes, rage-flared nostrils, and crazed grins danced hideously in the flickering torchlight, and I longed for the good old days—when heretics were burned at the stake.
All great spiritual leaders and thinkers have, at some point, been persecuted and had their movements driven underground. I was to be no exception. . . . I took it as a sign.
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