Yes, and I've enjoyed writing them more than I should have.

Not the nice 7-11? You tell your father the next I buy him a burrito at the "not nice" 7-11, he can microwave it himself.

This one is.

A cute notion, but no, it would not. Please think about it.

I started to use different fonts, but it gave the impression, at least to me, that this website was being assembled by ten different people who don't know each other. That actually is the case. In fact this question is being answered by Sal Paradise whoever he is. I, rather we, think Raleway looks sharp and crisp as well as consistent and of one mind. And yes, I'm fully aware it's been said that consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.

Funny how that works out. Sure, put in an order. The psychic hotline says I have until 2038. Soon after I die the rod should appreciate a good 7%, so you'll have that going for you. Good luck with the flies and get a pair of 2x reading glasses - you'll need them in a few weeks.

Yes and no. Before I was an old man I was a young geezer waiting in the wings. I associate drabness with anonymity a condition for which I've long striven. It requires admirable talent to blend into the background. I hope to achieve that, but having a top rated website may foil my goal.

There's no reason you can't do both. Denton has a Taco Bell conveniently within walking distance of a thrift clothing store. Perhaps your pleasant little burg is zoned in such a manner that makes this possible. A family of five can eat at TB for about $9 if you order from the Cravings Value Menu. A little secret I learned while visiting a former associate at a federal facility in Leavenworth, Kansas is to order one small drink and then get about thirty refills. The downside to this is you have to eat in Taco Bell. The upside is you're not eating in Taco Casa. Thrift stores always have a donor drop-off. Rather than going into the store, gather the little ones, and big ones, into a tight flock and hover about this area. Remember the "big eye" paintings? Any donor worth his Lexus will dump his stuff on you. Plus, he won't have to wait for the unloader guy and he can hit the stream with his fine, fine, superfine Grassland Fly Rod.

No. I think you're in the wrong FAQ.

In order: I don't know. Don't know about that one either. No, you shouldn't. Yes, it would. As for your coda question, ponder upon Mr. Zappa's words... Do you love it? Do you hate it? There it is the way you made it. Change is free - do it now.

The gall. I pride myself on being a person who can do more in a day than most people can do in an hour.

"Filligrie" or something like that.

I happen to be lying on my divan at the moment, halfway through a "Have Gun Will Travel" marathon, so I'm swallowed by inertia as well. However, as unlikely as it seems, you could be a potential customer so I might put some effort into it. (((google...google...google))) Okay, found something... It appears you're going to have to live in a village. I saw no references to township idiots or hamlet idiots.

Right on the mark - I've never heard one better. Perhaps you'd like to buy a fly rod - I've been told people go to Casablanca for the waters.

I don't believe so - the fishing regs don't mention a bag or size limit. I guess no news is good news.

Thanks to YouTube therapy I've learned to never take my eyes from whatever device is within eyeshot. That is to say, never look up - you don't know what you might see. And no selfies.

Well, I'll be darned if you don't remind me of my yoga instructor except she used to beat dead horses.

He certainly did, Red Ryder! Johnson was a Briton and and the gentry wouldn't let him fish on their chalk streams. Rather than feasting on "wilde caughted trouewttes", he had to settle for meals of sour grapes that Boswell gathered for him. As for those of us at Grassland Fly Rods, we adore the gentry especially those wonderful ladies and gentlemen who have rivers flowing through their ranches in Colorado, Wyoming, Montana and Idaho. To my gentrified potential friends: I'd be more than happy to demonstrate the joy and beauty of a Grassland Fly Rod at your convenience. Preferably on a cloudy day, around 60°, little to no breeze. Also, sometimes I need a day or two of fishing alone to assure that this is the perfect rod for you. A fine Napoleon Brandy (1.75 liters) often improves my discernment. I won't be disappointed, or rather, you won't be disappointed. Thank you! Thank you so much!

Consider the fly - a bent piece of steel tied up with bits of dead birds and mammals. An elk doesn't donate a hunk of hide just so you can fish an Elk Hair Caddis. A rabbit doesn't rip off his face - euphemistically called a hare's mask - to allow you the privilege of tying and fishing a Gold-Ribbed Hare's Ear Nymph. The rooster's cape? As far as I know insect parts have not been scavenged for inclusion in beginner fly tying kits, but I say it's about time. Just to be on the safe-side, and to keep the self-righteous off your back, pull the hopper's life support plug and tie him to your hook. Voila! Dead animal parts tied to bent steel. As your endearing schoolmarm might have said, aren't we all six year olds with cane poles? I mean when we're not skinning cats.

Hmmm... Give up fly fishing for six months and let me know how that works out for you.

If you travel in leagues you'll get there faster.

If you manage to find your way to Winnipeg, and I pray you do, the staff, which is composed primarily of Canadians, does check for room key cards and the waffles are Manitoba-shaped.

Actually I do, but let us digress. I think you mistook Sal's disconcerting eye twitch for a wink, perhaps the dog's as well. In a broad sense it is about fly fishing, well about Catch & Release® anyway. The happy families eat the fish they catch; the unhappy families discuss the ethics of fly fishing while they eat veal.

She's not completely wrong, but I suspect she meant "fifth" rather than "fish".

Quail? And forget the jib thing. According to Roxie there's one surefire way to identify a hepcat - they tend to say, "Dontcha think or dontcha?" But if it's, "Dontcha think.........................................or dontcha?", then you know you're dealing with a hipster. They're such a botheration. Dontcha think or dontcha?

Are you alluding to life or selling fly rods? I've got a pretty good grip on the meaning of life. Selling fly rods? - not so much.

I appreciate your casual concern, so yes, I would like to modify my last response. I don't actually have a good grip on the meaning of life.

Cindi, my dear, you didn't buy that rod - I gave it to you so you'd shut up.

In 1973 a section of the Moravian Catechism was expunged which nobody but me seems to recall. It stated that St. Peter, having been a successful angler, would ask each supplicant ten questions based on certain personality factors which were left unclear. The third question was "What did you do with that split bamboo fly rod your father gave you? Did you fish with it?" Maybe that's two questions. Of course Peter knew the answer. When Jimbo hemmed and hawed, he was shown a photograph of a dust coated Garrison 209 mounted shakily above an Insignia flat screen TV in his man cave. Interestingly, the photo reeked of Kentucky Tavern Bourbon. Peter opened the UnderUber app and Jimbo was whisked far away in a '96 Dodge Neon. This is strictly supposition on my part, but I'm guessing you inherited that rod from Uncle Jimbo and it's stuffed in a PVC pipe stashed in your attic. St. Peter knows and St. Peter talks. To you. Get it out and go fishing, but only after it's been fully restored to it's former glory by Grassland Fly Rods of Denton, Texas. Or just give it to me.

Leave us not get carried away just yet - we'll save that for later. Before you agree to this rather vague and dubious proposition, have you thought about what you'll need? It seems one's typical reynard (we did not make that word up) weighs around twelve pounds, so we believe you'll do well with an 8'6" 7wt. Rather than using a Woolly Bugger, we'd suggest you tie size 2 grape bunch imitations, possibly a Riesling varietal. Since we adhere to the principle of Catch & Release®, we suggest they be returned to the wild which in this case would be Rudy Giuliani's Manhattan apartment.

Only the people at the party. By the way, you owe me a burrito.

Yes, it did - at least for things that matter. What used to be a fifth of gin is now labeled 750 ml. Were you expecting something more? Get real or go back to sleep.

There is not, but there is hope. Our research team conducted a study with a number of madcap heiresses. They were each given a 9 foot, 6 weight Grassland Fly Rod and guided on a private stretch of the Madison River. After a very successful week of fishing, we rented them a chauffeured Bentley, a penthouse suite in Las Vegas and also gave them a tow sack full of cocaine. After a week we asked which they preferred and they laughed in our collective face. Sorry, there is no hope.

Tony, sweetheart, you know my customer list is confidential, but yeah I did. If I thought she might come looking, I'd tell you to keep your wits about you, but I guess it's a little too late for that now, isn't it?

I say write away right away. If the play is as risible as your twisted metaphor it's bound to run for several hundred performances.

"Maybe," said the rod maker.

Well, just in case the shrew issue should come to pass, Grassland Fly Rods is developing a taper for a 6'6", 9 weight that might interest you. As a professional I can neither advise nor even suggest that you strap a serrated polished steel dagger to the rod tip, but... Let it not be said that you went down without a fight.

I've never paved a road in my life with good intentions or otherwise, but I've driven on a few thousand. Despite my oblivious nature, I've noticed the "good intentioned" roads are much rougher - teeth rattling so - than the other kind.

The same man who never said anything about homosexuality or abortion.

Post Toasties! There are a few of us who bought bomb-proof warehouses in Belfast and made a call to Post Cereal. We are set for whatever disaster might befall humanity. Also, not too far from Belfast the fishing's pretty good. Curiously, about half the trout are green and the other half are orange. All the rainbow trout were dispatched in 1916.

Caravanserai However, Love Devotion Surrender, the album he made with Mahavishnu John McLaughlin, could well...

I only ... sorry, okay, your loss.

No, you may NOT call me Ishmael. Although that might be a good name for a rod. Fishmael? We'll keep in touch.

Dad, this is an FAQ not a place for your journal entries. Get back to the rod shop and finish wrapping those guides.

Guilty - you got me. I believe I could make the world a better place if I quit making rods and spent my time posting questions to an FAQ that no one is ever going to read.

Speaking of cessation, it never ceases to amaze me how these FAQs inspire such arrogance and ignorance. Keep 'em coming!

John the Revelator, he wrote the book of the seven seals. Or maybe Prince. They both had pencil thin mustaches, so it's hard to know.

Perhaps your outdoorsy image could be enhanced if you lived under a bridge for a while. There's one near my house where you'd have plenty of company. Don't forget your corkscrew!

Well, that's no fun. I hate to ask, but does your mother actually own a dog?

Well, I guess that is a question and, if the truth be known, one I frequently ask.

Only if they're customers.

"Mendacious" would be the more accurate adjective.

No, not even my youth.

It was a very difficult decision to make. As an inductee one is expected to make personal appearances and be fêted in such places as Monte Carlo, Telluride, Prague and... well, the list is endless. I would much rather be at home making rods, arranging and re-arranging my mint condition collection of Van Camp's various bean products and distributing my flyers on Saskatoon buses.

Not until I wrote that letter. Now some bewildered volunteer named Reginald does. His reply was polite but rather condescending.

Sadly, I did that once and mistakenly used the same bar code assigned to the Presto Fry Baby. I spent a week driving to this and that Costco gathering up all the rods I'd stocked. At the last one I went ahead and bought a Fry Baby. I flicked a booger in its face.

Your teachers were wrong.

Maybe I am. Before I sold Rory a Grassland Fly Rod he wanted a guarantee that if it were to pierce a thorax he could return the rod for double his money. What are the odds, so I said, "sure". Oh, wait - it seems I'm getting a call from Rory.

I'd like to think I'm a self-made man, but...are any of us?

You're not the first person to make this request and you probably won't be the last. If you have some time before the yawning reaper comes for you, I might suggest a stretch of indentured servitude in the rod shop. Your life will be so much more fulfilling and interesting, you won't need my flashing life. Then I can get back to the "Have Gun Will Travel" marathon with two aluminum foil pie plate things of parmesan garlic Jiffy Pop and a twelve-pack of Milwaukee's Best.

Perhaps his bathroom is an abattoir.

Don't we all, don't we all.

Sorry, Kid. No, he didn't know anything the rest of us don't know, but it sounds like he understood what the rest of us don't want to understand.

No dream my friend. The old Hooter - a man more fondly remembered than any number of our presidents - was in on the chinchilla racket, uh scam, sheer horror, criminality (your turn) long before the internet made such frightful money grubbing cretinism commonplace.

I guess you're asking me if you're laboring under the misapprehension that I can somehow help you with your question. No, you are definitely laboring under an apprehension unless of course you actually are barking up a tree that you suspect might be a tree that's not really suitable for barking up. Try a white birch - they have the prettiest bark.

I like the way you think. However, the more important question is why can't I catch that 24" brown that's been hanging in an undercut just down from some pocket water. And no, it's not my Grassland Fly Rod's fault.

Well heck, let's pretend we do. What I do remember is that a small town in West Texas was renamed to memorialize her. Wait, is that right?

Please excuse my lack of colorful colloquialisms - I've spent so little time in jail. However, might I suggest if it is not particularly shameful to eat fish at Long John Silver's on a Sunday then, ipso factoly speaking, it should not bring shame upon a person who chooses to angle on the day many Americans regard as the Sabbath. On second thought, it is a shame to eat at Long John Silver's on any of the aforementioned days, so maybe my argument has fallen apart. QED

Sure, if you define many as one. Okay, two if you include my alter-ego who thinks he can split bamboo without gashing his thumb. Hey, wait! Is this a ploy to cast me into a herd of swine? If you were to cast anything into a herd of swine, you might want to try a size 4 truffle pattern. Or an acorn style fly - with a little patience you might catch a blind pig.

During my many years of nomadic fly fishing with Brian Wilson - yes that Brian Wilson - I've noticed fourteen things. So as not to delay my midmorning nap I'll focus on one. In areas where fly fishing is minimal at best, almost all chinchillas have tails. Where fly fishing is more common, most chinchillas don't. Excuse me, but Brian has asked me to tie him a few of what we used to call "bunny leech" fly patterns.

Where should I begin and how much time do you have?

Probably. Concerning the phrase, consider the chinchilla. Where was he raised? Where does he end up? What happens in between? I don't want to visit your house.

Only if the other side of your neck doesn't have a tattoo of the Man in the Yellow Hat wielding a machete.

Only one - to fish a split bamboo Grassland Fly Rod handcrafted in Denton, Texas. However, before you come down too harshly on nature, remember it can't really compete with humanity - we're red in steel and lead.

Done and good luck.

Not until I’ve had my coffee. On the other hand, if I had a fly rod I’d fly rod in the morning.

The notion that they don't want to hurt my feelings might or might not have merit, but I do find some consolation with the thought. However, I'd prefer they think I'm witty. The chinchillas? None of your business.

You're truly onto something. Trotsky, taking notes while he still could, did indeed record that Lenin said: "The capitalists will sell us the fly line with which we will hang chinchillas!" It wasn't long before the Soviet propaganda machine modified it to your earlier Lenin quotation. If the capitalists had been aware of his authentic statement, the USSR would have been awash in rodents twisting in the wind.

You got me, babe - perhaps it's because Ms. Eilish always appears to be staring into the abyss. Wanna buy her a fly rod? It might alter my position on the topic.

Well, isn't that a damn shame.

Roxie said that? She does speak the truth, but I can only handle one acolyte at a time.

What's your point?

Probably. Your Maltese is named Falcon? Please.

Well, heckfire, I don't know, maybe. I'm typically the one who's bored because no one seems to want to talk and I have so much to say. Whenever I can't make it to a party because I have get a rod ready, Sal says everyone has a pretty good time. Just my luck I miss all the fun ones. Any plans for New Year's Eve? I don't have much going on.

Certainly. Maybe you could invite them to Helsinki and visit the world’s largest chinchillat “zoo”. That’s Finnish for chinchilla, but I guess you know that. I would suggest you don’t exit through the gift shop, but if you do keep in mind that Finns need to dress warmly.

My reference point comes from National Lampoon's Deteriorata. "Be assured that a walk through the ocean of most souls would scarcely get your feet wet" My guess is it's somewhere in Russia. Try a Putin Pillager. It's tied just like Stalin Starver without the mustache. I guarantee you'll catch maggot-ridden leeches.

I'll die whether I eat another chicken fried steak or not.

Did? No, does. He owns all of them. “But Mr. Grassland Fly Rods, sir”, you whimper, “Why do almost all abnb’s show a different superduperhost if they are all owned by Satan?” Demonic possession, that is to say, managed by demons. Who but the devil himself would boot a hardworking family from housing they faithfully rented and maintained? Maybe we all would. Sam and Madge paid $900/month for a little studio in Savannah, but a certain someone saw they could get $300/night tourist money. Adieu, Sam and Madge! There’s an affordable hovel next to the Kitty Kat Klub. Who would? No, sorry, not me.

Good song - I'm surprised she passed on it. See if this one makes the cut... "Life Gits Tee-jus, Don't It?"

Would you like 4 weight or 5 weight?

An unnecessary, but slightly admirable, expression of regret. A youngster like yourself, in mind if not in body, can learn so much more by wandering. The best education is usually found by wandering past a university.

Well, maybe. Are you sure it's spelled "Sticks"? Also, I think I know the guide. Was he a well-versed, super serious elderly gentleman around, say, 2000 years old?

Rotting? Where do you people come from? I don't mock Catch & Release® - not at all, not at all. I'm a C&R®er from wayback, ask Mr. Peabody and Sherman. If anything, I like to think I'm mocking the self-righteous which is the favorite pastime of us, the self-righteous. I immediately knew you weren't the imaginary person who says they're not the imaginary person, but I know you know who is. Who is it?

I don't know, maybe a porcupine with a carbine. Other than that crowd, I feel certain there's nothing more dangerous and delusional than a true believer. Fly fishing might be something of a passion, but I don't think it's necessarily my gateway to a blissful afterlife. Having said that, it's a crying shame spin fisherman aren't aware of the damnation that awaits them. You say it was either Sal or Roxie who told you? Sounds like Sal.

"Points beyond" might be a stretch. To worm out of the question, I would say both. If I may... The favorite poem of many high schoolers is "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. I was one of those lads. The poem is evocative, stark, chock full of symbolism and stuff, has a delightful rhyme scheme and is easy to memorize for extra credit. I've been known to suggest that it could be improved upon, and appeal to broader range of folk, if the last verse were altered somewhat: The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And kilometers to go before I sleep, And kilometers to go before I sleep.

You let him read the Grassland Fly Rods FAQs? You're the kind of parent who gives the internet a bad name. The Chinchilla Show should answer most of his questions.

Yes, Alfy is OH, SO WRONG! I would quit making fly rods if I were a tenth as good as Jeff Beck.

No

Well... I was out plowing the lower forty, one of the forties anyway, I don't know which. I usually stay out a few nights to keep Roxie the ox company. She's old and needs a lot of rest. And some brandy. When Roxie and I returned smelling of salamanders, I saw a spanking new climate controlled cabin chockfull of the stuff - planing forms, 12' bamboo culms, on and on. She hugged me, petted Roxie and said, "Happy Arbor Day! Call me when you're rich. I'll be in Troy reading The Iliad." Three months later I called and said, "Helen, come on home! You're plowboy has hit pay dirt. I sold a rod!" In case your interested Roxie is now on Tinder.

If memory serves me well, I once said, "In this world you must be oh, so smart or oh, so pleasant. Well, for years I was smart - I recommend pleasant." I didn't realize at the time that it's a hell of a lot easier to be smart than pleasant. Okay, how about Friday?

I wish I hadn't. Now I'm obligated to post FAQs that are both whimsical and Taoist and I don't even know what either one is. I just thought it phrased well.

You need to draw a line where your Ludditeness begins or ends. Do you still want to drive a car, melt Jello in a microwave, watch seal videos on Tik Tok? More importantly, are you prepared to fully embrace an existence where "plastic" fly rods don't exist? Where split Tonkin cane is the embodiment of genteel sport, dare I say, of life itself? Of course, you'll be fishing with silk fly line that you have to let dry in the sun while the green drakes are emerging, all the while listening to the happy chatter of people catching fish while you sit on a decomposing log reading the collected works of Horace Walpole. That, my friend, is what it means to be a Luddite. Sign me up.

{Does that mean I'm supposed to finish it? I don't know, this is hard...} ...at 9:00 in the morning and, holding his head, the chinchilla says, "Barkeep, give me the hair of the dog." The furrier looks wildly around the room, "Where, where?" {Okay, let me try again} ...a snowy wind is howling along the boulevard. The barkeep loudly murmurs, "I don't usually complain, but with that nasty weather and me scooping ice all day, my left hand is freezing." The furrier whips out a skinning knife and says, "Well bud, give me a minute and I can help you out." {Too gross?} ...a sign outside the bar reads, "So-called emotional support animals are not welcome. Try a bar uptown." But enter they do. The barkeep glares and yells, "Hey, can't you read? Get out!" The chinchilla retorts, "All right, all right, I'll leash him to a lamp post, but give me an Old Fashioned and make it extra old." {That was predictable, I suppose...} ...after they order, barkeep trips over the furrier's intentionally wayward foot and spills a double rye Manhattan on the his somewhat stained and ratty cashmere sweater. He apologizes, "Sir, I'm so sorry, let me wipe that up for you. And I'll you get you a triple Manhattan - on the house." "Thanks, but no bother with that rather fragrant rag, my fine fellow, I always carry a, uh, sponge with me." As he sops up the spillage, our man speaks to it, "Hey, little buddy, I told you we'd drink for free." {I know, I know, I know...} ...strangely, the door was half open and there was not a soul in sight and no sign that anyone had been there all day. The furrier leans down, "Well, free booze! We can drink whatever we want, any flavour. Talk aboot a lucky day, eh?" "I guess. Grab your usual bottle of Canadian Club and let's get out of here." {Are they getting any better? No?} ...and look for a table near the TV, but they're all taken. The furrier says, "There are some empty seats at that big one. Those three guys won't mind if we sit with them." Just as the chinchilla starts to ask, they turn around. It's an Orthodox rabbi, a Catholic priest and a Baptist minister. The minister scowls, "What the hell are you guys doing here? We're supposed to be the stars of this joke. Some clown came up with the premise and then bailed on us." The priest says, "You guys shut up - Ross is making a move on Rachel." Quite moved, the chinchilla weeps. {Catskills humor? I wish} ...and then they spin on their heels and walk back out. An hour later, Stevie Nicks and a chinchilla walk into a bar. Stevie Nicks and a chinchilla walk into a bar. Stevie Nicks and a chinchilla walk into a bar. Is there really anything else you'd rather think about? {Maybe we're getting somewhere? I mean, you know, Stevie...?} ... then a horse and a farrier walk into the bar right behind them. The two gentlemen become fast friends and before long they're drunkenly comparing their respective crafts. At closing time both are too sloshed to stand, but the animals are ready for bed. They take their leave - the chinchilla wearing little iron shoes and the horse timidly walks out sans tail and mane. {No, I don't know what to do with it} ...they look around and a bunch of rednecks, that is to say men's men, are pounding down Keystone Light. The furrier orders a Heineken. The bar goes quiet and hard looks fly at him. He looks down at the chinchilla who's been nestled in his pocket. "Hey kiddo, rough crowd. Maybe I should get you out of sight." They settle into a dark corner with the chinchilla warmly hidden in our man's woolen slacks. After his sixth Heinie, he asks the barkeep, "Good sir, where does one relieve oneself?" The publican smirks and points to a drain in the floor. A slobbering drunk looks over and squawks, "Looks like our city fella needs the powder room." As the drunken herd guffaws, the furrier, too plastered to fumble with his zipper, yanks his pants down. The chinchilla slips out and slides down the drain. After a moment of stunned silence, the taverner says, "Hey, hey, hey, you're just supposed to piss in it!" {Too long? Yeah, well...} ...that is completely full, not an empty seat, but awfully quiet, total rapt silence, except for the sonorous voice of a young man with a red beard standing on a shaky stool: "...but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face. And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars." Silence that is beyond rapt except for the whisper of tissues wiping tears. The furrier leans down to the chinchilla and says a little too loudly, "I didn't know there was an English pub in this neighborhood." A chinchilla and a furrier are thrown out of a bar... {It's possible the English might get misty when they hear Yeats... Sorry, just kidding...} ...looking for love, but like the other seven bars they've visited that evening this one is bereft of the ladies. Then, like the trade winds, a soft breeze blows in - a woman in her mid to late decades. Even though the temperature that night is in the mid to late too damn hots, she's wearing a silver stole which catches a glance from our friends. The chinchilla looks up and his eyes change from sleepy to horror. "Ida Maude!" he screams. The befurred woman looks over and says, "I ain't Ida Maude you little rat." "I'm so sorry, Madame. My startled friend recognized his older sister, the pelt just below your chin - no, the other chin. Won't you have a drink? You and I can get acquainted while they get re-acquainted." {Bar flies are like bed bugs, but I don't know in which way...} ...which happens to be the last Trader Vic's in the lower 49. The furrier says, "Good sir, I'll have a piña colada." "Partner, I think you'll have a Jack & Coke." "Huh?" "Now your little buddy here," nodding to the chinchilla, "He can have a piña colada - his hair is perfect." {Am I assuming too much?} ...and a portly man with a potato nose, squinty eyes, sporting a well-worn top hat and waistcoat was sitting at an oak table shuffling and unshuffling a deck of cards. Upon seeing our friends, he says, "Well, well, no one to sit with, eh? Rest your bones. Would you like a drink? The first one's on you." A bit taken aback the furrier regains some composure and says, "We were going to have a pale ale. And you?" "I'll have an ale minus the pale. Make it two." After a toast to Mae West, their new friend reaches into a well concealed pocket, uncorks a sizable flask and pours a long, steady stream into his stein. The furrier, a little miffed, asks, "Does the ale really need doctoring?" "Good question, good question, doctoring that is. It's my medicine. I always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite." "Sir, there aren't any snakes in here." "Well... just in case, I always carry a small snake." At that moment an aged, fangless copperhead falls from his hat and... "Hmmm", says their annoying acquaintance, "I don't recall him having a big lump in his middle." {Yes, I stole the W.C Fields anecdote. So what?}

You weren't let in on it? That was the grand scheme.