fishbeer

Dec 9 2010 6:38 pm

the lesser Rockefellers

Nelson Rockefeller sat alone in his hotel room in Grand Rapids in October.  He was wearing nothing but his white Fruit of the Loom briefs.  He sat in a low red upholstered chair with his blocky knees up higher than his hips and they were held wide open.  Across his legs and through his bushy gray chest hair ran fishing line and nestled on the chair under his testicles was a reel. 


It was 1980 and he had died a year earlier, purportedly “in the saddle.”  He came back to life and no one thought it was strange in the slightest. 


He was in town for the dedication of the Gerald Ford library and he wanted to do a little salmon snagging while he was there.  This was one thing he liked about traveling to Ford’s hometown: the Grand River and its designated snagging area.  The simple thought of a large hook piercing the tight flesh of a dorsal fin made his stomach warm.  He would sometimes sit in his office and with a bare hook punch holes in a piece of rubber. 


The dunderheaded fish, filled with virtually nothing but hormones, would take off downstream and it was all Nelson could do to palm the reel and let him run.

 

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