ONE NIGHT A few weeks ago, my cell phone loudly jangled the quaint retro ringtone I so liked, rousing me with a start. Worried something bad happened to a family member, or I might be needed back on the front lines, I hurriedly reached over to the nightstand and snatched it up.
Thankfully, it was only my Aussie friend and favorite Jiggerman guide, Leif Billithong, calling from another time zone. He clearly could care less about my beauty sleep. “INCOG” he yelled, “you gotta get out here, mate, the Ghetto Jigging is fantastic. Just had a client land a whopper Street Ho on a EBT card streamer fly. It was his fourth of the trip!”
Still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I pretend angry asked: “Leif, where the hell you at?” He replied “INCOG, you won’t believe it, but Oakland, California.”
Oakland? They finally opened jigging in northern California? I guess it was really true that the rest of the state had finally gone belly up and was searching for any means of survival. It made perfect sense, open the area to jiggerman, make moolah on expensive out-of-state licenses and tourist industry taxes, right along with driving down special benefits doled out to worthless hunks of protoplasm.
[IF YOU'RE THE SENSITIVE, NON-SPORTSMAN, WHITE MULTICULT TYPE, PLEASE DON'T READ ANY MORE. I would not wish to be responsible for you having a coronary, or going off the deep end and destroying your monitor while trying to get at me for being “the most hateful man on the Internet.” Thanks. 
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]The streets of Oakland made jiggerman salivate the world over.
Here was a real glory hole, full of huge lunkers lazing about in big pods, swilling down luke warm Colt 45′s and gnawing noisily on greasy chicken bones. Nasty fat Hos stood around street corners, idly scratching exposed, fleshy limbs while waiting for the rare customer. Sullen, scrawny Gangstas filled unkempt, barren front yards — sometimes screwing, sometimes screaming, sometimes stabbing – all jive-shucking around in a drug-induced daze to incomprehensible hip-hop blaring loudly out of stolen boom boxes.
And the whole area had never once been jigged – it all sounded just wonderful!
Southern California and LA had opened up Ghetto jigging for the last five years or so, and the place was now a hellava lot better off, with serious money in the city coffers, too. Ghetto sportsman and even decent White families were moving back. But untouched Oakland was still off limits until now. Of course I had to go.
Plus, I just bought a high modulus, boron fiber SAGE rod, strong enough to tame the most coked-up jig running wild down the street. I matched it with a gold Tibor Gulfstream large arbor reel, filled with that hot new Scientific Angler’s bullet taper fly line in urban camo and backed up with 300 yards of braided nylon.
It was the perfect set-up for working sidewalk drys along burnt-out storefronts and skittering streamers down stinky, trash-filled street gutters.
Add to that, I just finished tying dozens of tried and true fly patterns: Twenties, Lotto Ticket drys and Big Ho Mama nymphs. Let’s not forget that new killer streamer of my very own design: The Greezy Weezy. All “must haves” for any serious Ghetto Fly Jiggerman (yes indeed, I’m plugging mine).
I immediately booked a first class ticket aboard my favorite airline — AryanNations West. I always loved how the smartly dressed, sexy White female stewardesses treated you like a king. Absolutely no self-absorbed, limp-wristed male faggots were ever allowed to serve, thankfully. And all the pilots were top-notch White guys — you always felt safe with them at the wheel.
The airport was clean, calm and nice. Sure, they had worker jigs in bright orange jumpsuits doing things like sweeping and emptying out the trash receptacles. All well-behaved and quite docile, since each wore radio-controlled microchip neck collars – you know, the kind where White managers could remotely activate pre-programmed work routines, downloaded into the primitive cerebellums via the now famous Dr. Mengele Corporation bio interface system.
Should a worker jig ever get out of line, the managers could simply press a special red button, setting off a small RDX charge that drove a round steel bolt straight into the spinal column, dropping them like a sack of garbage on the spot. There was very little blood and what simian brains they had, could later be salvaged for use in anything from high-tech guided missiles to automated agricultural machinery.
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