JACK HANDEY, MY OLD fishing buddy, is a fascinating guy. Jack first met me about 20 years ago at a party for Saturday Night Live. I'm not sure what Jack was doing at the time. I had just gone through some very painful and messy personal problems that (to give you the short version) had to do with a former business partner and his wife and a lot of petty jealousy over my Daytime Emmy nomination. I liked Jack right off because he's a good listener. Also, I'm a very physical person, and I think we both found it reassuring that I held on to him by the sleeve as we talked.

Who really knows why people become friends, in the end? Whatever the reason, Jack took to me right away. I happen to be a tournament-level angler in both fresh and salt water (not that I fish in tournaments, but I am at that level), and Jack became interested in fishing after he met me. He's like that—I do something, he sees it, and he copies me. I say "Holy shit!" when a big fish hits my lure, and pretty soon Jack is saying that, too. I wear jeans and a T-shirt, Jack wears jeans and a T-shirt. I don't mind. Being a friend means accepting the other fellow's foibles. Consider Jack's legendary forgetfulness, to cite another example. Sometimes before a fishing trip Jack will omit the little detail of calling to tell me where and when we are to meet our fishing guide, as well as the basic fact that we're going fishing in the first place! I have to take the trouble of making the calls myself, finding out the details, and then hurrying to the dock, often with just minutes to spare.

Not a lot of people know that I'm the one who gave Jack his nickname. True, he was called Jack before he met me, but the way I said "Jack," in expressions like "Hey, Jack, get the hell over here!"—it had a funny and friendly quality that changed the name completely. Developing that kind of good rapport, I've found, is important in a fishing companion. Guys who fish with me should anticipate what I want before I even know it myself. Say I hook Jack in the head with my backcast: He understands that he has to cut that line free immediately so that I can tie on another fly and cast again as soon as possible. When your line's not in the water, you're not catching anything (except, I guess, Jack).

Sometimes, of course, Jack is worse than Harry Whittington when it comes to getting out of the way. Whenever fish appear in our vicinity, Jack tries to catch them, violating the traditional fishing protocol about first looking to see where I am. I can't count the number of times he has done that. I'm unfailingly patient, limiting my response to a quick shove with the butt of my fly rod. Even worse, when he does step to one side, and fish where he's supposed to, he often catches fish that are smaller than I would have caught had I caught any, but surprisingly decent fish all the same. I have heard him say he has even better luck when he is not with me, but I can't really believe that is true.

Every few years Jack sends me photos of the supposed "trophies" he claims to have caught without my help. That a grown man would engage in such transparent deceptions—it's hard to comprehend. The photos show Jack in his fishing gear at some likely spot holding in his arms a "monster brown trout" he obviously borrowed just minutes before from the wall of a bar. Awkwardly he tries to make the leaping pose in which the fish was stuffed look real. Once he even forgot to take the cigarette out of its mouth. I always play along and compliment him and act really awed. He's my fishing buddy—what else can I do?

Author's note: Jack Handey is actually the nicest guy, best fisherman, and funniest writer I know. I was never nominated for a Daytime Emmy, am not a tournament-level angler, and have never hooked Jack in the head. The part about the stuffed fish is (in my opinion) true.