“I’m going to fight, fight, fight.”
He’s sitting in a cooler waving a roasting fork at me.
“You are?” I ask.
“Yes. Fight, fight, fight. I’m fighting you.”
“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I tell him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I love people, I don’t fight them.”
“Well, I’m a fighter. I fight people. And animals. I fight all animals.”
He keeps waving the roasting fork.
This isn’t the first time my 80s pop culture references have been lost on him.