“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.

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