I saw a truck on the way to work this morning, apparently driven by a distributor for Rappala. Emblazoned on the side of the vehicle was the slogan "Prepare for battle" alongside a rendering of what I assume was supposed to be an especially vicious looking game fish of some kind. Now, in spite of whatever urbanite contempt I might hold for The Outdoors, I consider fishing to be a pleasant enough pastime and its material rewards more than delicious. Moreover, when the War on the Ocean is finally declared, I'll be among the first to enlist. Just the same, it seems like elevating anything you can do while listening to a baseball game and drinking Keystone Light to some sort of aquatic Thermopylae seems like self-importance. Until the DNR repeals catch-limits on anything but non-combatants, you’re not really a patriot to the dry land, you’re a tourist to an enemy nation.
Lunch today was a corned beef sandwich with cole slaw. Ordinarily, this is exactly the kind of bastard offspring of Ruben and Rachel that would enrage me, but I made an exception in this case because the good people at The Eatery made no claim to either proper sandwich designation. It was good. Horseradish in the slaw dressing.
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