There is a man I know that is an enthusiastic fisherman. On top of this affliction is his power of interruption. So great is this power it is believed he could not conceive a child (coitus interruptus). He has a rare third trait; he gets annoyed if peeps do not listen to his Moby Dickless stories.
One such event occurred whilst we men folk had gathered in the lunchroom to quietly lament yet another Senators defeat. Peeps, myself included, gazed upon him with incredulity as he lunged at us desperate to interject with a fishy tale. We made the sign of the hockey stick to ward off his evil and shunned him.
He left disgruntled and unhappy.
Now, I have not seen him for a while I am happy to say. However, as I sit here in the lunch-hovel surrounded by staff lockers his is the only one I see that is emblazoned with pictures of himself. Guess what? In each picture he is holding up a none too happy looking fish. He beams beatifically and I am pissed off for having noticed his gory self and rotten fish.
How can anyone be so piscatorially motivated, what would drive a being to seek joy in tracking and hooking a victim that is too stupid to do anything other than follow the lure. (Aside from Tory baiting that is.)