Over the holidays, I ate supper with my wife and son at the Waffle House following the early candlelight service at our church on Christmas Eve. I ordered, among other things, a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, and, while I was eating it, I came to this realization:
For me, the "L.T." in a B.L.T. is purely a means to the end of the "B."
In fact, I could do without the L.T. altogether.
Honestly, when I order a B.L.T., what I'd really like the waitress to bring me is a plate of bacon and Lawrence Taylor, so that I could listen to L.T. tell me about the time he broke Joe Theismann's leg while I ate bacon.
But maybe that's just me.
Go 'Dawgs!