IHTFP!

So.  Earlier this afternoon we had to get out in the maelstrom and get our Ol' Ass down to Wally-World to buy some mission essential items, like coffee, Dr. Pepper, bread, milk, and so on. I should add beer to that list, as I stupidly refused to go out yesterday (when I should have but didn't because of... wait for it... the wind) to re-stock the fridge.  One cannot buy any sort of alcohol here on Sunday thanks to P-Ville's enlightened electorate who (a) have very high moral standards (ptui!) and (b) want to ensure EVERYONE subscribes to their petty lil moral code.  I could have driven the 26 miles round-trip out to the base to buy beer but... the wind.  Our recent wildfires have made drivin' out that way on a windy day a rather dangerous proposition due to blowin' dust and I'm very damned serious about that.  So we didn't go.  Meh.

There IS beer in the fridge but it's all of the barley wine and adult soda pop variety... all the Good Stuff is gone.  I poured one of those Bigfoot Ales for Happy Hour, drank half of it and threw the rest out.  It just didn't taste good at all and sumthin' about it gave me a rather queasy feelin'.  Thank The Deity At Hand we have an ample supply of Schweppes, Bombay, and limes in El Casa Móvil De Pennington.  We immediately broke out all three and mixed up a couple o' G&Ts whereupon life proceeded to get marginally better, but still not GOOD.

We most certainly have a highly developed case of the ass today.  The post title is an ol' military term I trotted out specifically for this rant and the cure for IHTFP is FIGMO, in case you're wonderin'.  But I ain't likely to be gettin' any orders soon, so I guess we'll just embrace the suck.

Get OFF my frickin' lawn!