Get out of the work clothes at damn 9 in the pee-emm, go ahead and pull on my PJs, such as they are, heave a big relaxed sigh, and head to the kitchen to get the automagic coffe maker set for the morning, and what else! Out of GDMFSOBing coffee.

I knew this horrifying circumstance existed, just this morning, 13 short hours ago, before I even pulled on those work clothes. I have only my acorn brain to blame. This is why Sam’s Club and Costco are successful…freaking old farts like buying a pallet-load of coffee. You notice when the pallet is getting low, down around the level of your boot tops, so you put it on your monthly damn shopping list one of those mornings if you can remember it, and you get a new pallet-load of coffee next time you gird your loins to go fight through the hordes. And so you’re set for a another quarter or three. I don’t need no stone-ground coffee beans picked by Ecuadoran virgins and packed out on organic mules, then carted to the distribution point by GDMFSOBing Fair Trade Priuses. I need Folger’s, extra-hot and extra-strong, and about 100 oz. of it. Every. Damn. Morning.

So…I’m off to the damn HEB. Damn it.

UPDATE: OK, I’m off the ledge. Coffee in the hizzouse. And on the way back, the coppers jumped two jackasses (one Beemer, one Navigator) drag-racing down Blanco.