Golf - Whiskey - Tango are Oscar Miked

There's a point where it's all triage, where its all sandbagging against entropy. You know - like “is it really wise to unload the dishwasher while x is throttling y?” I mean, sometimes...

I'll either die from a massive coronary, stroke out and drool for the next forty, or look back on these days fondly. Kind of the way some vets talk about combat as the best moments of their lives. There's something about the lack of choices - of the sheer need to survive, that's liberating. I mean, I'm a details guy by trade, but on the day to day, I'm probably already sweating inappropriately without them.

So you run from foxhole to foxhole...shits getting hairy? We’ll go outside...backyard too small for three of them? Well maybe it's time for the library...I'd like to say I plan, but only about the 275 of you who don't really know me will buy that...actually I can't even claim that crown of flying by the seat of my pants anymore. Both today and yesterday I worked a plan - that's how bad parenting changes a fellow. Didn't dodge all the shit, but wasn’t hosing it off the walls.

I often think of the brain teaser of trying to get the wolf, the goat and the turnip - whiskey, golf, tango - across the river in a canoe that can only carry the paddler plus one. You leave the goat and the wolf - bye bye goat...you leave the goat and the turnip, well, you get the picture.

So you take the goat across...
Come back for the wolf.

Grab the goat back before Wolfie gets ’em

Then turnip travels

And finally, goat.

We avoided any adelphophagy - (had to google that shit)

And landed without rug burn. Might not of wanted to blow a breathalyzer, but sue me.