(This one required some thought) A long time ago I sat for 16 hours in a broken-down Humber Pig in Northern Ireland while we waited to get retrieved. The Pig had blown an axle and we were just sitting there hoping to get picked up before the IRA insurgents got brave enough to come down to street level and burn the vehicle with us in it. It was August, beastly hot, we had almost no water, no vehicle-mounted ordinance, and we couldn't so much as open the viewports because of the snipers. Three of my mates passed out from the heat and when we were finally retrieved the rest of us were sitting there in our boxers, playing euchre, and discussing whether or not it would be possible to slake our thirst by using a plain saline IV.
It was on that day that I made a decision to not waste one second of my life worrying about shit I can't do anything about.
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I have driven to the store and paid $1.50 for one. I do, after all, have a job and live in an industrialized society.
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No, but I do typically wear boxers. At my age I've earned the right.