An employed suburbanite, an unemployed suburbanite, and a desert hermit. They each order a beer and have a seat.
A housefly falls into the beer stein of the employed suburbanite. He grimaces at the waste and orders another beer.
A housefly falls into the beer stein of the unemployed suburbanite. He looks right and left, mutters “oh, gross” and picks the fly out of the beer, hoping nobody sees.
A housefly falls into the beer stein of the desert hermit. He grabs the fly by the wings, shakes it over the stein and yells “Spit it out! Spit it out!”
We’ve been getting these big dust devils that blast up the wash and past the Lair, sometimes carrying absurd quantities of sand and grit right into whatever they hit. A moderate one slammed into the Lair just as I had poured myself an early afternoon beer.
Grit now covers everything. But I never considered discarding my one cold beer. When you live close to the ground in the desert, dirt is the square root of your whole life. I eat more than that in a average day; I’m not averse to drinking it.