My friend assured me that the wind shear would rip me off the little steel steps, even if I could hold on and still get everything else finished. He also suggested that an indecent exposure charge might not bode well for my police record. So I did what any other grown man would do, I squirmed. He intoned incredulously. We don't use gas.
Diesel fuel is for real men.
Alrighty then, I'm glad we got that out of the way. By now, I was getting desperate. I had taken off the sweatshirt, under which I was wearing a white T-shirt. I tried munching on my hot-sauce inundated beef jerky as a distraction, but soon found that I had dropped a large piece on my shirt. It came to rest right on my chest and left a nice little stain trail, like a barbecue snail trail.