And because some little snot-nose has a vivid imagination, or thinks it's fun to tell whoppers, I'm supposed to go traipsing off in some god-forsaken mine on the taxpayer's expense on a treasure hunt?
His old man was a miner and lived in Ouray when Fitzgerald was a kid—a snot-nosed bully, I suspect.
He dropped to his knees and wiped messily at the snot streaming from his nose and the tears frozen to his cheeks.
Then this one snot-nose gives me the finger.
Outlying territories it must Snot be held responsible.