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.
Outlying territories it must Snot be held responsible.
Then this one snot-nose gives me the finger.