It’s a gorgeous day, so you decide to eat some ribs outside at The Woodshed (a BBQ joint). And the six of you are milling about, waiting for your table, when a flock of birds overhead shits on all of you. And all Hell breaks loose, with the crying and the laughing and the disgust and the demands to go home and the demands to stay. And you feel your whole range of emotions, but have the luxury of none of them. Because you’re the commander-in-chief of this army, and the morale of the troops has taken a nose dive. And you’ve got to salvage things for God and country and ribs. But mostly ribs.