Drat. Blast. And shit. Did I mention shit?

In a strange twist of fate, we've broken down at the Border Patrol
station ten miles outside of Yuma. I'm dangerously close to boycotting
Arizona. We've got triple A on the way so we can get towed back to Yuma
and have our alternator replaced. How do we know it's the alternator?
Well, because this has happened before. That sound like a little Casius
Clay crippling the interior of your engine? That's an alternator, dying
miserably, without friends and family to mourn in. Now, we sit in this
fetid sweatbox and wait for a tow. This afternoon sucks my ass.