Hammered Shit

Master bursts through the front door, stumbling across the room to fall on the couch.
“What would you like for dinner?” I chirp.
“Don’t bother me,” groans Master. “I feel like hammered shit.”
Master bought me for these kinds of days. He can rest while I take care of everything.
Dinner, chores – everything.
I don’t do some things so well, sure, but I can try.
I mediscan Master. He’ll probably wake up at seven.
I scuttle to the kitchen and phone the hardware store.
They can deliver hammers in less than an hour.
Now where will I get the shit?