Well, the global Groundhog Day scenario continues, eh?

Hmpf.

I feel you, friends.

And yep, there’s no denying it: Our current sitch here on the third rock is scaring the stuffings out of old PK.

Period.

So I feel the need to again remind everyone of the CDC COVID-19 Guidelines for Avoiding Risk and the regulations outlined in the federal 30 Days to Slow the Spread campaign.

Basically, they say: “Don’t touch and stay put, y’all!”

Hello? THIS MEANS YOU. And me, too. And I’m taking it seriously.

I won’t even let Kerry in the kitchen when I’m in there. Oh wait, that’s kind of just a regular old “too many cooks” thing.

Hey, I’M the head chef here. Don’t judge. Besides, I don’t grill him when he’s grilling, so back off.

Speaking of backing off…

Look, if you’ve got to be mobile as someone who works in an essential business (AND THANK GOD FOR ALL OF YOU!), I get it. Please be careful in your comings and goings.

Me? I’m blessed to be able to work from home even though I do work for an essential business. But if you do not absolutely, positively, a bazillion percent have to be out and about, please don’t. If you do, I’m probably going to pop my top, capisce?

Look, I’m a donkey on the edge these days. Please don’t push me off.

Because those unwanted consequences of the stay-at-home orders are starting to get real … and they ain’t pretty, you dig?

The biggest danger? My husband’s physical wellbeing. I fear that he’s in peril of significant bodily harm.

Translation: I may beat him with empty paper towel cones… from several feet away, natch.

Shoot, I guess that means I’ll have to connect them somehow. Hmpf.

Anyway, it’s the paper towels that are the problem. Sort of.

For as guilty as I feel that the poor guy has to venture into the suddenly scary outside for his (also essential) job daily, I’m now relying on him to be the one to, you know, get stuff.

He’s become the family dealer, so to speak.

Hmm. I may be binge-watching too much “Breaking Bad.” Nah, you could never have too much Jesse Pinkman, yo.

I digress.

See, the humans in my house, of which he is one at last count, keep eating and whatnot. So we keep needing — stuff.

Now, I don’t want him to hoard, especially at a time like this. All I’m asking is that, when he’s shopping, instead of buying the miniature version, could he PLEASE and THANK YOU select the colossal, humongoid, extra-extra-read-all-about-it, super-duper, gargantuan pandemic-size of creamer or Velveeta or condensed milk or fill in the blank. A’ight?

I mean, I’ve asked him 18,473 times (yes, that’s quarantine math) to get the bigger sizes and he just won’t.

Grrr. Where’s my paper-towel pummeler?

Also, I’m going to have to make it considerably longer to bop another someone irritating the bejeepers out of me these isolation days.

It’s that brat, er, little girl in the “Pedialyte” commercial who whines to her zombie-looking dehydrated old dad, “Hey! That’s mine!” as he swigs from the bottle, clearly feeling like an extra from AMC’s “The Walking Dead.”

She’s lucky I’m housebound, know what I’m saying?

But seriously, stay safe and be well all. Hang in there; we got this. And when we do, I’m grabbing me a whole honking aisle-full of chocolate-glazed doughnut K-cups.

• Kimerer is getting a little quarantine crabby, but wishes everyone wellbeing and Godspeed. Visit her blog any time day or night: www.patricia kimerer.com