You walk up to the cashier and buy a biscotti and tell the punk to keep the change.
At your favorite spot, you're a work monster. Kids cry, old people cough up mucous and try their ringtones, someone tries to ask if they can plug their computer in beside you, but you ignore them all. You are Steve Jobs, but your efficiency at the moment is closer to the children making iPads at Foxconn. You plow through the assignment with ease. In fact, you finished a little too fast, so you dick around on your phone to milk the clock a bit.
When you look up, everyone is gone except the barista. He's holding a broom and giving you a look like he's imagining cutting your head off, like he's smelling your head roast in a pile of flaming tires, like get the fuck out before I kill you, bro!
"Alright, I'm leaving," you say packing your stuff up and heading into the night.
You take a shortcut down a back alley and, because of your obviously weak frame, are immediately jumped.
"Give me that laptop," the goon says holding a knife up. The blade shines in the darkness. You take a gulp.
One wizard thinks our President's magic control initiatives have gone too far.
Are we not allowed to be real parents anymore? We may have feared the CyborFreaks, but we damn well respected them and learned about boundaries.
Ron Paul spins in his chair, trying to grab his decorative antique musket but Freddy gets it first.
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