Right now I'm imagining a world in which I would turn around rip the voice box out of the sun-stained-lobster-red woman with the trashy Gatineau accent sitting behind me in Pearson; this would give me ample opportunity to smash the MB pro currently blaring fittingly atonal-pseudo-Jamaican club remixes, and simultaneously end her over-the-top frankenglish of a conversation with her equally trashy sounding sister.
It is kind of comforting knowing that if Schrodinger is right, that happened - somewhere.
I would also like to beat up Chuck Klosterman for being Chuck Klosterman and wasting my $20.
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