Let’s face it; we live in hyper-reactive times. The teensiest trespass against us sets off radical, volcanic transmogrifications that make The Incredible Hulk look like a big green pussy. Spit-flecked invective and throbbing temple veins are instantly marshaled to man the pike-staffed ramparts of our fury, should our McNuggets fail to be brought forth in a timely manner. Mistrust and intolerance swirl around us like Carol Doda’s nipple tassels in a seedy Frisco supper club. Compromise and empathy have become about as appetizing as Planter’s Wart or Rob Schneider.
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 