As a monument to the weariness of the working class, I give you the following: After work today, I went to a lovely eating place with a lovely pal o' mine and ordered a steak which had an accompanying choice of potato. To my ears, the description of the potato options sounded like, "Baked, mashed or French Rice." "French Rice," I replied. Seconds went by as I still didn't notice my IQ points slipping out one ear and pooling onto the floor. My friend pointed out, "I think he said French Fries." On later examination, the thought occurred to me that maybe when servers are taking your order, they're not writing down what you're asking for, but rather their opinion of you. In my case, the clean cut, helpful young man must've been scribbling "reTARDed" across his green and white lined pad. In any case, terminally exhausted of the world, you are my kin. I feel you.