Let me paint a picture for you. I'm running late to go to a hair braiding party (shout out Rubi Jones) and I'm super hungry. I don't have much time, but when I walk out of the subway, I see my future on the horizon: McDonalds. The golden arches glimmer on the dim and somewhat dire neighbourhood corner. But it calls to me. I walk in and it isn't super busy. I hear a couple of old Russian men gabbing on about what I can only assume is Mafia business. There is a man about my age in a red shirt standing in front of me, and a couple people on the other side of the counter, waiting for their numbers to be called. One of these people is a man. Probably mid-50s, wearing a "My son wears combat boots" t-shirt tucked into khaki shorts and thick 70's style glasses. I'm going to call this man Roger. Roger has a lot to say and is not caring about who is listening, or not listening. Some phrases he shouted aggressively include: ...