PleasureKevin posted:

imagine you sit down to have dinner at a restaurant with your family. the server comes over and gives you all breakfast menus even though it's 6PM. you all flip over the menu and look it up and down a few times, only seeing breakfast. a simple mistake. the server comes over to collect the menus--but just then the tiny bell held above the door by shoestring rings, and inward begin to pile frantic fragments of humanity. one arm and one leg belong to a journalist, because the Canon camera and sling have them tied up quite nicely. a flower dress amongst them suggest a grandmother but it's soon clear from the movement that no hip replacement is involved and it's an ironic millennial wearing dumb garbage. like a scene from Spirited Away, the restaurant springs to life. someone yells "take a selfie of me in front of the all-night breakfast place!". this wasn't meant to be a place for breakfast-seeking hooligans. but market demands spoke loudly. the server withdraws his hand. his life is breakfast now. you nod and leave with your family. as you curb stomp your children in super smash bros XI, letting the self-driving car self-drive itself home, you have time to think to yourself. when you were a kid, Reese's for breakfast was a _game changer_. will you stand in the way of progress? the next night you return to the restaurant. as expected, they are still honouring their mistakenly put-out breakfast menus, with Pill Gangs now feuding over seats or defecating in newspaper boxes half a block up. "table for 5" you say, and after the server sweeps some broken glass off an enviable booth table, you're reading to take on the future. breakfast, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. the next gunshot your hear tugs you awake. how many shots was that? are those Cop Drone rounds or Illegal Shots? it doesn't matter, you think, even as a Cop Drone careens into a building across the street and spills fire and smoke over the whole block like a bowl of spaghetti and pasta sauce just jumped off a super-sonic merry-go-round. "raspberries" says your wife. "french toast and raspberries". they don't fear death. they want raspberries. and come hell or high water, your family will have raspberries, with some left over for the self-driving car to munch on too. you clench your fist with cocksure determination. but as you slowly unclench your fist, the gravity of the situation rains down. sticky. your hands are sticky. there is syrup everywhere. holy poo poo. ew. no no no.

that's kinda like javascript.