such as after a long day assisting the Terran Trade Authority compile organized listings of every diapered pervert wandering around the Aztlán corridor, ... or rather the diapered perverts of the fifth column you're supposed to be organizing into holding pens under the Denver International Airport mocking you, making fun, and stealing your pants, subverting the common good and defiling the youth of the nation with their perverted notions of shame and love and grief and the slow descent into melancholy which perpetrates the DO NOT TOUCH THOSE PAPERS... I HEAR YOU... before you head off to your secret night job, revealing to the whole collection of ingrates that you have one of those air conditioned, gas powered...
...
after that, all you can do is sit in your 70's-ass bathtub with your 70's-ass hair, cry, and eat chicken strips until its time to leave to go to that now-not-so-secret night job and SERIOUSLY, CUT IT THE HELL OUT, I'M WARNING YOU BASTARDS.

I HAVE A GUN.