A lot of theaters now use high-def monitors to display their menus, kind of like how I have a T-800 Terminator carry my groceries into my home for me. I know it's not the best use of his time and power, but I sent him to myself from the future for a reason, and that must be it. Movie theaters seem to be aware they're wasting this technology, so they try to justify it by occasionally having the menu overtaken by a full-motion video of soda splashing and popcorn flying and chicken tenders flopping about while I'm trying to decide if I want nachos or an eight-pound glazed ham.

My meditation on the plethora of almost-satisfying quasi-meals is interrupted by theater owners proudly declaring that mankind built the pyramids and walked on the moon, and now making a movie theater menu move a little is the next logical step in human achievement. Thinking of it like that, I guess I should be in more awe of their achievement. I also used to get excited and make everyone come see the doody I made. High school was a magical time. You're right, movie theater owners. Maybe I'm not appreciating the wonder of the eight-second window between the menu's screensaver turning on and the employee behind the scenes scrambling to move the mouse. There's nothing quite like having to sit through footage of French fries and chicken tenders colliding in midair because years ago an idiot thought food is most appetizing when it's being thrown.

Don't lie to me, drive-thru teen. We both heard a woman in her late 40s recite that pie speech. You can't expect me to give you my order. Where did she go? I want to talk to the woman who is clearly someone's awesome aunt, and that ain't you. Pre-recorded messages at drive-thrus are a corporate version of the voicemail joke that makes you think your friend picked up, so you start talking and then PSYCH IT'S THE VOICEMAIL YOU IDIOT KILL URSELF LOL! I'm the paying customer, and I'm insulted that they think it's OK to barely make it through a proper greeting before they try to force-feed me a novelty burger with bacon and Twizzlers. Just give a solid, believable hello before you try to mouth-fuck me with Whoppers.

If I do want what they're offering, I know Drive-Thru Teen will input the order. But I wasn't actually speaking to him. I was ordering cheeseburgers from a disembodied voice treading in the tidal swell of time, doomed to repeat the same sales pitch for eternity or until someone actually buys the thing they're pitching. No one ever never will.

Once I started pumping, a TV lodged in the chest of the pump flared to life with a news report about the election. I don't remember what it was about, but I do remember the blinding flash of white-hot rage I felt which nearly turned the station and everyone in it into a fireball at a theme park stunt show spectacular.

I'd heard of TVs in gas station pumps and had seen them on TV (ironically), but never in person. Living in a major city, I figured I would've encountered one of those much earlier. Eventually, the mild anticipation of seeing one faded out of memory. Then it was sprung in my face as a poorly timed surprise in the middle of my normally sacred ritual of staring into other people's cars as my tank filled, making up stories of what their lives are like. Just as I hit my peak of superiority at the sight of Mountain Dew bottles and empty cigarette packs littering the floors of a vehicle that was more hearse than Honda, the pump grew a face and started screaming at me about Donald Trump.

I've encountered them a bunch since. I have yet to figure out who they're for and why they're a thing. I have my phone, a window to a universe of fun and knowledge, in my pocket, but they think one minute of an ESPN analyst telling me Cam Newton needs to show more hustle followed by a Word Scramble (the answer is "The Eiffel Tower") can compete with limitless GIFs, recipes, and pornography.

Editor's Note: Sorry, Luis, but Soren Bowie looked it up back in 2011. You're fucked.

After the liner's center has been cut out from its small perforations, it ends up floating lifeless and sad on the surface of the toilet water. It's just there telling you to shit on it, because it's worthless and it deserves it. Its humiliation creates an anchor point for the entire liner and an ominous foreshadowing of a tragedy to come. There's a reason I'm harping on this, and it has to do with automatic flushing sensors ...

Some toilet flushing sensors are a little sensitive. A slight veer to the left or right will make the sensor think you've poofed out of existence, so the toilet will flush itself to hide all evidence that you were there. In its sudden insistence to play co-conspirator, the flush drags the paper liner down with it. If that's never happened to you, I'll have you know it feels like you're an elegant dining table place setting and a magician is trying to rip a tablecloth out from beneath your ass.

The more problematic scenario I've encountered is when a motion sensor is so sensitive that it'll flush when I turn around to sit on the seat after delicately arranging the paper liner to ensure every millimeter of ass is protected. (Editor's Note: It's not.) The liner will rip from beneath me as I start to sit. My majestic legs, which some say are each as powerful as several large men, can't even save me once they've gone full horizontal and my thighs transform into a lap. Mumbling "Aw, fuck" is cathartic, but does little to prevent my butt cheeks from making direct contact with the memories of 10,000 asses as they press against mine. I will grin and bear it, for the ends justify the means, but my poop will become a morose one filled with shame. Not of having pressed myself against an ass menagerie, but because I was psyched out by a toilet. Fuck it. I'm worthless. I am the anchor point floating in the bowl waiting to get shit on. I deserve this.