That's it, declared I. Standing up on my desk, chunks of ice and frost falling from my monitor screen as my desk shook beneath it's new burden. That's it, I said, and to hell with you all.

Yardbird, ever the voice of reason, just sighed and told me to sit back down. I spat some whiteout at him but it fell short and quickly froze into a white petroleum based puddle. Sit. Back. Down. Nutron.

It's at this point that I made the mistake of drawing the attention of one of our new editors. Tesla has a strange look about him, in case you hadn't noticed, and whenever he affixes you with that charged stare you know you're in for it.

Now listen Nutron, he said, ionizing the air between his freakish teeth. I've been sitting next to you for two goddamned years and every morning at 10:12 am you stand up there and let every one know that the proverbial 'That' to which you keep referring is 'it' and if you don't stop I swear I'm going to give you a permanent orange afro.

Telsa, who sits much closer to me than Yardbird, was well within range and I took another swig of whiteout.