My oldest son is 13. We rode the local bus from our apartment building to his school the other day, and when we got off, he stopped for a moment to read a graffito adorning the scabrous front of a bodega near the bus stop. Someone had left there, written in black magic marker, the bitter missive: "4 AM, no beer. F*** you."
Zach impassively regarded this scribbled outburst for a moment, and then remarked, "Of course, probably the last thing whoever wrote that needed is more beer."