Quite frankly, I’m a little unsettled by the large percentage of people who would, according to this week’s poll, kill somebody just to get their hands on one Klondike Bar. What’s even more unsettling, however, is that somebody stole my root beer tonight. After walking out of the Pita Pit, I set the drink on those circular bench things, and then I walked a few feet away. When I got back, my unopened root beer was mysteriously not there. What kind of sick, cold-hearted bastard would steal another person’s root beer? How could a person like that sleep at night?