Little or nothing comes of losing one's cool in the manner of letting the grip of rage tighten around your neck and shoulders and so create the headache that is no less than a battering ram or giant mallet that smashes the last restraint of propriety and frees one to vent the foul odors of disgust, ire, reconstituted bile. This clears a seat on the bus, sure enough, and it can make a line shorter in the market on the busiest Christmas Eve, but there is the cost of conversations one will not have again soon unless they maintain a low profile, the loss of even the small talk that one may well have included in the litany of things that enrage them to paralysis itself. That is the irony, the world's angriest man wholly sufficient with the heat of their verbal tirade becomes a lonely bag of flesh, feeling every pound of the increasing weight as he plies himself with liquor, ale, wax coated snacks, dry cereal eaten in handfuls from the box. The perfect world is a rumor, the facts are what they are.