This morning, while in Starbucks waiting for my Iced Grande Triple Skim Latte I noticed a most horrible sound coming out of the speaker system. It was so excrutiating, I was having trouble thinking, ordering, paying or smiling. Of course, it didn’t help that there were droplets of sweat falling from the nape of my neck onto the small of my back. The two sensations coupled together drove my mood down south.

“What is that sound?” I asked the woman taking my money. “How is it you deal with that sound?”

“We’re forced to.” She answered without skipping a beat. “Nuts, huh? Sometimes, I take walks to clear my head. I’m not sure why anyone in their right mind would buy such a thing.”

“Do you think she realizes how badly she sounds? I mean, does she ever say, ‘Damn, I am bad at this. I guess that’s why Starbuck’s employees across the country have to listen to it all day—in hopes of selling a copy or two.’ It really is bad.”

“I know. Believe me.” The cashier handed me my change. I walked to the counter and waited.

Meanwhile, Alanis kept screaming something about some guy and love and other words that sounded like the scraping of fingernails on chalkboards and hyenas in heat. I wanted to call her and have a talk.

Who buys this shit? I thought to myself again. While standing there waiting for the barista to make my Iced Grande Triple Skim Latte, it occurred to me that the ordering of my drink and Alanis Morissette’s new CD might both be considered audible terrorism.