Say you're out in the country, seeing the sights, when you spot a nondescript place with a giant, neon sign that screams, "EAT!" in three colors. You pull in, go inside, order a 'burger, fries, and a pop -- the penultimate American meal.
"Sure thing," says the guy at the counter, all smiles, and says, "that'll be 14 million dollars, on the nose -- if you buy it now, and can take delivery in 60 days."
The guy continues, his eyes briefly watching you chewing your bottom lip. "Of course, by then, it'll be closer to 40 million, what with cost overruns, for those three meals that you wanted. Of course, there's no guarantee what'll be in 'em, at that low a price," the counterman concludes.
Something fizzles and pops in your head. You narrow your eyes, not aiming to be played today, right now, and say clearly, "That was only the one meal I wanted," you assert, hands propped on the countertop.
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As I type these lines, on June 3, 2013, Private First Class Bradley Edward Manning is...
