Inside, ballooning dot-commers stand in line for Fillets O'Fish while raging at their hapless colleagues on their headset cell phones. Outside, half-dressed homeless people suck down Cokes while raging at passers-by who don't give them money. Chip some bird crap off one of the picnic tables on the traffic island in the middle of the drive-thru and sit down. Study the red-eyed, oil-stained, footless pigeons surrounding you, waiting hopefully for an errant french fry or, more likely, for you to turn your back so they can rush you. Breathe in the heady exhaust fumes from the idling Toyota 4Runners and BMW 530s of the local loft-dwellers and Web workers; you can almost feel the ozone layer thinning a few miles above your scalp. All in all, this is the perfect spot at which to, say, meet your ex to do a little final squabbling over the stock options -- trust us, his "half" will be worth many times what yours will -- and sign those divorce papers.