It’s pretty likely that it’s a four digit number, and as there are four digits chosen there, that means that there cannot be any repetition. This mean that there are:

No, no, no. Don’t base your deductions of psychology. Let’s talk chemistry. When you first press a button, there’s more of the natural oils on your skin, and therefore it wears down the numbers on the keys faster. Obviously 0 is the first one, then. Try 0791 first.

The light is green.

The state of New Jersey has become the latest to ban bump-stocks for firearms, and despite strict threats to owners who refuse to turn their newly illegal devices over to police, not a single resident has complied with the new law.

The legislation banning the popular A-15 accessory, Senate Bill 3477, went into effect immediately after it was signed into law by Gov. Chris Christie in January, and it gave residents 90 days to “voluntarily surrender any bump stock in their possession to a law enforcement agency.”

The bill criminalizes the possession or sale of “bump stocks,” which it defines as “a device designed to attach to a semi-automatic firearm in order to fire shots in rapid succession in a manner that simulates an automatic firearm.” This new law adds to an existing state law banning guns that have been deemed as “assault rifles.”

“Under current law, it is a second-degree crime to possess an assault firearm or part or combination of parts designed or intended to convert a firearm into an assault firearm.  This bill makes it a third-degree crime to possess a bump stock, regardless of whether the person is in possession of a firearm, and provides that the penalty for possessing a bump stock is to run consecutively with the penalty for possessing an assault firearm. The bill also establishes a third-degree crime of manufacturing, transporting, shipping, selling, or disposing of a bump stock.  A crime of the third degree is punishable by three to five years’ imprisonment, a fine of up to $15,000, or both.”

Go to the goddamn grocery and get steak. Yes, the grocery. A little ammonia is not going to kill you, you pussy. You want to be all fancy and grass-fed and environmentally conscious, go ahead, I don’t give a shit, just get a fucking steak. Ribeye is good. And, yes, bone-in. Schmuck. Take the steak home. Get a bigass frying pan and put the shit on the stove, cranking the heat up as far as that fucker will go. Take a shitload of salt — rocksalt, you dumb motherfucker, none of that fine-grained crap here — and toss it around the bottom of the pan. When the pan is hot as all fuck — it should scorch the shit out of your finger if you’re stupid enough to touch it — put the fucking steak on there. You can crack some pepper on the top of the steak as the bottom is searing, but don’t even talk to me about garlic or onion powder or COMPOUND FUCKING BUTTER, asshole. This is steak, all you fucking need is salt and pepper. After a bit (3 minutes for pink, 5 for cooked good), flip that shit over and do the same fucking thing you just did with the other side, i.e. sit on your ass and wait for your motherfucking steak to be ready, you useless assbag. When you’re done, sling that shit on a plate. Beringer’s 1996 Cabernet Sauvignon Napa Valley Private Reserve makes an absolutely delightful accompaniment, particularly if you’ve taken care to let it breathe a bit before quaffing. Also, make some fucking potatoes, because that’s what you eat with a fucking steak. God, sometimes I just want to smack the shit out of you.

I stood up and threw my arms up into the motion of an air guitar, my wife is begging me to sit back down, and I pointed at the guy who may be Keanu Reeves, and said, “Most Excellent.”

He stood up and did it back at me. Then we both had a moment and pointed at each other. I sent him another of whatever it was he was drinking. It was a cucumber sake martini. That was the end of it.

Or so I thought.

He left before we finished our meal. By the time we were done, dessert came that we didn’t order. We thought, “oh, must be compliments of the chef.” Then the bill never came. When we asked for it, our waitress said Keanu Reeves took care of it.

IT WAS REALLY HIM. And he left a note. It said, “thanks for the refresh. Keanu.”

When I finally saw him again years later, because of work. I brought it up. Then he air guitar and said, “most excellent. I remember. At Nobu’s. Thanks for the drink.” We chatted a bit and I got an autograph for my mum because she’s a huge Keanu fan. Then that was that.

Then Keanu walks up. Calmly charms the guy. Slips the usher behind the bar cash to cover the bottle, without the guy even noticing, and walks him back in to his seat like it’s a normal thing he does every day. He didn’t know the guy, didn’t know any of us, but effortlessly deescalated the situation and quite probably saved some jobs that night.