Grab that shotgun, little man. Agents are surounding your house as you tickle the qwerty - blue team, go, Go, GO! I love the smell of incendiary tear gas in the morning. Makes the chirp of birds sound like a cacouphonous symphony in your pants. Meanwhile the choppers overhead are a mere annoyance. Mr. Johnson down the block wants to know who's mowing their goshdarn lawn?!?! Run for the back door, oh - what's that? A Panzer...right in your back yard. "Note to self: rebuild that fence, after my six year stretch." Better choose another escape route. Make a move for the attic. If Hurricane Katrina taught us anything it's that the last place the government will look for you is on your roof. Better grab that bag of Chex Mix though. And that pillowcase full of 'ludes. You never know how long you could be... BOOOOOOOOM. A shot from the Panzer rips through the morning air reducing your house to rubble. A search team is organized and fifteen days later they find your mangled form underneath a ceiling brace. Good thing you had those 'ludes. You could have starved to death. No matter, they pick you up, brush your shoulders off (cause you no doubt you're feeling like a pimp) and take you off to jail. You know what they do to illegal downloaders in the pen, little man? You lose. Please insert 25 cents.