Guess Who's Got Gasmasks
   Let me paint you a mural.  It's late December of 1999.  Elian is in our hearts and on our minds.  Tech stocks are through the roof.  Lance Armstrong beats cancer and wins the Tour de France.  And everyone with any sense is terrified of the Y2K computer glitch and the anarchy that is to ensue.  I, like all safety-first Americans, purchase the essentials for survival: gas masks and an underground bomb shelter (for when the nuclear weapons of the world simultaneously explode), a windmill to generate power (wind being the only source of energy with the sun blocked out by radioactive gases), five years' worth of canned goods, farm animals, and many other products.
   Now, many people laughed at me when I spent all my savings on biohazard suits and the like, and many more did so after the uneventful New Year.  But now, with U.S. authorities issuing a terrorist alert, it looks as though I'm not such an idiot after all.  Ha!  When the bioterrorism befalls your home, don't come looking for my forest hideout.  And don't bother asking for any helpful hints from this boy scout.  Hey, maybe the laughter you once so callously spit upon me will help you.  You don't think so?  Well, it seemed to work in ‘99, motherfucker.  I don't—nay, I can't—forget.  The scars run deep.  You may not hear my muffled laughter through the gasmask, but you'll feel it.