I'll never forget where I was on that fateful January 6th day. It had just begun to snow, and I was on my walk with a broom, sweeping the snow off so that it would not accumulate and turn to ice and kill me, or cause some stranger to slip and sue me. My neighbor, Toadsworth, stuck his head out of his front door and shouted, "Hey, Ardvarcus, why are you sweeping the snow with a broom? Get a shovel, you faggot." I called back, "Mind your own business, pedo, or I'll come over there and hurt you." It was then that the sky turned a bright red. A few moments later, a squadron of bombers flew overhead, and I knew the end times had begun. Grabbing up my cat, my dog, and my wife, I drove furiously northward. Traffic was insane. Everyone was trying to get out of the city. I saw a man get shot in the head over a cheese sandwitch, and some old lady cut off a child's head, stuck it on a pole, and started waving it around like some ju-ju curse. Finally, we reached the cabin in the mountains. I'm a prepper, so it was already stocked with delicious dried food and government cheese I had bought off the niggers. With all the automatic weapons I'd collected, I figured we could hold up there for six months, as long as the septic tank didn't back up. We turned on the television. Reception is crap in the mountains, so all we can get is CNN. There was that bald guy who looks like a potatoe, screaming and crying and waving his fat little arms in the air. "The MAGA people have taken over the Capitol," he was saying over and over, the spittle flying from his lips. Well, to make a long story short, we stayed in the cabin until the riots died down, then drove back to our house to see what was left. The ground was smoking from the residual of the atomic blast and there were bodies everywhere, but the wild dogs had eaten most of the flesh, leaving only bones. Then, as we were climbing out of my Ticonderoga 4X4 pickup, the skeletons began to move and stand up ... but that's another story.