Okay. It's a few minutes after the game. The earth's climate has not frozen over just yet. There is still time to put these words into digital form so they might be here for archaeologists of another world to find sometime just before the heat death of the universe. Hello travelers from Vulcan.
Death. Taxes. The Lions losing at Lambeau. Well, now we're all immortal sons of bitches living off the grid. The Man can't find us up in these mountains and forests. No sir. We'll brew white lightning and polish shotguns all day. Plant some green nasty sticky-icky up the holler when a few bucks need be had.