THE GRAVEL and dirty snow creaked, relenting underneath the treaded tires of Ammon Bundy's Ford F-350. "Malheur Wildlife Refuge, brother. This is it. This is where we make our stand. Our stand against the government," he grunted, flicking down the volume on the 15th consecutive playing of "This Land Is Your Land."

His brother, Ryan Bundy, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He counted the pines as they flitted by the window and felt present in the most dreadful way. Ryan chirped, "This could go real bad, real quick, Ammon, real ba—," the truck blasted over a bump in the road. "It'll be fine, Ry-Guy. Just remember why we're here, buddy," Ammon clutched Ryan's leg reassuringly. "Just remember why we're here."

"The media's starting to show up, Ammon, they're right outside," yelped Ryan. The inside of the federal building was spartan, but lively. The cheerful clatter of friendly conversation filled the air, belying the tension that was mounting outside. "That's good, my sweet little piece of Ry-Bread. This is what we talked about," replied Ammon, ruffling Ryan's hair. He locked eyes with his brother. "Hey, you know I'd never let anything bad happen to you, right? Look at me. Right? It's just like the standoff back at Dad's ranch. These government bozos are yellow. Govern-ment? More like govern-women-t, right?" Ryan grinned and said, "You're right Ammon. You're always right."

"Too long have we existed under the boot heel of big government, brothers," Ammon bleated powerfully, to the group of 15 armed militia members gathered inside the building. "Today that changes. Today we make our stand. Today, is our Independence Day," he shouted. "Grab your guns, brothers, the guns that Barack Obama wants to rip from your hands. Grab your guns, and let's show these government stooges and liberal media elites why we're here!" The men broke into a furor. They shouted and squealed as they burst through the doors and spilled onto the snow-covered grounds outside.

A standoff. The militia had their guns trained on the federal agents and media, who in turn had their guns and cameras trained on the militia. Ammon's voice boomed, "The government doesn't have the right to restrict our use of our land! And the government doesn't have the right to control our bodies!" The federal agents exchanged quizzical looks. "Now watch my brother Ryan suck my little wiener until I come! Go ahead, Ry-Guy."

Ryan yanked down his brother's pants, revealing his sparse pubes and stupid little dick with a "Don't Tread on Me" tattoo spackled sloppily above the root. As Ryan took his brother's dumb penis into his mouth, Ammon groaned, "I bet the liberal media won't show this, because you're in Obama's pocket! Well, this is America!"

A reporter in a ski jacket asked, "I thought this was about grazing rights?" Ryan ripped his brother's semi-flaccid wang from his mouth, screaming, "Yeah, my rights to graze on this dick. Semper Fi!"

Then Ammon came a little bit and everyone went home.