I think this focus on guns for self defense is just wrong, wrong, wrong. Guns are clearly not able to fend off the truly dangerous things out there, from rampant drug gangs to tyrannical Muslim atheist usurpers trying to turn the USA into a fascist nation! Go USA! Anyhoo, so I have designed a genuine crime-free home. A fortress into which you can retreat should the exterior violence get to be too much for you.
A set of airlocks instead of a front door, including a full minute of microbiotic scrubbing and disinfectant guaranteed to protect you from all sort of manufactured death bugs. This array will also include radiation detection. You know, just in case.
And don’t worry, the solid steel doors and CCTV system will help you time the first retaliation just right. Above the half circle of steel in which the entry door is mounted is a chute, down which a grenade may be dropped. You can do this manually or on a timed release.
This will easily get you through the decontamination procedures and into the rest of the house. Once having been scrubbed and determined not to be a flesh-eating zombie or possessed by any evil alien entities, you will be allowed through the second airlock to access the House computer’s higher functions. House, which will be granted the voice of our dearly missed virtual companion, Gregory House, along with as much personality as current cybernetic technology allows. Vicodin effect optional.
This house, of course, is buried in the side of a giant mesa in the New Mexico desert, on top of a secret well that helps feed a reservoir supplemented with the tears of Native Americans and deported Mexican laborers.
In the basement of this complex is what I like to call the Bat/Rat/Wolf/Cat cave. This is where you can, in perfect solitude–or with the companionship of an aging servitor or young ward of either sex–pretend to be serving the people of the world instead of your own corrupted ego by rushing out from cover to make pointless media appearances and otherwise act like a total jackass.
Yes, I’m talking to you, Squirrel-Boy. Write one decent guitar lick and everyone acts like you have the faintest idea what the hell you’re talking about. Listen, Ted, you knuckle-dragging, fetid-breathed, arse-licking polecat, why don’t you spend your twilight years playing the thirty seconds or so of music that makes you the least bit relevant, (and, yeah, I’m talking about the damn Stranglehold solo, you hillbilly nimrod) and shutting the fuck up otherwise? I can’t tell you to shut up and sing, because, really, you don’t sing in the first place.