You're standing in an interminable line at a US international airport. Although everybody's tired, a few glance at the CNN feed on every other monitor giving the ongoing rundown of the British situation. A man in a security vest is walking the line explaining the new baggage requirements, and a few dispirited people actually sit down on the floor to sort their carry-ons for easier access. You're looking over the shoulder of a lanky young man; somehow you think you should recognize him, but no, it couldn't be...
The man in the safety vest is still shouting over the din. "And we've just received word that flights to the UK are under code red, so absolutely no liquids are allowed on board."
The young man twitches, looks around nervously, and darts for the entrance. Safety vest man grabs his radio. "Aw crap, we've got a runner at gate 25!"
The man never drops the bag hanging from his shoulder, and papers fly out of the open side pocket. He has the speed, but security has the numbers. They're within a few yards of the man when he puts on an extra burst of speed, almost outmaneuvering the squad behind him, but looking back to gauge his progress is a mistake since he doesn't see the huge officer that clocks him with a forearm. He was barely five feet from the entrance to the parking garage when he found out how the floor tasted.
There is a struggle and blows are thrown. Sympathetic stares and mumbles of "excessive force" are heard from bystanders a few feet away. Finally, the security detail begin to drag the limp and beaten runner past you in handcuffs. The head of the security detail, red faced, grabs the prisoner and shakes him. "That was an unbelievably stupid stunt. What the hell is your problem, son?"
He's still struggling for his breath. "Buh...buh..."
"What's that again?"
And then it dawns on you what you're trapped inside. Dear God, don't let him say it...
He lifts his head, speaking loud enough to be heard down the corridor. "But what's going to happen to my icy cold Sierra Mist?" Your worst fears have been realized. It's the bruised face of Michael Ian Black.
The suddenly coy head security officer pockets the unopened bottle from the backpack. "Well, you know, we have to taste these things...to be sure they're what you say they are." At that moment, all the monitors flash those soon-to-be-infamous words: SIERRA MIST--DON'T LET THE TERRORISTS WIN YOUR THIRST.
Applause and laughter ripple down the line, but you just scowl at the quickly retreating group in disgust. "Goddamn product placement."