As the sun rose, a shocked community gathered to view the damage. The tornado that ripped through the sleepy town of Riverside wreaked havoc upon Crestview Village. At least forty homes had been hit – three of them flattened, leaving nothing but a cement slab.

Richard Ebaugh and his wife Judy walked along the main thorough fare calling out names of friends and neighbors. They weren't alone. More than two hundred residents of Crestview gathered at the school bus stop, the only structure left untouched, to count heads and look for survivors.

The bright sun belied the horror of the previous night. Dozens of frightened and shaken people were accounted for still huddling in storm shelters and interior closets. Shouts of relief and joy could be heard frequently as another survivor was found.

The sound that rang out just after noon was different. The cry for help resounded and repeated, like a chain of howling dogs. As people arrived at the source of the shout, it only took a slight minute before they sprung into action. What they saw at the edge of the ravine was a huge pile of debris – and Minnie Peters. She was conscious, but barely breathing, nearly crushed by the weight.

Any movement could dislodge the treacherously arranged pile, so a small group of about twelve set to work quickly but carefully. With tears in their eyes and prayers on their lips, the crowd watched in anticipation for two hours. A song broke out as the last piece of mangled door frame was removed. The melody grew, bold and thankful that the last person was finally safe.

The sun set upon the same scene as it had risen, but with one major change. The tight-knit community was now more than friends. They were forever family.

Delashious! That’s what trendy celebs are calling Beverly Hills cosmetic surgeon Viro Fabanza and his latest enhancement for the oh-so rich and famous—custom eyelash implants. Yes, those were miniature peacock feathers you saw gracing actress Bella Hawthorne’s baby blues at the Emby awards last month— each one a perfect replica of the real thing— and costing $7000 per lash! Dr. Viro (as his clients call him) says “a full set usually costs about $80,000, depending on the materials involved”. His most popular choice is the Dreamcatcher, a set of deep brown lashes fashioned from the undercoat of the rare Madagascar flying fox, held together in fishnet form by tiny beads of jade or opal. Also topping the list are the “Shimmer-Me-This” treatment (gold leaf dusts each genuine Royal Bengal tiger cub hair) and the “Forty Winks”, a set of forty flawless sapphires, suspended from a platinum fiber.

The implant process takes about 4 hours to complete, and clients are able to walk out and enjoy their new lashes as early as the day after the procedure. The downside? “Obviously swimming is not recommended,” laughs Dr. Viro, “but as long as clients are careful in the shower, there are really no concerns”. Except of course, all of the attention! What about implants for us regular mortals? Dr. Viro does two designer lash options for bargain hunters- the “Lash-up Mash-up”, a random collage of test lashes from his design studio, and the “Patriot”, a set of all-American down feathers from a bald eagle hatchling. The price? A steal at $13,000 for both eyes. Next year, Dr. Viro hopes to have more clients a-flutter with his lashes when he opens implant clinics in the Cayman Islands and Brazil.

There has been a lot of talk about Frankenfood, that is to say, genetically engineered seed that produces desirable traits in a plant. Modifications included making a potato that naturally produces insecticide. Of course while it kills insect pests, it means when you eat it, you are also eating insecticides.

This also works for animals, for example, scientists in Taiwan have succeeded in making pigs glow in the dark by inserting jellyfish genes (I am not making this up). Why they decided to do it is anybody’s guess.

Other combinations that have also been tried: Flounder genes in Salmon so they do not freeze in winter, cow genes in pigs so they produce more milk, and spider genes in goats so they produce spider silk in their milk (I swear, I am still not making this up).

Jellyfish genes have also been used in mice, rabbits and monkeys (apparently this is a popular pastime among mad scientists who can’t find their lab animals in the dark).

Which brings about an important question: Are Worth chop artists cheating? Those half bird/half monkey pictures: are they really chops, or a photographer that got into one of these labs?

To get to the bottom of this, we visited the lab that produced the spider webs in goat milk, and asked the question, “Have Worth artists been here?”

“Heavens no!” the director said. “As a matter of fact, we look to Worth to supply us with what animals to combine next. You should see the donkey-elephant we are currently working on.”

“Any particular reason for that choice of animals?”

“With the upcoming election, we wanted to give the voters the best of both parties.” he said.

"Which animal is the head?"

"Neither, of course."

I am a Dad. I call our son Wonderboy, because he is a wonder. We adopted him at the age of 3 and a half. When we first met him he knew 40 words, and he filled my hat with grass. He doesn’t remember knowing only 40 words, but he remembers the grass.

As parents of a child with a disability (a severe hearing loss in both ears and a whole range of learning disabilities) My wife and I became speech therapists, educators, advocates and much more. We learned to tag team as parents so neither of us went over the edge. Without both of us, Wonderboy’s life would be much harder. We learned step by step how to work hearing aids, and how to decipher his speech. We celebrated as words became sentences, became paragraphs, became the endless flow of words of a child discovering his world. We learned the educational process step by step. Challenges led to victories and each struggle was worth it.

He is a teenager now. It doesn’t matter that Wonderboy has a disability, or that I still have a lot to learn about being a father. What matters is the adventure. The time that I spend as Dad is precious. I get to teach Wonderboy what it means to be a man, to be strong and gentle, to stand up for what is right. I get to nurture my family and protect them from what can harm them.

Some day he will have his own child, and live his own adventure. I will get to spoil my grandchildren and tell them about the day I met their father, and how he stole my heart and filled my hat with grass.

The local Mime’s club has announced a mime bungee jumping day, in which mimes will enact bungee jumping from the Thomas P. Howell memorial bridge at 10 am this coming Saturday. This event has taken the country by storm, and the venues are always packed with local townspeople who for once fully applaud the performances. Tickets are advance sale only.

PETM (People for the Ethical Treatment of Mimes) will be on hand to be their usual killjoy selves, and will be carrying their famous “A mime is a terrible thing to waste” signs. This is expected not to dampen the festivities, however attendees are reminded entering PETM members in the contest the day of the event is considered bad form, so be sure to sponsor one ahead of time.

As usual, points are awarded for form in the jump itself, as well as the convincing miming of being bounced back at the last minute by the non-existent bungee cord. Judges are allowed to assign extra points for the *SPLAT* at the end of the performance.

Local shopkeeper, Horace Q Lackluster, reports a brisk business selling mime costumes and makeup to attendees of the event, and reports buying his whole family tickets.

“This is probably the greatest thing that ever happened to our town” he said. “It gets the mimes off the street, and into a performance setting where they belong.”

Tickets can be purchased at most local stores, and proceeds benefit family and survivors of the performers.

Our country faces at least a googolplex of societal problems. From global warming to the uninsured…from violent crime to corporate corruption…from sea to shining sea, you’ll find people with problems. Details and facts aside, I believe the cause of the majority of mankind’s pickles and predicaments can be boiled down to two words: morons marrying.

In order to protect morons from themselves, and to protect the rest of us from morons, I say we put an end to moronic intermingling. Boneheads may date one another for periods not to exceed one year, but they may never marry. If two dingbats inadvertently slip through the matrimonial system, they may remain married until hypertension or death do them part, but under no circumstances may two married morons reproduce.

Before you dismiss my idea as unreasonable, consider this: imbeciles are taking over. Everywhere we go — the gas stations, the grocery stores and especially those gigantic home centers — we are overrun by them! They fill our churches and schools, clog our highways and airplanes, and dominate the customer service industry.

For morons we have sacrificed hot coffee at McDonald's, pocketknives with sharp edges out of the box, dogs who bite trespassers, and lawnmowers that don't turn off when we pull our pants up. Morons occupy our DMV's, our court benches and, let's face it, many an oval office.

The moron problem in America cannot be underestimated. If morons continue to marry, the dunce population in this country could triple by the year 2020, in which case virtually every government agency, private corporation and public institution in America will be run by simpletons.

Stop the senseless destruction of tolerance and good sense, and the erosion of personal freedom and happiness in our country. Remember, friends don't let moron friends marry morons.

The government announced a new ten billion dollar program to study the ways of detecting or interdicting a blimp.

“These things really are a menace.” a government spokesman said under the condition of anonymity since he did not want to sound like a complete idiot. “They fly too low to be detected by radar, they have few, if any, metal parts, and they give off next to-no heat. At the speed they travel, if radar does see them, they look like a flock of ducks. In addition they are suitable for any payload of a weapon of mass destruction, most notably biological.”

Haliburton is one company that won a two billion dollar grant for developing an anti-blimp defense system, with entails outfitting Coast Guard boats with huge butterfly nets to capture the blimps.

GE has come up with a three billion anti-blimp weapon which is satellite based, and excites the helium molecules in the blimp so they expand, and make the blimp rise harmlessly into the stratosphere.

Another company has won a contract to mass produce the massive air cannons used to hurl pumpkins as far as a mile. These would be aimed at the control room of the blimp, obstructing vision and making the blimp impossible to steer. “This system has the advantage that the projectiles are totally biodegradable, and help the local farmers with the excess pumpkin harvest.” a spokesman said. It is rumored the pentagon is sponsoring a program to genetically alter pumpkins to be more aerodynamic at the cost of $5,000 per pumpkin for this program.

In the meantime, the government plans to watch global helium production carefully, and apply sanctions to those countries selling supplies of it to known terrorist groups.

When I was in junior high school, my biology lab partner was a girl named Wendy. She was really cute, but I was too shy to every let on that I noticed. I hardly ever saw Wendy after junior high, but I heard about her just after New Year's Eve a couple of years ago. She had been leaving a party and walking to her car when a bullet fell out of the sky, killing her instantly. Someone had fired that bullet into the air to celebrate the new year, never meaning to hurt anyone. But Wendy's life was ended, and her family had to deal with this unimaginable challenge. This included the financial burden of medical bills and funeral expenses.

Wherever you stand on the right to bear arms, chances are you would agree that people also have a right not to be injured or killed by a randomly flying bullet. Having to bear the financial costs is literally adding insult to injury.

It would be a simple matter of statistics to determine what kinds of injury and damage are caused by each type of ammunition, and add a per unit fee to go into a fund to pay property damage, medical and funeral expenses to those who (or whose survivors) can demonstrate "innocent bystander" status. Ammunition dispensed and used in a closed shooting range would be exempt. And gun owners would only bear additional expense based on the amount of ammunition purchased. For true personal safety usage, this amount is likely to be low.

There are risks associated with living in a society with gun rights, but the fairest approach is to require those who choose to own guns to bear greater responsibilities.

It was a cold, wet, tempestuous January evening; the night I died. The wind howled and ebbed like a storm driven tide in a secluded cove. The rain, almost acidic, burnt my face with its sheer force and all warmth left me like passengers from a blown air cabin. I was forsaken by everyone and everything in the midst of the menacing moors. Black bleak hills encompassed the horizon, broken only by the haze of the timid moon that peeked from behind the morbidly black clouds. The muddied ground tried to pull me down in to its muggy, lifeless world.

Suddenly the will to carry on fled my weary mind and I collapsed with a sigh of hopelessness. My face was numb, my eyes burnt unmercifully and my entire being convulsed uncontrollably. As I sank a little in to the earth; a salubrious blanket of mud began to enshroud my lower body. Loving warmth melted me from within as the convulsions slowly ceased.

For the first time that evening, higher thoughts – thoughts other than pure survival – entered my jaded mind. Brief snapshots of my past hit me: the girls I never asked out, the rocks I never climbed and the friends I never sought out. My life had been empty and wasted; I truly was the hermit Wordsworth spoke of. A few brief lines from my only companion in life screamed out, “’Young as I am, my course is run / I shall not see another sun’, ‘O weary struggle!’, ‘And be forgiven’” To be forgiven would have been bliss, but there was no one but myself to forgive me. My final thoughts were of my discovered body and so I rolled on to my back and crossed my arms. Slowly a veil of black descended and I was gone.

My son is a picky eater. It’s not my fault. I have two other children and they are fine. My oldest daughter even likes Sushi – the raw quail eggs and slimy fish type of Sushi. My son will eat scrambled eggs if they are well done without any brown spots. He will eat fish if it is shaped like a stick. (He also likes expensive shellfish).

He eatschicken nuggets. Actually that’s not true; he likes chicken nuggets from Wendy’s. My son will also eat pizza, hotdogs, fries, and pears. Sometimes he will eat breakfast cereal. Ketchup is his favorite vegetable. Ketchup is his only vegetable.

Why is he such a picky eater? We have several theories. First, he has an incredible sense of smell. When he was three, he stood in the middle of the buffet floor on the verge of tears insisting that he wanted green Jello. I tried to explain that they didn’t have any green Jello, but he was insistent. “They do have green Jello. I can smell it.”

An employee stared in amazement. “We just ran out of green Jello.” I didn’t even know that Jello had a smell. My son can smell the lingering after effects of green Jello.

Then, there’s his supersensitive gag reflex. If he doesn’t like something, then no matter what you do to get it in his mouth, it comes right back out. Grandma once offered him $25 to eat a single green pea. He is still insisting that he won the money, but we are following the rules of Competitive Eating and disqualifying him due to a “reversal.”

I’d tell you more, but I have to go pack his lunch. He won’t eat sandwiches. He’s the only fourth grader who packs a thermos of chilled peel-n-eat shrimp.