Call this a public service announcement. Lionel Horner from the tech club rigged every television in the school so this broadcast could be made possible. (Muffled words are exchanged off-camera.) Excuse me, an unnamed member of the tech club rigged every television in the school so this broadcast could be made possible. Let me start by declaring my patriotism. I am a patriot. Dare I say, one of the five or ten greatest patriots of my generation. I am such a patriot that when a small electrical fire ignited the very flag behind me, I risked my life to put it out. I burnt my jeans in the process. But I digress. My fellow students, I’ve watched CNN and Fox News. I’ve seen those terrorist training videos on YouTube. I understand the prevailing threats that threaten to threaten the wellbeing of this country and this school. Yesterday was a wake-up call. Our so-called “terrorism safety drill” is a joke, and in the case of a real terrorist attack we’d all be French toast. Hiding under our desks? Please. I am officially announcing the formation of the Mulberry Valley High School Anti-Terror Fellowship, and nominating myself to act as both fellowship president and chief terrorist hunter. My credentials? I have, in the past, on several occasions, slain orcs, werewolves, basilisks, vampires, Romulans, and Decepticons. I own my own chain mail battle armor. I am an orange belt in goju ryu karate. This sword, the guy who sold it to me said it may or may not have once belonged to the noble Sir Lancelot. I will dedicate myself to protecting this school and everyone inside of it, students and faculty alike. What do I ask in return? My demands are nominal. I will need a first lady, an Amazonian to fight beside me. Daphne Warner, I suppose, should suffice. (Muffled words are exchanged off-camera.) Also, the rest of the fellowship will need terror-prevention partners of the opposite gender. Girls. Furthermore, I will need the gym for a few hours after school each day and a few brave, selfless men to practice our combat techniques on. Trey Bowles and his cronies, possibly. For anyone wishing to join my fellowship of valiant warriors, look for me in the back of the cafeteria, past the vending machines and the trash cans, the empty table with the rickety chairs, the station with napkins and silverware and condiments. If you squint, you should be able to see me.

Chad Bakerson’s love of all things Egyptian dates back to 1974, when his father, home from a business trip, presented Chad with a small marble pyramid he purchased from a gift shop at Dulles airport. Chad would spend the next 35 years trickling change into coffee cans, saving for a trip east. The vacation should have taken place decades ago, but every few years something happened that forced him to exhaust his funds and start again from scratch – first, a girlfriend, then college, then a wife, then the twins, then a second son.

Finally, he’s made it. His family is with him. They are dressed in tradition garb – pleated robes and sandals, golden sashes and headdresses. It takes them twice as long to get through customs. Following a final frisking, they walk like Egyptians to baggage claim. Everyone in the airport is watching them. The Bakersons tell the taxi driver to take them someplace to eat, someplace close to the pyramids. “Drive, slave!” they joke, and pretend to whip him. The driver drops them off at a McDonald’s. Through the window they can see the crown of the Great Pyramid of Giza. They dip their chicken nuggets into plagues of ketchup. No meal has ever tasted so good.

Monty saunters into the library with a pipe between his lips. Small, opaline bubbles swirl around his head. “My God! The Dukes are going to corner the entire frozen orange juice market!” he says.

Lewis pokes his head out from behind his laptop. He smiles.

An inside joke. The two brothers have watched Trading Places 137 times. They are partial to the work of Dan Aykroyd. Trading Places has taught them several important life lessons: commodity potential, humility, and the true value of money.

Lewis clicks away at his laptop while Monty stares out the window. He clasps his hands behind his back, adjusts the pipe in his mouth. The left lens of his tinted glasses flares in the sun. On every wall a clock is ticking, in perfect synchronicity; they move as a single unit. Each morning the family’s majordomo, Klaus, resets every clock in the house.

Outside, children are playing – heaving red rubber balls at one another. Sometimes, in their weaker moments, the boys wish to play ball games as well. Then they remember the words of their late father. You boys aren’t like other boys, he said. You boys are special. You boys have that one-in-a-million killer instinct. So be proud.

The clocks strike 9:30. The opening bell.

“Red balls, Lewis. Red balls,” Monty says, watching the kids crowd around a girl who just took a ball in the back of the head.

A few minutes later, the kids switch to blue balls. “Blue, Lewis! 10,000 in blue balls. Lewis, are you getting this?”

Lewis clacks away at the keys.

“Frisbees! Buy, buy, buy!”

“Kites, Lewis! Kites! Beautiful kites!”

“Apple juice, Lew! Boxes of it!”

Monty takes a deep breath and sinks into his favorite red leather chair. “Well done, Mortimer. A fine showing,” Lewis says, in his best impression of caducity. “How shall we celebrate?”

An ice cream truck climbs the hill and stops in front of the house. Its bells ring brightly …

He was a big baby, eighteen pounds six ounces, to be exact. The moment I held him in my arms I knew my life would change forever. I loved everything about him – the silkiness of his skin, his endearing paunch, the way his nose and ears twitched, his festive snorts. (I didn’t dare tell my wife – who was out of commission for the next seventy-two hours – but I had be praying for a boy.)

I’m not oblivious to the way people look at him at the park, the strange behavior of friends and family (our own parents make excuses when we ask if they want to hold him or feed him). Given, he’s no Gerber baby. Maybe he’ll grow into an attractive young man, maybe he won’t. I don’t care. I couldn’t give a flying fuck. I’m his father. He’s my son. All I want is for him to be happy and, down the road, to stop shitting on the rug.

For breakfast Bob mixes Raisin Bran and a generic bran cereal. He calls it “Bob Bran” – which sounds deceptively like “Barbara Ann,” his favorite Beach Boys song (and he and his wife’s song, though she wanted to dance to “Total Eclipse of the Heart”). Bob is a leader, not a follower. He invents his own foods: Bob Bran, fettuccine al-Fritos, Doritos taquitos, mac-and-Cheez Whiz. Also, bran keeps Bob regular. Beyond that, there is nothing regular about Bob.

Bob is reading the back of the cereal box, lifting the spoon from the bowl to his mouth. The cereal says the whales are in danger. This is news to Bob. Something about global warming, pollution, hunting – he gets the gist of it. On the box, a blue whale is crying while wearing a funny hat, which makes Bob want to laugh, but he doesn’t because he understands the gravity of the situation. After a while – seven or eight bites – Bob realizes he hasn’t chewed or swallowed anything. He looks down. Where is Bob’s Bob Bran? His wife usually mixes his cereal. She is the only one who can strike the delicate balance between generic and brand bran. Where is Bob’s wife? He looks around the room. Where are Bob’s kids? Why isn’t Bob wearing any pants? Bob hums the chorus of “Barbara Ann”. He imagines the Beach Boys partying on the beach with the whale with the funny hat. They’re all doing the boogie. Then the whale with the funny hat makes a pass at the rhythm guitarist’s girlfriend, so the rhythm guitarist cracks a beer bottle over the whale’s head, wedges a drumstick in its blowhole. Bob stops humming “Barbara Ann”. Bob wonders what he can do for the whale population. How can Bob help? He should investigate possible solutions. But does he have time today? After Bob Bran he was planning on whipping up a plate of Pop-Tarts à la mode and watching the Meerkat Manor marathon on the Animal Planet, at least until dinner. Maybe throw some skittles at the mailman from the upstairs balcony. Bob can move some things around and make room for research. Bob can save the whales. But first, breakfast. Where is Bob’s wife?

As chairman of the Kitchen Kettle Village Event Planning Committee, I am pleased to report that the Kitchen Kettle Village Annual Rhubarb Festival was a monumental success, contrary to any tabloid slander or eyewitness testimonies.

Yes, those perverts sneaking into the festival was an unforeseen and insalubrious occurrence, a lapse in security on our part. Using the rhubarb-themed cardboard cut-out as a “glory hole” is certainly not something we endorse or even condone. But if you had wandered into the neighboring tent, you would have inhaled the sweet, intoxicating aroma of Mrs. Ellsbury’s first prize rhubarb pie, laid witness to the even coating and golden-brown flakiness of the crust. And though the tent was poorly assembled by the handymen, most of the survivors are recovering admirably and, as of this morning, according to the doctors, several are in stable condition, including Mrs. Ellsbury. These are the “tiny” details that were conspicuously absent from your shameless displays of yellow journalism. Our village is a peaceful one. We care about the health and safety of our residents. That little girl could have contracted E. coli anywhere. You have no proof it was at our festival. Our gourmet meals were prepared by food service professionals. The people who “saw” the cooks neglect to wash their hands after visiting the restroom are, to put it bluntly, lairs. Did any of you pigs or headline whores try the rhubarb pie? Even a small bite? When you’re eating a good piece of rhubarb, the world might as well disappear around you.