(ITEM: The Pentagon has recently become concerned about toy model manufacturers who have designed weapon model kits that bear an uncanny resemblance to weapons currently being designed for military deployment. Have toymakers infiltrated military weapons research facilities? If so, what might be the consequences of such spying on American national security?)
Mom was sitting on the sofa, reading The Collected Wit and Wisdom of Women's Wear Daily. Dad was sitting in his favourite armchair across the room, admiring his pipe collection. Bing Crosby crooned "White Christmas" on the compact disc player, even though it was the middle of June. Suddenly, without any warning, Mom looked up.
"Something strange happened to Mrs. Bugatelli's cat yesterday," she quietly remarked.
Dad smiled vacantly. "What did you say, dear?"
"Something strange happened to Mrs. Bugatelli's cat."
"Oh, really? What?"
"Well, one moment, it was contentedly purring away in her lap, the next, it was completely bald!"
Dad put the pipe he had been staring at down and looked thoughtful for a couple of seconds. "That makes four this week alone, doesn't it?" Mom nodded. Their eyes slowly drifted up to Joey's bedroom. "Of course," Dad said, "there's no reason to believe that Joey is in any way responsible for the rash of hairless pets in the neighbourhood."
"None at all," Mom reasonably agreed. "Still..."
"I'll have a talk with the boy."
Upstairs, Joey was sitting on the floor of his bedroom, talking into the microphone of a tiny short wave radio. "Joey One, this is Wing Command. Joey One, this is Wing Command. Where are you?"
"We're making our way up Main Street, Wing Command," the voice on the radio responded. "Flying at an altitude of 30 inches to avoid detection by enemy radar and - ooh, gross!"
"What's wrong, Joey One?"
"We're approaching a spider web. Please advise. Over."
"Can you go around it?"
"Taking evasive action, Wing Command." Joey waited anxiously as the plane made its maneuver. Eventually, the voice returned: "Thanks for the advice, Wing Command. We're clear. It was a really big, hairy spider, too. Yuck!"
Dad knocked on Joey's door. "Joey, son," he said, "I'd like to talk to you." Joey shoved the radio under his bed and grabbed a handful of Silly Putty as Dad entered the room.
"Oh, hi, Dad," he said. "What can I do for you?"
Dad looked slightly abashed. "It's about that Stealth Bomber model kit we got for you a couple of months ago..."
"It's really neat!" Joey shouted. Then, catching himself, he calmly added: "I...uhh, don't play with it much. But, it, uhh, looks really neat."
"Well, son, I don't know if there's an easy way of saying this, so I'm just going to come out with it: have you been using your toy to bomb the neighbourhood?"
"Dad!" Joey whined. "I'm only 13 years old!"
"Exactly," Dad agreed. "You aren't old enough to understand the full implications of deploying tactical weapons against domesticated -"
Just then, the voice on the radio shouted, "Mayday! Mayday! Massive engine failure! Please advise, Wing Command!"
Dad looked sardonically at Joey. "Son," he commented, "you have a voice coming from under your bed. Why is that?"
"Excuse me, Dad, but this sounds like an emergency." Joey pulled out the radio and said, "Can you make it back to base, Joey One?"
"Negative!" the voice, trying not to panic, replied. "We could go down at any second!"
"Try to ditch in Mr. Wilson's pool," Joey commanded. "and, I'll effect emergency rescue operations after school tomorrow. Okay, Joey One? Do you read me, Joey One?" But, it was no use - the line was dead.
Joey looked at Dad. "I guess that was what that piece that was left over was for, hunh, dad?"
"Umm, I guess so," Dad, disconcerted, replied.
"You wanted to talk to me about responsibility, Dad?"
"Well, umm, if you have been dropping little bombs on our neighbours, you shouldn't. It's wrong. Okay, sport?"
"Sure, Dad."
Dad, still shaken, went downstairs. After a couple of minutes contemplating a delicate Meerschaum, Mom suddenly, without warning, looked up. "So, how did it go, dear?" she asked.
"There should be no more problem," Dad replied. Then, seriously, he asked, "Children are a lot different now than they were when we were growing up, aren't they?"
Mom, returning to her book, replied, "Yes, dear..."
