It only rains twice a year in Seattle: August through April and May through July.

A ragged individual stranded for several months on a small desert island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean one day noticed a bottle lying in the sand with a piece of paper in it. "Due to lack of maintenance," he read, "we regretfully have found it necessary to cancel your e-mail account."

As a member of the organization that installs computer systems aboard Navy ships, I am mindful of how important the off-ship e-mail capabilities are to sailor morale, especially when some vessels are deployed for up to six months. One day while shopping at the base commissary, I noticed another crucial aspect of my job. I was behind a frazzled mother with two active children, and as I watched, she stalked over to where her young son had perched himself on the rail of the freezer case. "If you don't get off there right now," she commanded, "I'm going to e-mail your father!"

Terrorists take a group of lawyers hostage. They ask for a ransom of $20 million and threaten to release one lawyer at a time if not given what they ask for.

My nookie days are over My pilot light is out What used to be my sex appeal Is now my water spout. Time was when, on its own accord From my trousers it would spring But now I've got a full-time job To find the blasted thing. It used to be embarrassing The way it would behave For every single morning It would stand and watch me shave. Now as old age approaches It sure gives me the blues To see it hang its little head And watch me tie my shoes.