These New York Times articles are specifically recommended for me? Well, I don't need to read #2 because I don't have a baby. #8 doesn't apply, because I don't eat meat. And there's no way I'm reading #10 because I just had placenta for breakfast and I don't want to feel dumb.

I've always been vaguely interested in S&M. It involves men and nudity, so that shouldn't be a huge surprise. It's not the pain or humiliation that attracts me, but the commitment. The drive. The idea that there's going to be a responsible guy in charge, and all I have to do is lay there and tell him when to stop.

See, people assume a ridiculously tall guy is going to be forceful in bed. Maybe it's true with some of us, but it's certainly not true with me. I expend so much energy just moving my overstretched limbs that by the time I get horizontal I just want the swelling to go down. I cluelessly pick up a butch-looking dude, only to spend the rest of the evening laying around and repeating, "I don't know, what do you want to do?" until David Letterman comes on.

I'm tired of everybody being on their best behavior because they're afraid of me. Yeah, like I'm going to hurt them. The only thing I break are ceiling fans.

So, I go to a couple S&M-themed parties, just to get an idea of what's in store. I learn how to wrap a man in cling film. I see a dude crucified in the parking lot of a bar. Neither get me the slightest bit aroused, although the former makes me popular at picnics. Still, I resolve that if somebody suggests it, I'll jump. I mean, it's always seemed inevitable. My personality is basically begging to be smacked.

When I spot Carl at a party I think, "That's kind of a hot man." This is actually the optimal situation for finding a potential boyfriend, because without the "kind of" clause I assume I haven't got a chance. He's handsome, but he's at least 40 and he clearly hasn't exercised for at least 35 of those years.

I sidle over to him next to the blintz bar. (Apparently S&M fans are also kinky with food.) He doesn't have problems with drive or ambition, that's for sure. He teaches medieval literature at a top New York university, he has a vacation home in Montauk, and he's the vice president of an S&M club, which means we have absolutely zero to talk about. We run out of words, and I make awkward excuses to get away.

Which explains my surprise the second time I run into him. Just out of the blue he says, "So, when are we having our session?"

I'm mystified. Can he also be a psychiatrist? I wonder. If he is, he's barking up the wrong tree. I'm the picture of mental health, except for that weird habit where I have to smell all the stuff I find on the bottom of my shoes. Or could he be talking about sex? I flash back on the priest who, just out of the blue, gave me his phone number at Food Emporium. It was ridiculously irresponsible, because ordinarily I can distinguish between the folks who want me to find Jesus and the ones who want a blowjob.

No, I decide "session" must be S&M-speak. I kind of like that. I'm not a romantic: I prefer it when sex looks more like a wrestling match than something out of Ghost. I think for a minute, trying not to picture his pale white chest in a leather vest. I say, "Any time."

We exchange email addresses, and the weeks go by with no email. I think about writing him, but he's the butch one in this relationship, right? I can't bring myself to type, "Hi, my name's Roman. Has it slipped your mind that you were going to hit me?"

Finally Facebook comes to the rescue. For years it's been nagging me to be more social. "Can we PLEASE look for your friends?" it pleads every time I log in. "C'mon! I'm sure we can find SOMEBODY! Can we look in your address book? In your email? How about messaging random people? C'mon, Roman -- surely SOMEBODY wants to get in touch with you!"

It's so unattractive, so whiny. I'm embarrassed for Facebook, and I'm clearly not going to let a website force me to be friendly when eight ex-boyfriends can't. But then one day it's obvious Facebook did some kind of intrusive privacy thing because the message turns into something like, "Hey, you know this dude, right? He's DYING to get in touch with you!" and next to it is a photo of Carl.

I do it. As fast as my finger can move. I click the button to send a friend request.

And instantly a patronizing little pop-up box appears with an about-face. "Now, Roman," it reads, "if you don't know Carl, don't bother him. He's an important guy. You can't just send everybody friend requests, you know. We realize you're desperate: you have just four contacts, and three of them are cats. This is like stalking, though, and you'll just humiliate yourself if you beg strangers to like you."

I'm embarrassed. I'm ashamed.

I don't know how this relationship is going to end, but I sure like the way it starts.

Let's make this perfectly clear: anybody who watches Finding Bigfoot is an idiot.

Similarly UFO Files, UFO Hunters, Ghost Files, Ghost Hunters, and Hunting Ghost Files in UFOs.

See, we earthlings are very curious about undiscovered life forms. When they're found, it makes the news. When a Harvard scientist finds a new phosphorescent lichen in Florida, it's a headline. When a French oceanographer discovers purple plankton, Katie Couric breaks it to the world.

So whaddaya think is gonna happen when somebody finally films visible proof of spectral life after death? You'll accidentally hear about it when you're too lazy to change the channel after Hillbilly Handfishing?

Obviously the folks behind these shows have low self-esteem, because their shows are all bait-and-switch. They offer you the hope of discovering something exciting, but they never deliver it. That must be frustrating, and must lead to some humiliating dinnertime chats.

WIFE: "So, honey, find Bigfoot today?"

HUSBAND: "Well, as a matter of fact -- Oh, fuck you."

Needless to say, when these guys finally get indisputable footage of a UFO, they're not going to premiere it on a cable channel watched by fourteen people in their underwear. They're not going to say to themselves, "Gosh, those brain-dead Appalachians are in for a surprise today!" If they stumble upon proof of anything, it's their ticket to the big time! They've got something a real TV show will buy. Roughly eight seconds after proof is caught on film, Oprah's going to hear about it. Similarly every network news program, and every newspaper and tabloid in print.

One day you'll turn on the TV, and the whole world will be abuzz.

They'll dress like Yetis on America's Next Top Model. Tuneless teens will sing alien medleys on American Idol. Every eight seconds Brian Williams will cut into whatever the hell you're watching, saying, "Are we alone? Tune in tonight to find out!"

You'll tune in that night, and you'll see half a second of the footage. You'll see all the folks from the show, who'll be dancing around like Lotto winners and saying, "Hey, wifey, I'm talkin' to Brian fuckin' Williams here!"

Because, you know, if these guys can sell their Bigfoot coverage to People magazine for $250,000, why would they air the entire thing in between $85 commercials for the Slap N' Chop?

No, the facts are clear: you will never tune into Ghost Hunters one day and discover absolute proof of anything. When crap media have anything interesting to say, it filters up. It filters fast.

So what am I really saying? Piece it together, guy.

If you're smart, don't watch this space.

Grocery Store Accused Of Selling Moldy, Substandard, And Expired Food Has Higher Standards Than The USDA

Fuck you, Tim Tebow, shoving yet another Special Right for Christians down our throats. Something tells me if a football player celebrated Santeria every time he tossed a football, he'd be shut down even before he killed the chicken.

The good news is, a robot managed to shave a man's head without killing him.

The bad news is, it was just supposed to brush his teeth.

You're kidding me, no, you're nuts!

Ha. I'm joking, of course. This fabulous new invention answers the question, "What if I'm romping in the snow and I suddenly remember I'm late for my wedding?" Keep an eye out for their earmuff suspenders, coming in 2014.

Florida D.A. Says You Can Kill Someone Who Complains When You Chase Them With A Gun

Gwyneth Paltrow's patchouli-scented, vegan shit has hit the fan.

Last week, the New York Times published a piece by Julia Turshen describing her life as a cookbook ghostwriter. In it, she tells how what she thought would be a dream job actually held "more humiliations than [she] imagined." She says that sometimes her work got minimal recognition, while sometimes it got none at all.

Many real-world cooks have wondered at the output of authors like Martha Stewart, Paula Deen and Jamie Oliver.... Rachael Ray alone has published thousands of recipes in her cookbooks and magazine since 2005. How, you might ask, do they do it?

The answer: they don’t.

Ms. Turshen goes on to say that while many of the chefs she worked for were brilliant, they'd never written down any recipes, and they lacked those easily-summarized points of view and touching personal stories that media outlets like the Food Network require.

They just wanted cookbooks with their names on them, and Ms. Turshen complied.

Though the article doesn't specifically mention otherworldly sylph Paltrow, it's accompanied by a photo of her latest cookbook and the line, "Gwyneth Paltrow's ghostwriter is Julia Turshen."

Which, in the overly-sensitive world of celebrity branding, is like saying, "Gwyneth sucks dog cocks in hell."

Furious, Ms. Paltrow threw aside her decoupage and took to Twitter. "Love @nytimes dining section but this week's facts need checking. No ghost writer on my cookbook, I wrote every word myself."

"She wrote every word of the book and developed every recipe," echoed her spokeperson. "Julia was her assistant."

Oh. Okay. Gwynie hired a ghostwriter to not write for her. I get it. Now, though, I've got to go. I found a hunky masseur on Craigslist and he's coming over to not lay a finger on me.

Lindsay Lohan's father Michael is fighting mad at porn star Voodoo after Voodoo claimed he had sex with Lindsay while her dad was upstairs.

“This delusional moron wishes he had a nanosecond alone with Lindsay!” Lohan told Radar Online. “If I ever caught a guy having sex with my daughter in my house I’d be in jail the rest of my life, especially a dirtball porn star.

“Can you imagine ME, Michael Lohan, of all fathers, allowing my daughter(s) to be alone with any guy while I was present? Ha ha! Lindsay would NEVER stoop to the level of this neophyte. (The lowest form of living organism on earth)."

Is that disgusting? That's what it's all about today: money-grubbing whores just out for free publicity. And that Voodoo guy is just as bad.

If Isaac Newton had lived in the twenty-first century, he'd have discovered a totally different Law. Fuck gravity and inertia, he'd have declared. Here's the ineluctable rule that truly describes our universe:

There is exactly one hottie in every Starbucks.

I used to love Starbucks, which is why I've visited at least one on every continent. I've discovered that this rule holds hard and fast. It works day and night, 365 days a year; it includes the customers and the employees. It's true whether there are two people inside, or whether there are two hundred.

It's like when a really hot man appears at their door, the previous one clocks out and heads home.

Starbucks is the only company I know that has this law. Lots of chain establishments draw in hot men by the dozens -- Whole Foods, Gold's Gym, Hunting World. Other chains are vast plantations of mundanity. Nobody within half a mile of Quiznos has ever come close to the hottie hurdle. I think that's why their employees are so depressed, aside from the fact they toast Sonoma Turkey Sammies for a living.

Nope, it's just Starbucks that has exactly one hot man in every franchise.

I was a regular for a year or two, spending a few hundred a month and thinking I had a chance with the hottie. I'd scope out the situation while I was waiting in line. I'd find the hottie, then ask myself what Jennifer Aniston would do. Sometimes I'd sit nearby and offer to share my newspaper. Sometimes I'd "accidentally" drop a napkin at his feet. Once in a while I'd pretend to search the ground around him for open electrical outlets while secretly admiring the breadth of his thighs.

I clearly remember the day I gave up. I was right behind the hottie in line, and I ordered the exact same thing he did so we'd have something to talk about. "Why, I would ALSO like a half-skim-soy quarter-caf free-range caramel macchiato, please!" I said excitedly. We waited at the counter, and when the first drink was ready I made a fake grab for it. "Oh, gosh!" I said, pretending to remember. "Looks like we have a lot in common!"

"Except for the 'gay' thing," he replied.

That was it. I gave up. Said sayonara to my long-term goal. I accepted the fact that the insane hottie-to-regular-folks ratio made that $12 coffee break absolutely futile. The hottie would go over to get sugar and there'd be eight other singles elbowing me out of the way. "Skim milk?" offers one. "I don't see an ounce fat on you." "I'll bet you don't need sugar," gushes another. "You look naturally sweet."

Last Saturday, though, the rain was coming down in buckets, and my pride lost out to my flattening hair. I raced eight hundred other soggy New Yorkers into line, ordered my usual, and scurried over to the last empty table. My hair was starting to spring back to life when I spotted the requisite hottie standing at the counter.

Staring directly at me.

No, I said to myself. It's not possible.

I looked back. His eyes never left me.

Well, I thought, maybe it's God's little joke. He waited until I gave up, then he gave me what I wanted. Little pink butterflies fluttered in my chest. Staring. It was like we were the only people in the store.

I blushed. I giggled. I slurped the whipped cream off my frappuccino and let the whipped cream drip from my mustache.

I held my breath as he made his move. It's like time stood still as he approached, his scruffy brown hair announcing the sensitivity of an artist but his broad shoulders promising the force of a brute.

He leaned in close enough for me to smell espresso on his lips. "Hey," he said in Barry White's voice, "you wanna get outta here?"

"S-s-sure," I stuttered, sending an unspoken "Thank you, God!" to the invisible forces above. And then I grabbed my drink and headed toward the door while he and his girlfriend sat down.

You probably noticed that when you walked in the building all of the appraisers just turned and stared. I think I can safely say we've ever seen anything like this on the Antiques Roadshow before. Usually people just bring valuable stuff.

How much did you pay for this? Really? At a garage sale? Well, next time you go to a garage sale, bring me along. Because I'd say, "Girlfriend, if you think this piece of crap is worth three dollars you are totally nuts."

This is a statue of Jesus playing hockey with two boys, dating back perhaps five or ten years. You've really hit the triple crown here, because already you've got hockey fans, religious people, and statue collectors who would look at this and say, "Holy God, this is one ugly piece of shit!"

There are no markings on the bottom, which is to be expected. Nobody signed The Faggiest Vampire either. I'm pretty sure this was made in the American South, because the artists in other regions know you don't have eight joints in each arm.

If this were at one of the major auction houses, I think the director would look at it and say, "Really? Do you really think we sell trash like this?"

Of course, if it went to auction and there were two collectors with deep pockets, one of them would probably say to the other, "Ohmigod, this place is hawking so much crap today. What do you say we cut our losses and go to lunch instead?" And the other would say, "Le Cote Basque?" And the first would say, "Ooh, that sounds delightful! I just loooove their cardamon souffle."

Last, if this were in a retail shop, I think you'd be very wise to say, "What the fuck is this doing in a retail shop?"

Anyway, thanks for bring it in. The sweater my grandma sent me for Christmas doesn't look so bad now.

CARL: Well, when I said I was gonna give you a fast ride on my big log, what did you think I meant?

Two men who got their jobs through their dad went to Africa and killed a whole shitload of animals last year.

Donald Trump's offspring, Donald Jr. and Eric, visited Zimbabwe for a week in March, and the story they brought back would make Ernest Hemingway quake in his boots. The pair managed to take down an elephant, a crocodile, a kudu, a civet cat and a waterbuck with just a fleet of safari vehicles, a platoon of assistants, and an arsenal of guns.

Above, Donald Jr. is seen holding the elephant's tail after a bout of chopping that would have a Benihana's chef crying uncle.

While some animal rights groups are attacking the pair as pitiful, bloodthirsty morons, the unbiased observer must begrudgingly acknowledge their achievement. Perhaps the most impressive of their prey is the civet cat, sometimes called the "jungle raccoon." Known more for a dizzy amble than a walk, it's very difficult to kill these things, unless you've got a flashlight to temporarily blind it and something to hit it over the head. The more patient hunter can hold a bit of food close to the ground and then hit them with a rock when they approach. This can be extremely dangerous if, say, the hunter is also holding a bunch of carrots, or a dozen eggs.

The waterbuck is also an extraordinary trophy. Waterbucks are like river cows, and everyone knows how feisty cows can be if you try to milk them when your hands are cold. You can use some very scary words to describe the waterbuck, but if you want to be accurate you pretty much have to stick to "sedentary." It doesn't sound awfully remarkable when one notes the waterbucks' main predator is the dog, but if you've ever had a pocketful of Snausages you know the damage a feisty terrier can do.

The Trumps must be particularly proud of having killed a kudu. They're extremely dangerous animals, though primarily for what they can do to your rose bushes. Some African native is probably in her garden right now thanking these two fearless men for her flawless florabunda.

Crocodiles, too, are a deadly prey, though if you've ever watched the History Channel for more than eight seconds you've seen a redneck kill one with a pointy stick and a Budweiser bottle. People for miles around must have gasped in appreciation as the manly Trump brothers fired into the water and hoped they hit something. And imagine their terror as they watched their assistants try to wrestle the dead creature into the boat without getting their new hunting ensembles wet.

The studly duo also took down a knobthorn msasa and curly baobab before natives explained that these aren't quite as impressive as the rest of the cull, being tropical plants.

Of course, one must give some credit to Hunting Legends, their outfitter. They're the ones who provided all the equipment, including hunting and game drive vehicles, along with the necessary professional hunters, cooks, waiters and camp assistants. They're the ones who will drive you out to the "HUGE RANCHES" where these animals live, provide you with native trackers to locate them, and then hand you the guns. You have to pull the trigger yourself, and then write them a check for taxidermy and their "Trophy Fee" while your trigger finger is still sore.

Hunting Legends can also arrange for you to hunt from a helicopter, but that's reserved for the most manly hunter. The backfire from the rifle might startle your pilot, and helicopter turbulence is the worst.

"AIEEEE!!!!" came the shriek from the living room of the spacious Union Square loft.

A dozen pair of footsteps hurried to investigate the bloodcurdling call. "What is it?" cried Vanessa, the journalism student from New Hampshire.

"I'm writing my term paper on the greatest film actors throughout history," sobbed Margo, the Cinema Studies major, "and I've mixed up my photos of Channing Tatum!"

Sympathetic squeals echoed throughout the $18,000 abode paid for by sixteen sets of parents. "Oh, no!" said Briana, the visual arts major with a part-time internship at Der Wienerschnitzel Home. "Can we help?"

"Channing recently reprised some of his most famous film roles for the New York Times, including G. I. Joe, The Vow, Magic Mike and 21 Jump Street. The photos show his remarkable facility to physically transform himself into the disparate characters he created even seven or eight months ago, but now I can't remember what photo goes with what film."

"Oh, pshaw!" said LeeAnn, the lesbian Animal Husbandry major. "I think we can figure it out!"

Can you?

(1)

(2)

(3)

(4)

ANSWERS:
(1) 21 Jump Street, (2) G. I. Joe, (3) Magic Mike, (4) The Vow

Fans of the Rush Limbaugh show have been noticing something odd lately: his ridiculous rants are now frequently bookended by vast stretches of silence. Is the chub Repub finding it hard to fill all those hours now that all his advertisers have stormed off in disgust? Not a chance! says Rush. On today's show he offered a plethora of explanations for those quiet times.

• He was interviewing a mime.
• Some of his segments are only meant for dogs.
• Occasionally, Rush wants you to listen, really listen to your heart.
• Rush was going to keep talking, but he thinks he heard a bear.
• A wise old Asian told him he'll die after speaking 1,000 words, and he's already called 999 women "sluts."
• He dropped a Valium, and when he talks under his desk it sounds echoey.
• He's taking phone calls from listeners, and this one just happens to be a cricket.
• He was temporarily stricken really dumb.
• He's finally realized that if you can't say something nice, you shouldn't say anything at all.

Hungry Idiots Rejoice: Kraft Comes Up With Recipe For Cheese & Crackers

Really, Kraft -- five minutes prep? Somebody needs to replace the batteries in their electric knife. Still, this sounds pretty good. Unfortunately I've got an ounce of cheese and three crackers.

A Sad Note

A spokesperson for the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Philadelphia announced today that beloved Cardinal Anthony Bevilacqua has passed away.

Cardinal Anthony Joseph Bevilacqua, who served 15 years as shepherd of the 1.5 million-member Archdiocese, died in his sleep Tuesday night. His last day was unremarkable, the spokesperson said: he went for a walk, he talked with friends, and he was cleared to testify in court about the Catholic Church and child molestation. And then he died, just like that.

Like many of his peers, Cardinal Bevilacqua's tenure was not without controversy. In September 2005, after a three-year grand jury investigation into clergy sex abuse, the Philadelphia District Attorney's Office issued a report excoriating Cardinal Bevilacqua for ignoring claims of child molestation and allowing hundreds of predator priests to continue unpunished.

Cardinal Bevilacqua was finally set to spill the beans about three of these priests when -- bang! whaddaya know? -- he died.

Cardinal Bevilacqua, who'd assuredly accumulated a wealth of knowledge over his fifty long years as a priest, had shown no signs of dying previously. Still, his supporters prefer to look on the bright side. "Rather than being sad," the spokesman said, "we should all celebrate the fact Cardinal Bevilacqua lived a long, happy life right up to the point where he could have seriously fucked up the Church."

New York is the best city in the world for cheap entertainment. Bored? Just wander in any direction and odds are you'll run across something fabulous.

I tried to stay home last night, because it was twelve degrees out and I'm not at my best when cold. Confronted by reruns of Dancing With the Stars, though, I decided to hit the road. I'd barely walked ten feet before I encountered a giant naked man laying motionless by the side of the road. I figured it was some kind of art piece or I'd have administered mouth-to-mouth.


Obviously what I'd run across was a giant foam copy of Michelangelo's David. That's a statue I've never understood: the man is totally, stark naked, but from the stupid look on his face you'd think he was a security guard at the mall. I circled it a few times, trying to figure out the story behind this version. Honestly, how many visitors to Rome have looked the original and thought, this would really be cool if it was twice the size and spray-painted gold? Not everybody's from New Jersey. Still, this roadside attraction drew scads of camera-wielding females who focused on the more interesting bits.


Now, here's where the sculptor completely lost me. I don't care if your statue is five hundred feet tall: if the dick looks like a hot dog, maybe you should go for quality instead.

Just out of curiosity, I hit up Google when I got home. The artist is Serkan Ozkaya, and after pausing for a day in New York the statue is headed to a museum in Louisville. As I perused the photos, I started to understand it. It actually started to look . . . good. Maybe we aren't so different, I thought. Maybe we're two of a kind.

We're both oversized. We're often found by the side of the road. And nobody should judge us when we're freezing cold, because when it's sunny out we're a work of art.

A Virginia religious society has petitioned the Pope to officially designate St. Gabriel Possenti the patron saint of handgunners.

The St. Gabriel Possenti Society says their namesake saved villagers of Isola del Gran Sasso, Italy in 1860 with his amazing marksmanship. When renegade marauders threatened, St. Gabriel shot and killed a lizard scampering nearby, scaring the attackers into fleeing the town. St. Gabriel was canonized by Pope Benedict XV in 1920, and the Society now seeks his Vatican designation as Patron Saint of Handgunners.

Members of the Society agree that St. Gabriel could have tossed a rock in the air and shot at that, but nobody claims he's the patron saint of brains.

Allegedly Hacked From Olivia Munn

Thank you, Alleged Olivia Munn. Now I'm not only incompetent at sex but I'm incompetent at sexting too. This chick actually takes saucy photos of herself, lines them up in a sexy sequence, photographs that and then writes and types on top of the whole thing in pink marker and lower-case font. Apparently she fires up Adobe Illustrator when she wants to send a dirty note to a dude. Me, I can't even be bothered to get an erection and take a photo of it: I just Google for naked photos of Wilfrid Brimley and forward those to my dream date with a line like, "Hey, you wanna see this up close?"

So, I comfort myself with the thought that this sext probably wasn't composed by the real Olivia Munn. I mean, if a genuine working actress wanted to announce that she was saving her ladybits "just for you," it wouldn't have better art direction than Every Day With Rachael Ray. It's so weak, too: my last boyfriend liked to wear diapers and he used capital letters and 24-point Courier. If his dick had ever looked "raw," I wouldn't have considered intercourse.

We'd have done the Camera Game: he stands a safe distance away from me, and I point and shoot.

Why such a narrow age range? Because once you hit 45 it's not like we need to debate.

The Food Network is one of the biggest successes in niche television. Started in 1993, the network has introduced to America such celebrity chefs as Emeril Lagasse, Rachael Ray, and Bobby Flay. Viewership has increased exponentially, recently hitting a record ninety million households.

Naturally the business world is taking notice, so don't be surprised when the Food Network's blueprint shows up in real life.

• Whenever somebody throws a surprise party, they warn the recipient a month in advance.


• Hundreds of beauty pageants are held every year, yet you never see or hear from any of the winners again.


• While you're having sex, you hear a smug narrator detail the history of felching.


• As your doctor is examining you, he relates a story about how his Nana always used to have green stools.


• A traffic cop gives you a ticket for DFIATMPHZ.


• After eating her fried chicken and donuts for eighteen years, you discover your mom makes a commission off your Xenical.


• Instead of actually fucking you, hookers just tell you about the best blow job they ever gave.


• Everybody's resume starts with the line, "In 1993 Queen Elizabeth knighted me, and then I baked Lady Di's wedding cake."

A TV meteorologist stunned his news anchor girlfriend when he interrupted his weather report to propose live on the air.

Seconds after taking center stage during the nightly broadcast, Frederick, Iowa weatherman Stan Loebling stunned viewers by ignoring the weather to talk about anchorwoman Stacy King, who was sitting at her desk just ten feet away. Mr. Loebling declared that Miss King was "not only the sweet, quirky, crazy girl that you watch every night on this channel" but also "the love of my life."

As a shocked Miss King covered her mouth with her hands, Mr. Loebling walked over to her, dropped to one knee and proposed. Miss King cried "Yes!" before her new fiancé slipped the ring on her finger and everyone wiped away tears.

Sadly, all the townspeople were killed that night by a surprise hurricane, but they'd probably be thrilled to know that the wedding is scheduled for June.