Return of the wet kid

So you tell the bevy of tweens to amuse themselves by playing in the sprinkler (you are old-school that way). They run screaming for towels and swimsuits. Satisfied that you've solved the "We're bored" problem for the time being, you go and pick your nose in front of the computer for about a half-hour while squeals of delight rise up from the backyard.

You go to dole out Nutty Buddy bars only to find the tweenies soaking wet and covered in mud from head to toe next to a new mud crater in the middle of your lawn that was not there 45 minutes ago.

After you deliver the mandatory the-party's-over-you-will-
have-to-plant-new-grass-blah-blah-blah tirade and send everyone home and tell your kid to weed the front bed by the tree, you study the mud crater and marvel at how they got from the innocuous kids-with-sprinkler square to the excavating-mud-devil square in less time than it takes for a banana twin-pop to melt. You stick your toe in the cool wet earth.

A woman in her bedroom on the second floor of a house on the street next to yours gasps in the throes of climax. Seven miles due north, a man lying upon a hospital bed exhales his last breath. Somewhere between where you are and the end of space--call it a zillion miles up--a star explodes.