“I want to be a tornado when I grow up.” said the boy after he marched up to his parents.
“You’ll have to go to school for that.” replied his father, without looking up from his copy of Time.
“Yes.” added his mother from behind her knitting. “It’s no small matter for a boy to become a major meteorological event.”
“Well, I don’t care.” The boy stated flatly. “I’m going to be a tornado and that’s final.”
After a week of searching the phone listings, they finally found someone who was willing (for about ten dollars an hour, three hours a week) to teach him how to become a tornado.
The training was quite rigorous, mostly spent spinning in place while a tubby man in a red track suit with a combover yelled at him (“Faster, faster! You’ll never make F3 like that! C’mon, think wind shear!!”).
After about three months of intense preparation and nausea, he was ready. He was sent to devastate a small town in Iowa, and did well until he collided with the first fence post and sprained his wrist rather badly.