You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The Weather.
Hurricanes, tropical depressions, flooding, Oh My.
It’s crazy out there?
I feel like a settler in a coon skin cap driving my tattered covered wagon across the great divide.
Rain is pelting my roof. It’s slapping my windows like a bad pimp handling his bottom bitch.
I hate this weather.
Wait, that’s too kind.
I loathe this weather.
It’s gum in my hair.
It’s sand in my eye.
It’s a mosquito trapped in my car driving down the interstate. That little bugger is sitting on my windshield eye balling me. And I’m eye balling him back.
He wants to suck my blood. He wants me lose my patience, bang the windshield trying to splat him. What he really wants is for me to drive under the semi beside me. That would be a blood bath and he would be happy. I won’t give him the satisfaction. I hate that little mosquito just like I hate this weather.
Get out of here, I want to scream.
I turn on the weather channel. It’s broiling stew of rancid evil.
Hurricane Joaquin is sliding up the Eastern Seaboard. It is a swirling eye of red surrounded by fiery orange.
The weather people say Joaquin is creating a super low that is trapping another super low over the Eastern part of the U.S.
When super lows loiter like a panhandler at the zoo, lions stand ready to pounce on fresh mea.
I’m not sure what that means, except it is going to rain like Niagara Falls.
Rain is falling harder than a Minnesota drunk on a sheet of ice.
The weather map is a colorful jamboree of bad.
So many colors, swirling, flowing, it looks like a tour of Timothy Leary’s mind.
The newscasters are ranting about umbrellas and galoshes and sand bags and tidal surge.
Weatherman are walking the beach, shouting over wind and rain telling me that it’s wet.
Thanks guys.
Game Day is in South Carolina. It’s a swampy mess.
The kids are standing in mud a foot deep.
A bare-chested college boy will do a swan dive into the muck.
SPLATT!!
He becomes a human smore in a matter of moments, his white, marshmallow skin, covered with a thick chocolate like mud.
The broadcasters laugh and encourage the swamp creature to dance his muddy dance.
They cut to a sign on a nearby convenience store that says: Jim Cantore stay away.
You know you are a harbinger of weather doom when you are asked to stay away from a geographical region.
And there he is, Weather Channel superstar, Jim Cantore, standing on the bridge, a raging river behind him.
He looks pissed.
“Jim looks like a free safety,” one of the Game Day crew bellows.
Jim doesn’t crack a smile. I think he is pissed.
It’s going to be bad he says. The winds are going to howl and the rains are going to pour down by half time.
He makes everyone scared that Noah will be on the sideline giving biblical reports on the aquatic devastation that will surely come.
All I’m saying is;
I HATE THIS WEATHER.
I hate cold. I hate wet. I hate winter.
And winter is coming.
The sky is dark, the air is frosty, the air is a cold shower of discomfort.
I gotta find me a palm tree.
I gotta find me a place in the sand to hang my hat, and poke my toes in the sand.
Rain Rain go away. Come again another day.
Nursery rhymes are nice.
All I know is Jim Cantore looks pissed.
So does Joaquin.
Life’s Crazy™