Perhaps you missed my last letter to your friend, dude who invented daylight savings. You might wonder, “What do I have in common with him?” Well, I’ll tell you. You both lie. He lies about me getting an extra hour of sleep which is total shit de la bull and you know it (Please refer to…Daylight Savings…What is Your Point Exactly?). And you lie, of course, about the weather.
I don’t know if you lie so much as you just don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Is there anything inside that pretty little head of yours? See, you talk a great game but I’m on to you. You stand in front of that faux weather map (Oh yeah, we all know it’s a blank screen, cool guy.) and wave your arms around all “Look at me! I’m the quaffed weather guy! Check out my new Brooks Brothers suit. I’m hot. Yeah. I’m a hot weather nerd! I don’t get stuffed in lockers anymore. Yeah!” and you point and you throw out words like, “fronts” and “cold weather patterns” and “artic air from Canada” and “dopplar radar” and “storm system” …..but this is all I hear, “blabbity blah blah blah lies blabbity blah frickin lies blah blah liey liar liar pants on fire.” Stuff that in your worsted wool BB suit, playah.
See, I used to just laugh it off, how your forecasts would be about as accurate as the tarot card reader my friends and I visited at the beach after we got our glow on. (But we didn’t care she was speaking in tongues because who really wants to know if they might get dumped or get in a mysterious fork lift accident, am I right? If you’re not going to tell me something magically delicious like I’ll wake up a size four or what the winning lottery number is, just crystal ball your ass away from me and hit it, gypsystick.)
Oh, and now back to you, weatherman, for I have a bad habit of digressing…where was I?
(CRAP! Maybe memory loss is in my future! Must get back to beach gypsy, stat. But wait, if she tells me I’ll lose my memory I’ll just forget anyway. Wait, what? I’m confused!) Okay, moving on (I can segue too, weatherguy!) I’m willing to let it go that you totally whiffed the forecast the day we went to the zoo and instead of partly cloudy we got rain. Hey, the kids needed a bath anyway. And the other day, when it was 21 (not a fun number unless you’re trying to get into a bar or trying your luck at the casino, turns out) and not the balmy 35 you promised, sure, I could have used a hat, but whatever, you spared me some bad hair. Bygones, sua-vey.
But now? Oh, it’s personal.
On a day when I bagged my two year old squirting dish detergent on the family room carpet, caught four year old taking a whizz in the bathtub, and baby decided to party in his Pampers through nap time, you really needed to get it right.
DUDE. Not cool!
Who dropped the ball on the snow squall and raging winds? WHO!? I want names.
Because mummy don’t like it when hubby calls from Chicago (1500 miles away) at 5 p.m. eastern standard time (also known as “witching hour”…also known as the time when the inmates start running the asylum….also known as the time when mummy might start eyeballing her friend, Bud. Light.) to tell me his flight is likely to be delayed and maybe even cancelled due to inclement weather. (More like ignorant weather, because who checked with me to make sure that was okay? Also your fault!) Anyway, when I’ve yet to shower, could make a living haunting houses and am this close to hiding under the dining room table again (Re-lax—I only did it the one time and that does not make a pattern!) it’s just not what I long to hear, weather geek. While hearing glasses clinking and people laughing in the background of some airport bar does not make me feel for my husband, it doesn’t make me angry with him either. I’d be rocking the overpriced drafts with my new peeps from Topeka and Montreal and Oklahoma City too if I were him. Lemons…lemonade…you follow?
But…it does make me want to hurt someone. And that someone? Is you.
Save it. Don’t tell me to blame God or Mother Nature. Just don’t. I blame you. Because you ARE the messenger and the message is NEVER delivered correctly. It’s YOUR job to figure out what he/she is throwing our way. It’s why you get a fat salary and fancy hair and unlimited orange make up. So…how about you start earning it and telling me the truth? Because, overpaidcheeseballguysmileyweather guy, if you had just TOLD me earlier about the gale force winds and icy conditions coming my way, I would have made a mental note of it. I wouldn’t have fantasized about stealing away to the walk in closet or my imaginary rubber room.
So weatherdude, you get this month’s asshat award. Congratulations!
And your prize is???????????
Some breaking news on the house… you have about as much chance with that hot, glam anchorwoman as Alabama has of enjoying a white Christmas. It ain’t never gonna happen so stop spitting all over her, nerd boy. She’s all about the sports guy. He’s a DUDE. Everyone can see it but you.
Face it. You? Just ain’t no Ron Burgandy.
Truth hurts, doesn’t it? Well not as much as the lies, weathernerd, not as much as the lies!
In weather I fail,