One word: Fay.
From all the latest computer predictions, it looks mi casa is out of harm's way from Tropical Storm (soon to be Hurricane) Fay. Even that crazy purple, Jesus fish looking one shifts it safely north.
So, in a kind-of-related-but-not-really way, I ask the following question:
Why the fuck do meteorologists all want us to die?
If you, like me, live in an area with reoccurring natural disasters, you understand this statement. For those who don't, let me share the experience with you.
Maybe it's the chance in barometric pressure that does it, but anytime anything with an "eye" starts swirling around in the water, men and weather-women get a sudden gleam in their eye I don't like. They go from calm, usually subdued professionals to gleeful, Renfield-like characters who practically start foaming, once a storm has turned "deadly." (Which basically means it beat the shit out of some unsuspecting country somewhere.) They writhe and cavort in front of the camera, performing complex heathen rituals with pointing, sweeping hand gestures, complex geometric patterns, clips of the beat down suffered by the aforementioned country, and sacrifices the Doppler, patron god of radar.
Think I'm exaggerating for comedic value? Well, you're right. But, not by much. When I was in college, I had to evacuate because of a Hurricane Floyd, a category 5 storm that was wider than the whole state. For those that don't know, category 5 is the "kiss your ass good bye, because you're fucked" category. It's as strong as hurricanes come, and can level a city like an atomic bomb. Only wetter. After a while, we got sick of the "Make peace with your God, because we're all gonna DIE" coverage of the local station, and flipped over to the weather channel. "Don't worry," I reassured my panicking non-Floridian friends, "the weather channel won't be so hysterical. We should get unbiased info there."
There, a balding, middle-aged meteorologist gleefully informed us that this was a "perfect" hurricane. He skipped, skipped, off camera with a merry, "Let me get out of the way, so you can get a good look at this monster."
Well, fuck you too.
I get that if you're a meteorologist, weather makes you pop one, and I get that hurricanes are like the Olympics of weather systems; they're big, dramatic, unpredictable, and --most importantly-- traceable by radar. It's your soap opera, your favorite sports team, and sex all rolled into one. I understand that. But please, remember, most of us aren't all that excited about the possibility of getting our homes razed to the ground, or spending 2 and 1/2 weeks without power. Yeah, I know. We're crazy like that.