Whenever I hear a weatherman say “It’s going to be a beautiful day!” then I know it’s going to suck. Why? Because the only definition for “beautiful day” that a weatherman has is glaring sunshine, no clouds whatsoever, and unbearable heat. To me, that’s the definition of a horrible day. And having some grinning idiot weatherman blathering about how beautiful and perfect it all is never fails to plunge me into the depths of depression, from which I can only drag myself with generous helpings of fried catfish, cole slaw, tater tots, and hush puppies. And a large Dr. Pepper if I’m feeling really “out there.”
Weathermen despise clouds or precipitation of any kind. If it was up to them, an endless drought would descend upon us, dry up every living thing, and wipe out all life on Earth. We’d all be dying like insects on a hotplate, but the weathermen would be running around screaming their heads off about how perfect everything was. “IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY!” they’d shriek as the world died horribly. What’s the matter with these idiots? Are they all on LSD or something?
Just let one drop of rain fall from the sky, and they start fretting about the “nasty” weather we’re doomed to endure. As soon as a beautiful cloud drifts by overhead, they start wetting their pants. “OH MY GOD, IT’S GONNA RAIN!” they lament, desperately warning the general populace that it’s not a good day to go frolicking on the beach or floating around in a boat all day on some f**king lake somewhere trying to catch a fish. They take it as a personal affront from God that He actually ruined their perfect weather by allowing some moisture to fall from the sky and force them to pop open an umbrella before leaving the house. “CURSE YOU!” they scream angrily, fists raised to the sky. “YOU’VE RUINED OUR BEAUTIFUL DAY, YOU OMNIPOTENT ASS!” No wonder there’s a special section set aside in Hell just for blasphemous weathermen. Except there’s no fire–just a constant drizzle.
Of course, every time I write something like this, there will be those of you who will take it personally, in this case due to you or one of your loved ones actually being a weatherman. Well, my dad was a used car salesman. Who do you think gets more grief–weathermen or used car salesmen? It isn’t even close. So “boo-hoo.”
If I were a weatherman, my typical forecast would go something like this: “Well, it’s going to be a horrible day tomorrow. Lots and lots of sunshine, not a cloud in the sky, and temperatures hovering in the upper 90s. In other words, it’s gonna suck. Oh wait…you like weather like that? Wow. What a DICK.” Or, conversely: “Oh, joy! The forecast is rain, rain, beautiful rain! And clouds…a whole sky full of dark, billowing clouds! You can’t go to the beach…you can’t go to the lake! Ha ha ha ha ha! In your face! IDIOTS! MORONS! CRY, BABIES, CRY! I HATE YOU ALL! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!” I think I’d be a pretty good weatherman.
I know these humble little comments of mine will do nothing to change the terrible, flagrant injustices weathermen commit every day against people who don’t share their narrow-minded prejudices against any non-sunshine type of weather. But maybe, just maybe, some weatherman out there will read this and realize, for the first time in his strange, useless existence, that not everyone is a slobbering, goobery fruitcake who goes ga-ga for dreary stretches of hot, sun-blanched weather. I doubt it, though. Weathermen don’t care what anyone else thinks unless it’s in robotlike lockstep with their own dastardly, borderline-insane worldview. Weather fascists think you’re a dangerous freak if you hate sunshine. Heaven help us if they ever attain the real political power that they undoubtedly crave, because innocent people would be dragged kicking and screaming out of their houses by the Happy Sunshine Gestapo and forced to go to the beach.