I’m not a big fan of weapons, but I’m considering purchasing a shotgun the next time the opportunity arises, because if one more person walks up to me to discuss the subtle nuances of the weather, the urge to splatter my brains all over the backseat of the nearest available automobile will become unbearable.
The only thing worse than the actual weather conversation is just how confidently authoritative everyone has become on the subject, all because of the fancy applications downloaded to their portable computer-phones. Amateur meteorologists reading radar forecasts have become more loathsome to me than people who tell me the bullshit they believe in has now become “scientifically proven.”
I remember a time when the weather was something that just happened, and you dealt with it. When it was cold, you put on a sweater. When it was hot, you played at the beach. When it rained, you brought a fucking umbrella. You laughed in passing at the weatherman jerk-off on TV because he was never right, and you moved on with your life, accepting of whatever the day brought.
But no insult is warranted to the weather-flunky reading a teleprompter – fancy technologies haven’t done jack shit to make meteorological forecasting any more accurate over the years, with perhaps the exception of predicting the present, and that still never gets reported reliably.
So why have the go-to topics of discussion human beings have at their disposal been reduced to the latest tragedies in the news, and the past/present/future atmospheric conditions?
The fucking media, of course. I have serious doubts in my mind that the indigenous tribes wandering our lands spent any significant amount of their time bitching about how hot it was, only to complain the next day about how chilly it had gotten. Whining has never brought out the sun to my knowledge, so do me a favour a grandiose favour, and please just shut the fuck up about it.
Every report from our loving information providers tends to leave us quaking in our shoes over an imminent heat-wave, high wind alert, extreme weather warning, deadly lightning strike, crippling sleet-storm, and on and on. 90 percent of these mini fear-mongering campaigns lead to fuck all, but no one ever seems to clue in. They just keep anxiously repeating to one another whatever the Ministry of Weather spouts out.
Don’t tell me how beautiful it is outside only when you’ve reached your hard-fought decision that, at this very moment, your personal weather porridge is juuuust right. I find the rain beautiful too. I love the snow. The cold doesn’t mean shit if you just use some common sense to dress for it. Astronauts don’t wear wind-breakers in space, and you probably shouldn’t either when it’s minus 20. And buy some fucking boots! Pretty sure our northern Inuit friends figured out a long time ago that small dainty footwear just wasn’t going to cut it, so maybe time you clued in as well and stopped bitching to me about the 2 feet of snow you’re trudging through in your sneakers.
Winter happens every year here in Canada. I have no understanding whatsoever of the shock and outrage that grips people every November when piles of white stuff accumulate on the ground.
“I can’t believe it’s snowing!” the cretins will cry. “I can’t believe I haven’t slammed my shovel upside your head yet,” I’ll often retort.
I never recall complaining about the cold as a kid because I was too busy playing in the snow. I do remember whining though when I was forced to come inside. I never recall complaining about the rain as a kid because I was too busy jumping in the puddles, though I do remember whining when I was forced to come in for dinner. I never recall complaining about how hot it was as a kid because we always found our way to a patch of grass that contained a pathetic, plugged-up drain they called a waterpark. We didn’t complain about the weather when we were kids because we weren’t jacked into a miserable technological system 24 hours a day telling us about how horrible life is.
Do yourself a favour and turn off the TV. Take the weather app on your smart-phone and stuff it into your virtual trash. Delete all the fancy weather graphics from your laptop and accept the fact that you’ll never have control over Mother Nature. If you need to learn accurately about the weather, open your front fucking door. Then make a decision. It’s not the worst thing in the world to bring a sweater or mittens with you.
If you want to engage in real conversation with me, ask me about the dreams I had last night. Ask me my thoughts about reality. Ask me what brings joy and happiness into my life, and how I plan to go about fulfilling my passions. Ask me about absolutely anything that doesn’t involve random scattered showers throughout the day with a 20 percent chance of sunshine.
Now please excuse me while a grab my umbrella and head downtown. I have a little gun shopping to do.