Mrs. P Don't change it. I want to watch the weather.
Prego Why? Anybody beyond the age of twelve has already become familiarized with the weather patterns in their area. Why do you need an over-educated chowderhead to tell you what the weather's like?
Mrs. P I wanna know what the weather's going to be like tomorrow...
Prego It's either gonna rain or it ain't. Why? Were you thinking about having a picnic?
(TV Volume gets turned up.)
April? 40º-50º F. Mostly sunny.
August? 60% chance of skanky shorts and halter tops.
October? 50º, with overnight lows in the high 30ºs.
November to March? Up to our cobbles in snow... Which is precisely why I'm starting to freak out a little.
We haven't had a goddamned bit of snow since mid-October.
As far as I can recall, living in Buffalo, I can count on a couple of things:
- There's always going to be a steady crew of industrious rummies pushing rusty shopping carts up and down the streets looking for returnable soda pop and beer cans.
- Bars will be open until four a.m., from where a population of pudgy bar sluts can stumble home sans bra, reeking of Crown Royal, mayonnaise and frat boy sweat, and
- Mrs. P will pester me to shovel snow from the 30' of sidewalk in front of the Prego household (to no avail), only to wind up doing it herself.
I even saw a few squirrels today. One of them had the paunch of a latter-day Elvis and could be seen smoking a spliff and eating Jared Fogle's Subway™ leftovers. Normally, this squirrel would have the physique of one of the Strokes and be rationing his nuts and cigarette butts this time of year.
All the charms of the winter solstice are amiss. Instead, earthworms litter the sidewalk, weeds are sprouting on lawns and bears are walking around with bloodshot eyes:
Mrs. Bear Munch... munch... munch... I need to get some sleep.
Mr. Bear Just eat, baby.
Baby Bear Like, oh... my... gawd. I am so gaining my freshman fifteen. I am such a cow.
Mr. Bear Groan. I'm heading over to the Squrrel's to smoke a fat one.
Somewhere in our community there's a pudenda under a thick brush of winter bush, feeling all dressed up with nowhere to go:
Housefraü (to mons pubis) It's the machete for you....
Husband (to himself) Thank god.... It feels like a scouring pad. Bless you, greenhouse gases.
Maybe it's just me. Yeah, ordinarily I'm cursing the f*cking gods this time of year, scraping off a stubborn, yet life affirming inch-thick layer of ice off my windshield before heading to work. Usually I'm making a mad dash from the parking lot to work, with a snotscicle forming under my nose and the frigid sting of thousands of tiny needles on my ears (because I can never find my winter hat).
One winter as a kid, I blew a huge bubble of gum -- it fell from my chapped lips and shattered on the sidewalk. I swear to Satan.
Today? I'm looking out the window to see the sad drizzle of a temperate Buffalo. No icicles. No cloud of steam as I exhale. No need for a half bag of rock salt to melt the front stoop for the mailman. Damn...
Jack Frost... Mother Nature, wherever the f*ck you are... I miss you. Dearly. Please come soon.