by yourkungfusnogood

Doppler radar has turned me into an NFL lineman-sized vagina.  Thanks to the evening news and their super-accurate depictions of low-pressure fronts and rotating supercell formations,  I no longer need dark clouds,  strong winds, or even rain to feel like a complete pussy.  Just the remote threat of a storm front moving within a hundred miles of my house sends me scurrying for dehydrated food, a transistor radio, Amaretto and sloe gin (nothing like an Alabama Slammer to take the edge off armageddon), rubber tubing and IV bags (don’t ask), my “found dead in a car crash” underwear, kerosene, the ingredients for S’mores, and every issue of Fall Out Shelter Fancy magazine in my sizeable collection of disaster-related periodicals.

I visibly become nervous when the forecast is partly sunny. Mostly cloudy? Forget it. That’s just one lightning strike shy of a death sentence.

Man, fuck doppler radar.  It can suck my balls.

Before doppler radar, how many storms with geometric wind shear did I blissfully sleep through? How many F5 tornados thundered past my house in the middle of the night without my knowledge? How many tsunami-inducing typhoons did I ignore while I happily dreamed of performing a “Dog in a Bathtub” on Tina Louise, or of eating a pickle-loaf sandwich, naked, in my eczema-survivors support group meeting?

Probably lots.  Who knows?  Doppler radar has taken all the mystery out of the weather, and the days of slumbering through twisters that would make Ted Fujita cream his pants are over.

Suck my balls doppler radar.   Suck ‘em for my lost meteorological innocence.

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