These are my words and this is my hate.

A restive vortex of thought and anti-sentiment swirls inside. The fire won’t be spat until I spit it. So I shall spit.

I am a writer – I write beginnings and I write endings. This is the ending of meteorologists.

How is it that people who spend very little to no time outside can be qualified to talk about the weather? Are they qualified? Do they know anything of what they speak?

If I possessed the success rate of the modern meteorologist, you would not refer to me as Mickey Mantle, or Babe Ruth, or Audie Murphy, or Dalton Fury. I would be compared to a jailed tweaker with no prospects, no LinkedIn page, no social media tags for the geriatrics (who still watch the news) to peruse.

The modern meteorologist flogs the screen with lies and after killing the viewer’s sensibilities, wipes up the blood with their pride. Only a base society with decrepit values could give a place to such useless show-ponies. Is it because we’re afraid of wounding their vanity?

God saved my life so I could remain in the land of the living. But there are many detestable things here. There are many detestable people here. Insufferable even. So insufferable I create worlds within my sorrow where meteorologists don’t exist. Not even the job title.

Let the office enshrined meteorologists do a real job, like changing out the blue water from porta-potties. I valuate the tongue of the clueless weatherman equal to the chunky blue water of a porta-potty. Blue-water tongues. Henceforth, I shall refer to meteorologists as blue water tongues.

One morning I found myself getting angry at the blue water tongues. All they do is discuss subjects which are not pertinent to anyone. Then I realized – the only job of the blue water tongues is to scream at the rest of their office-enshrined, doomed viewership to stay inside. “It’s hot outside!” – after all! It’s hot to the people who belong inside. It’s hot to the synthetic, artificially climate-controlled drones who couldn’t make their livings outdoors. The blue water tongues were never talking to me with their weather shamcasts. As if they ever could. Through their words, which I shall never again hear, they add weight to the burdens I carry. The blue water tongues preach doom, when, conversely, I find a path to thrive in the worst weather. Surely, it couldn’t be because they lack experience grinding out a living outside, could it? Yes. Yes, it very well is due to that.

Angry reader offended at my treatment of their beloved, vapid meteorologists, or your mom: “And you treat them with such sarcasm?! What if that was someone you knew??”

–I wouldn’t pass GO and I wouldn’t collect $200. I don’t know and I don’t care what you want me to say. I can almost guarantee that I wouldn’t kick over the headstone of a blue-water tongue, despite the temptation vibrating like a waking caldera. Oops!

Weatherman offend me like the vanity on show at the MET gala. I find them utterly useless. There are many things I would like to do to the blue-water tongues so they flog no more…

…I would chastise their fleshy tongues with prickly rose stems.

…I would drag them out of their offices into the thick heat that they only have the courage to talk about from afar, but not endure, because they are cowards. I would drag them into the deep, sweltering heat. The type of heat that doubles the weight of one’s clothing with sweat and gushes from every pore even while standing still. They would feel themselves drowning in dehydration and discomfort. 3 hours after I was last able to hydrate and I was still performing at full-hydration levels, (how?, nobody knows. Call it conditioning, or willpower, or being made for it) I see the blue-water tongues in the weather they forecasted. They are near to being stretchered off the jobsite in a pathetic, once-meddling heap of trash lip service. Idiots, man. How I wish they were strong enough, and worthy enough to listen to. But they only increase my vexation and disappointment in mankind.

Thankfully, I have these words. – thankfully, I have this imagination. Fore reality is often a scarcity that simply cannot quench my deepest yearnings. Amen.

The modern dandy meteorologists preach to the other dandies. They can’t talk to me. They never were able to relate to me. They never tell about the second job of the day cancelling so the day ends early and I get to return to my daughter. Those fops never talk about the generous tips doled out by grateful clients. The modern meteorologists never discuss the relieving patches of shade, spot showers, or perfectly timed breezes that reinvigorate the worker’s weary flesh. They don’t talk about those things because they’ve never had it, nor will they ever. And i’m glad. If I saw them on a jobsite, I wouldn’t acknowledge them, because the work is more important than any one person. The blue-water tongues dont understand the importance of work because they don’t do work. Who would consult a meteorologist anyway? They have the accuracy of a rifle that isn’t properly zeroed. Ha! Gather round children and hear about the outside from an indweller! – not for me, ever.

These

These are my words, and this is my hatred.