A note to anyone, desperately anyone:
Help. Since operation WTF started in last week’s this week in last week’s weather, I’ve hit some hard times. I had thought I’d found a gold mine when I tried to sell all of my Google Plus +1s for Facebook likes, but it turns out the conversion rate is so poor I’d have to sell several million +1s for even a handful of likes. Instead, I’ve been forced to sell my home and mail-order bride to cover the difference. I’ll miss you, Anastasiya, but I trust you’ll meet someone else who can appreciate your freakishly large hands.
I’m currently writing to you, dear readers, on the back of a piece of cardboard I found, laying my words out using the mud on which I sleep, in the hopes that my editors may be able to transcribe this for your reading benefit. Anyway, keep those likes coming, I could really use them right about now. I’m going to go check the trash can over there for scraps.
Weather Truth Forever, and thoughts of ending it all.
This week in last week’s weather, I’m sad.
I’d like you to picture to yourself the most beautiful week imaginable—a week so beautiful that it would far exceed my pathetic talent for weather reporting for me to even try to put its beauty into words. I’d fail in trying to describe whether the weather was hot, not hot, steamy, holy cannoli, or neat. I’d fail in saying if the clouds were fluffy or puffy or round or cumulus or wispy as a wisp. I’d fail in the usual comparisons where the sky is concerned: for instance, blue, flush with purplely petally streaks, wide, or blue—again. And I would fail in articulating how it’d make you feel, be it sad, nostalgic for pesticide, tree, hapless (whatever that means), or opium. Instead, I shall leave it entirely up to your imagination to fill in this blank with your own ideal of climatalogical beauty.
This week was nothing like that. It sucked. It was as bad as spikeball apparently isn’t, and that’s just from what I could see out my bedside window, the real outdoors being too depressing to warrant even five minutes of my time. Actually, wait. If I say that it sucked as much as spikeball, will I get 100 plus likes and dozens of impassioned commenters, too? Yeah, fuck spikeball, ultimate sport of losers and stupid people everywhere. Hold my dick, Mr. CEO of “I play with string trampolines” Incorporated.
Anyway, remember Halloween last year? It sleeted. It fucking sleeted. That’s just three last-weeks away. Prepare your faces for the icy-rainy onslaught.
Also, fuck rain.
Happy Halloween, 11.5 months belated.
Aggregate Score: Fuck it.
Fun fact: We used the word “fuck” five times in this edition. Including this one: fuck. That’s one more fuck than the number of times I’d fuck That’s So Raven star Raven-Symoné if she ever came back to write for us. Seven times now.
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