Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. (Look, I’m a balloon!) Inhale. Pop.
This week in last week’s weather, we introduce a new segment that we probably won’t ever use again: “The Beforecast,” wherein we give a brief summary of each day’s weather in the style of the week. This week’s style of the week, “inspirational death threats” was suggested by online commentor SluttyTimTam40. Thanks, SluttyTimTam40! We’ll be sure to send you a free T-shirt, of sorts, complete with anthrax dust we never cleaned off of it. Anyway, this shit’s about to get fucking biblical.
Thursday, Nov. 1: Clouds, if you don’t get the fuck out of the way of the sun next time, you’ll never achieve your dreams. I believe you can achieve your dreams. You just have to wish hard enough. Also, I’m going to kill your children to death, and then [censored by editor] with your cloud of a wife. You got me, puffytits? Or have you mist my point?
Friday, Nov. 2: Oh man, you had best be kidding me. Rain? Rain?!? God fucking dammit. Rain, I swear to whatever deity you hold dear, if you don’t stop getting my new cashmere wet this fucking instant, a whole new world of pain is going to precipitate down upon you. And I’m not even talking about steam. You’ve never even heard of this phase of matter, so watch your shit, reach for the stars, explore, love, and stop dripping on my ass.
Saturday, Nov. 3: You think this is fucking a joke, atmosphere? You think shrinking my already undersized micropenis with your high humidity and low temperature is funny? Well la-de-da. I guess you’re the comedian then, right? Well, alright Mr. Comedian atmosphere, tell me a joke. Come one, this is no-zone to be serious. Tell me a joke. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. No seriously, you should consider a career as a comedian. I think it’d be really fulfilling for you. The only thing stopping you from having a perfect life is you, atmosphere.
Sunday, Nov. 4: Jacket, I love you. You are everything this air is not. Warm, cuddly, stuffed with down (and, for that matter, down with stuff). Air, get out of here. I haven’t had to deal with your 36 degree bullshit for so long I’d almost forgotten how sick I was of it. How cold do you think you’ll be once I light you on fire, huh? Now hold your breath, make a wish, take a chance, and leave me alone with my blanket.
Monday, Nov. 5: Sun, you’re not shining bright enough. Get your shit together. Remember, like, four weeks ago when you were making me sweat? Get on your own level, bro. If all you’re going to do is shine weakly through some visible-spectrum wavelength, like blue or some crap, then I’m done with you.
Tuesday, Nov. 6: LOL no. Get the fuck out of here, Tuesdays. Seriously you better get going. A journey of one thousand miles can’t begin without that first step, and if you don’t start this instant I’ll cut your feet off at the shin, so you can’t even take that step. Go! I’ll check in on you at the 500-mile mark to make sure you’re actually doing it.
Wednesday, Nov. 7: There are only two ways to live your life, wind. One, as if nothing is a miracle. The other is to sit your ass down and blow on me like your mother did last night.
Rating: Green out of Orange
Disclaimer: Any similarities between these threats and actual events happening within the next week are purely coincidental and not related in any way. But watch your fucking back, Kyle, I’m coming for you.