THE WEATHERMAN • by Ed Buchanan

Our highly evolved society has reached a point in which it is necessary to discard certain outdated traditions that many Americans cling to with the entirety of their being.  Meteorologists are the bane of our great nation and need to be dealt with in the only way that we as a society know how — violence. Now, you may be sitting there thinking to yourself ‘This guy is crazy’ or ‘But I’m a peaceful person.’ You may be formulating thoughts that sound like this but of course you are wrong. It takes an informed person, a man who has seen the inner workings of their cult, to tell you why it is of the utmost importance that we extinguish this threat before it spreads.

Friends, I must tell you, I have been there. I have seen their meetings, sat inside the production center and witnessed first hand the vileness of their treachery. An example: say, as it is common to do, you want to take your family for a well-deserved trip to the beach. You and your wife want to know what attire will be needed, and whether or not to bring an extra set of clothing in case of rain. You turn on the computer while your darling wife who no doubt just had breast enhancement surgery (this is hypothetical, so we should make it realistic) concentrates her attention on the television. Well, that is, after you turn it on for her of course. The internet and weather station both claim that the sunniest of skies is all that you will see, so you and the missus gussy up in your best clothing, swimming attire concealed beneath, and pile your 2.5 children into the stylish sport utility vehicle with leather trim and fold-down third-row seating. On the good advice of these “professionals,” you take the journey. The day is indeed beautiful, that is if you were a wind gust. A nasty storm takes you by surprise, blowing in over the lake, engulfing you in its turbulence and spitting your family up like dead fish littering the beach at sunrise. After the ferocious weather passes, you even notice that the .5 child is missing, a casualty directly attributed to the weatherman. No longer can we stand by and let more and more of our half children be swept away by an errant gust when all of this could have been prevented.

It is with great passion that I present to you the very reason for your loss: meteorologists. Think about it. They sit pretty, high in their ivory towers, and watch computer models and satellite data, they eat celery sticks and drink fancy fruit juices while tabulating numbers and checking figures dealt to them by their central command, the National Weather Service. It is too great a task, however, to start by attacking the home base. Instead, we will begin by holding our local weathermen accountable for their misgivings and false hopes. They will pay for continuing to provide us with temperatures that are “within five or six degrees.” No more can they get off saying “there is a fifty percent chance of clouds” when you and I can look outside and see them. See them? The clouds, right there out the window above the sofa. To think, they went to school for this. Or perhaps they didn’t. No matter, we the people will rise up and tell the network executives that hire these swindlers, “No more!” Protests will spring up throughout the nation and then, my friends, we will be strong enough to attack the center of it all, their proverbial eyes of the storms, and make it a final resting place for these foul beasts of burden. Down with the weathermen!

Wait, who is that? My God, she is beautiful! She is reading something, and pointing to… to us. She’s pointing at me, my house, I know it! Thank you, network executives, for hiring this wheat-haired vixen to dictate the changing nature of our atmosphere. She wears her AMS seal like a badge, courageously predicting the manner in which my day will unfold. Let the winds howl, the rain form torrents coming down off the roof. Let the sun burn holes in our skin and let it all happen when something else has been forecasted! Provided that this gorgeous woman is the vehicle in which we receive it. No one needs .5 of a kid anyway.

Ed Buchanan writes fiction and drama defined by blending comedy and tragedy. He continues to build a body of work that actively twists the concepts of empathy and reality. Ed’s work has appeared in YACK, The Akros Review, and his play Graveyard Shift enjoyed a full production.

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