Weathermen

From urbandictionary.com:
dope slap – A light “whapp” to the back of the head, done with an open palm in an upward motion. The physical equivalent to the phrase, “Whatta you… a moron?!”

Have you dope slapped a weatherman today? Actually, you’re probably too late. Today is National Dope Slap a Weatherman Day—and they all know it.

By now, they’ve sequestered themselves within the secure confines of their respective studios—the studios being secured as a result of the prognosticators having the foresight to include such protection in their contracts. They knew that this day would come. One forecast they got right!

I can just imagine them there, cloistered together and peering at the building’s security monitors while lamenting the day when then-president G.W.Bush signed the legislation that officially proclaimed this national day of public revenge. I believe the president called it “revengification.”

I don’t see how the weathermen can blame us, really. They’ve worked the whole year to mess up our plans and otherwise provoke, taunt, and annoy.

In its simplest form, their subversive tactics are evident whenever you try to catch the weather report while you’re driving. The weather looks iffy, so you turn on the radio and listen intently as you wait to finalize some plan that is dependent on the weather.

You listen first to the traffic reporter, who gives a run down of every fender bender, tire change, and pedestrian strike in the city. This, too, is important, and you note that one of the pedestrian strikes lies ahead on your present route. As you contemplate exactly where the jaywalker lies, why this miscreant picked today to inconvenience you, and how you might maneuver to avoid the nuisance, you hear… “And that’s today’s forecast!” Just like that, the weathermen sneak it in so you can’t hold them to their prediction when it later proves to be wrong.

The weathermen on the television news are every bit as devious. First they give us all the information about record averages, and such, with a near endless dissection of every weather-minute from the past 24 hours—this accompanied by a good deal of excitedly pointing to their “weather radar” and the various (meaningless) colors and fabricated images that sweep across its screen.

Next, you can expect to see a minute-by-minute computer model of conjecture on what to expect for the next several hours—again presented in incomprehensible colors that, along with their time-stamps, flash by quickly enough to qualify as a subliminal message.

Finally, when you’ve been completely stupefied by the glut of information, mesmerized by the ambiguous radar images, and lulled into a semi-conscious dreamlike haze, up flashes the five day forecast (the information you’ve foolishly waited so long to see). This appears just long enough to snap you out of your weather-coma to realize you’ve missed the forecast—again.

So, for this year you’ve missed your chance at a weatherman. My suggestion is you start making plans to get a shot at one next year.

Perhaps it will give you some comfort to know that Ear-Flick a Sportscaster Day is next month. Get up early, but be careful—the sportscasters are much more aggressive than the weathermen, and they might flick back!