Weather

The weather is not so nice this time of year, but if you're smart, you won't tell anyone this. I've seen people offended by the very mention of storms and hail. They'll put you under sun lamps until your head wrinkles like a raisin. They'll attach you to a homemade rocket they launch toward the tropics. That's why you see men under umbrellas about to mention something to a stranger, then just look away to a puddle they're likely to soon walk into. Or why women buried inside a blizzard don't call out to anyone for fear that Frosty the Snowman fans will respond, who'll remove the women's noses and replace them with carrots. Then there are the children, who are bullied by teachers into cutting out paper rainbows for hours, when what they really want to do is feel icy rain pounding their backs. I'm going to be secret about it. I'll send anonymous letters to the newspaper complaining about the snowbanks in the yards and the sled dogs who're being exhausted. At work I'll post little cartoons of characters asking "Is it cold enough for you?" and "Do you think it's like this in hell?" They might identify my handwriting, though I've added hearts over the i's and loop my letters like minature roller coasters. That's why I need to build a weather control machine, to blast them with hurricane force winds, send them home sick to feed on chicken noodle soup. They'll sit in their study, huddled under scratchy covers, and wonder when my mudslides and tornadoes are going to end.