I’m getting pretty freaking tired of weather in the Gulf. Admittedly, that’s a rather preposterous thing to say considering that I don’t live there, and my only real inconvenience is some extra hours of work. If I lived there, I’d probably be living in my wife’s car and prostituting myself for cat food and gravy mix.

Still. The company I work for has computers down there in a number of places, mostly attached to refineries and the like, so every time a monstrous storm comes wafting through, I get to work vast hours fixing things. Between that and blood and money donations to various hurricane-related charities, I’m starting to get a mite irritated.

What makes it even worse is the fact that FEMA has turned out to be run by people who are as lazy as I am, which is SERIOUSLY challenging my reality. I always pictured FEMA as being run by Tommy Lee Jones in that silly movie about volcanoes popping up in LA, what with the self-sacrifice and sprinting away from exploding buildings with small childrens in his arms and all that. Now it turns out they’re mostly interested in making sure that nobody gets to assist in rescuing victims unless all their forms are stamped in triplicate.

Plus, they’ve gotten like 40″ of rain down there over the last month or so, and around here we’re nearly in drought conditions. My lawn looks like a giant dog peed all over it. I haven’t had to mow it in weeks, and I’m starting to be concerned about brush fires. Particularly since more and more of my neighbors seem to be somehow making a living out of walking around smoking blunts and taking enthusiastic swigs from bottles wrapped in lunch bags.

That’s right. South Central does it like nobody does. I’m moving to Antarctica. At least the weather there is predictable.

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