Jesus 233, Santa 180

I'm not one to complain about the weather, but I am one to write a blog post about how I'm not one to complain about the weather and then complain about the weather. If that doesn't make sense, ignore it and move on. It's sort of a "duh" joke, like "what's the difference between a hamburger and a cheeseburger?" (Answer: the cheese!) or "why does it frequently smell like fine smoked Gouda on the blocks surrounding Grand Central Station in the early evening?" (Answer: also the cheese!).

Getting back to the topic at hand, though, I'd like to take a moment to complain about the weather.

I don't mind the heat. True, my apartment lacks options for ventilation on two sides, which makes things extra steamy. But it's a small price to pay to avoid having the neighbors see me gallivanting around in my underwear and screaming "Another One Bites the Dust" at the top of my lungs while they walk down the hall. And let's face it, the nuanced art of imitating Freddie Mercury is bound to make a person a little sweaty regardless of whether it's 19 degrees outside or 90.

Of course, the art of imitating Freddie Mercury is also the kind of thing that's bound to cost me major points with the ladies. So if you're a lady, please ignore everything you've read so far and start reading after this paragraph.

(LADIES, START READING HERE)

Hello, ladies. As the men in the audience can tell you, I'm in the midst of a complaint about the weather. So far, I've established that I don't have a huge problem with the heat.

My problem is with the, quote, "severe thunderstorms," end quote. And yes, I am aware that I just wrote the words "quote" and "end quote" in addition to writing quotes around "severe thunderstorms." It was to emphasize that I'm being sarcastic when I say "severe thunderstorms." Because I don't see how 30 minutes of thunder, lightning, and 60-mile an hour winds can possibly be considered severe.

Let's see if we can make a hypothetical analogy. Okay, say there's this President of the United States who is a Republican. Then say one day, his brain starts working for like half an hour, and he has a GOOD IDEA. (I know, it's unrealistic, but bear with me. This is fiction.) Does having his brain work for half an hour automatically disqualify him from the Republican party?

All right, that was a severely bad example.

How about this instead: say there's this one area of midtown Manhattan that periodically experiences incidents of "severe Gouda cheese aroma," and that the incidents last for somewhere in the neighborhood of 30 minutes. Does that mean that, during those 30-minute instances, that the entire island is once again under the jurisdiction of the Netherlands, and that all the spellings revert to their original Dutch (Nieuw Amsterdam, Breuckelyn), and that weed and hookers are temporarily legal? Because if so, a) sign me up, and b) I think we can get Eliot Spitzer reinstated as governor.

Wow, that's also terrible. There's no analogy to be drawn between legal weed and the weather at all. Sorry. And not apropos of me at all, I have somehow ranged off topic again. Which begs the question, if I managed to avoid digressing for 30 whole minutes, would that make me a severely better writer than I am now? It doesn't seem like it could hurt...

When I was a kid, we had SEVERE STORMS - the kind that threaten to rip the roof off the house and land it on the playground of a nearby elementary school. We had storms that made the sky turn yellow and sent people racing for basements and jumping out of moving cars to hide in roadside ditches. We had storms that blew beach balls and tricycles onto our lawn that belonged to kids who lived three blocks away. Those storms lasted for hours, or sometimes, entire days.

My parents used to tell us the storms were Jesus and Santa Claus bowling, and when the storm got loud, it was because One of Them just bowled a strike. (We always assumed it was Jesus, since Santa bowls like Barack Obama.) And when the storms lasted for a long time, my parents told us it was because Santa kept getting drunk and wanting a double-or-nothing rematch so he could get his money back. But, of course, Santa never won his money back because Jesus never had any money. Jesus was just a Broke Hustler.

My point is that, for all the damage wrought to power lines, rail systems in Connecticut, and my friend Laszlo's house in New Brunswick, New Jersey, I'm not sure I'm sold on the word "severe" for last night's thunderstorm. It sounded more like a handful of practice frames, or maybe a single game where Jesus wiped the floor with Santa, 233 to 180. Mathematically, Santa couldn't have had more than like three Miller Genuine Drafts. Ergo, not severe.

But check out these pictures of Laszlo's house anyway. This could happen to you four years after I move out of your house too:





Rumor has it that Laszlo might end up with a new bay window when all is said and done. I don't know, that sounds pretty "not severe" to me.

Dear Jesus and Santa,

Try harder next time. Your bowling matches are lame lately.

Turkey,
Smokey.