Let’s talk about watery killstorms


That’s “hurricanes” for you weirdos who like to call things by their proper names

So, some Caribbean island called Barbuda, whose existence I just learned about this morning, got riggity wrecked by Hurricane Irma, and that’s a real bummer, man. Who would have thought that living in an island paradise would have its drawbacks – except, you know, the people of Haiti?

And then there’s the part of Texas that sits near the Gulf of Mexico (AKA the breeding ground for watery killstorms). Parts of the United States are underwater, and it’s just another reminder that Mother Nature doesn’t care. Like, you could not fathom the size of the fuck she does not give. What’s that? Your house is all paid off? Let’s see what it would look like if I dropped a tree on it. Oh, you like having electricity? Try watching sitcoms when your entire living room is a swimming pool.

Nature doesn’t play.

And few places are safe. Those coffee-slurping hipsters in Portland and Seattle could be turned to molten ash by an eruption from Yellowstone. Or maybe drowned by a tsunami. San Francisco? Just wait until the San Andreas fault gets antsy.

Even Phoenix poses dangers. If the heatstroke doesn’t get me, there are the flash floods – not to mention the rattlesnakes, scorpions and other dangerous creepy crawlers that nature created to remind us that we’re just squatters on her turf, and she can reclaim it whenever she pleases.

All this raises an important question: where exactly do you flee when the proverbial shit hits the fan? The Midwest? Too many Trump voters, evangelicals and tornadoes. Canada? Beer good, cold bad.

I’ll just stay where I am. The skin cancer will get me long before the apocalypse comes.