In Other News

Hurricane Dennis, you're an asshole.

You're being touted, celebrated even, as the first hurricane of the season. You derivative, thunder-stealing, credit-taking wind bag. I could have been a bad-ass hurricane. I had the stuff. I showed promise. But I've been downgraded to a tropical depression.

That's low. After all I've been through, I hit land and get depressed.

I'm not surprised, though. I can't make a dent in the blizzard of paperwork at my day job. I can't sell any of my writing. Can't give it away, for that matter. I'm getting old and flabby and am hopelessly sugar-addicted.

Well, of course I'm depressed. My confidence has eroded, Dennis, and you're not helping. I didn't care if I wasn't the first hurricane this season, but I fully intended to obliterate all kinds of shit. Trailer parks, churches, homosexual re-education camps. I had a list, Dennis. Do you have a list? An agenda? A clue? Do you even have a clue, Dennis? I didn't think so.

Don't patronize me you arrogant jerk--a little flooding and the remote possibility of tornadoes isn't the kind of destruction I had envisioned. Remarking about a weather system equivalent to post-nasal drip is no way to boost the ego of a Hurricane, and yes, as far as I'm concerned, I'm still a hurricane.

I want another chance. I can do it this time--Emily, dear, you'll have to wait a bit longer--I'm taking your turn because I was ripped off. Dennis is riding my coattails and scoring my heels and how on earth can I be expected to explode in my full, ruinous capacity with that sort of harrassment?

Run, you trailer park cretins. Cower in your flimsy, chip board church shelters you Bush-loving cave people. And by all means, take great care to protect the three or fourth teeth shared by the lot of you. I'm coming back. I'm not going to be depressed for long, because I'm bipolar hurricane Cindy. Unmedicated, bipolar hurricane Cindy.


Disastrously,

B.P Hurricane Cindy