Their weather forecast:  high of 75, low of 43.  Sunny with slight chance of hail any time after 7am where thunderstorms might develop in the tri-state area.  Details as they happen.

 My forecast:  high of hot-enough-to-turn-the-a/c-on.  Low cold-enough-to-turn-the-furnace-on.  Slight chance of turtles raining down from the sky.  Radar shows morons predicting the weather.

 I counted 100 days from when we had fog, and OMG, it’s rained every day I had marked on the calendar.  Me and the Farmer’s Almanac have a better chance of predicting the weather forecast than the local weather chumps. 

 I don’t mean to be rude, well, I guess I do, but what other job can you get that has a larger margin for error?  Bookies would be dead meat.   Pilots that land planes on ships in the middle of the ocean would be toast.  Let alone doctors who, for sure, would be broke.  “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Shovitz, guess we were supposed to take out your appendix, but there’s only a slight chance you’ll die in the next 48 hours now that you have a new kidney instead.”  . 

 Then we have the weathermen who sit there sporting a smile and lecture me about taking shelter during a tornado that they never tell me about until they already have footage from my neighbor of my car twisting in the wind.   As it is, I think they have a better chance of figuring out who will win the ESPN Hot Dog Eating Contest in 2020 than they do of getting today’s weather accurately called.

 You know if the weather guys were at least cute or shirtless, bulky, and tan, maybe I’d be okay with it.  It’s like that episode of Married with Children where Kelly is a weathergirl for all the wrong reasons.  Sadly, yes, I’ve seen it, but at least I can get behind the principle of the thing.  Maybe I wouldn’t have hate in my heart for those bastards if they at least gave me a little peek-see.  Are you with me? 

Now all we need is for Channel 6 to replace Jim Flowers with a Matt Damon as Jason Bourne look-alike.  Lather him up in after-sun tanning oil, and slide him into a wife-beater.  I promise to forgive and forget when he calls for sunshine and rainbows as I bury myself in a parka under 5 blankets at the next track meet (where I obviously won’t be getting my tan-time).

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