NOTE: This post may contain racy material. I’m not usually this uncouth. This is also a total rant which will at least be a bit funny, and at most kill part of your brain in the most horrible manner possible. You’ve been warned.
Last edited 20 October 2005. — Here we go again. Another hurricane, heading our way. Really, this is getting ridiculous — and old.
A couple of days ago, I read the following headline on Fark:
God remembers that Tampa has never been directly hit by a major hurricane in the modern era, seeks to rectify that situation
Ok, pretty funny headline, especially since I read it Sunday while in Tampa. Apparently, Tropical Storm Wilma was at that time somewhere south of the Yucatan peninsula. (You know, where that comet struck 65 million years ago which wiped out the dinosaurs, as well as 80% of all life on Earth.) Due to some amazing atmospheric foot-work, that storm was (edit:and still is) predicted to head pretty much straight north, then take a sharp, 90-degree angle turn east, towards Tampa. Since nothing ever hits Tampa, this meant that Tampa’s surrounding areas should start preparing for another hit. Heck, just to be safe, even Tampans (pronounced “Tampons”, like that thing women use when they’re “not so fresh”) were being told to get ready, since this might have been the area’s very first direct hit in something like 900 years.
Key words: might have been.
Anyway, this morning, I wake up, walk to the living room, and as I’m getting ready for my morning workout, I turn on the TV. I just happen to catch the Channel 7 weather
hottie person, Elita Loresca, talking about Wilma. To my surpise, she wasn’t calling it a tropical storm. She wasn’t even calling it a category 1. Oh no. She was calling this the strongest hurricane ever to develop in the Atlantic basin.
You should probably be made aware of the fact that this was at 5:00am, just as I was getting ready for my morning workout. When I went to bed the night before, this thing was just barely a hurricane. Barely! It had gone from a tropical storm to a category 5 hurricane with 175mph winds in less than a day. Talk about your wakeup calls!
What made this
interestingsuck harder that a Hoover is the fact that the loverly Hurricane Wilma, (which was supposed to go towards Tampa, remember?), was still supposed to take a 90-degree turn, for no apparent reason, in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, and plow right into — no, not Tampa — South Florida. Sure, I’m glad it’s not hitting Tampa, but daing it, why couldn’t it just plow right into New Orleans or something? I mean, the city’s already a big garbage heap, so it’s not like it could do much more harm there.
Here’s a question to ponder: does God hate Florida? Seriously, I mean what — aside from Disney’s gay-pride day, Guavaween, the debauchery of South Beach, the 2000 election, ’72 Dolphins, Malcolm Glazer’s deal-with-the-Devil for John “Chucky” Gruden, the 4-year drug parties known as FSU and UF, a crappy public schools system, that new gun law, Pat Buchanan, Bubba the Love Sponge, FantasyFest, Bike Week, slot machines in Broward county, every strip club in Dale Mabry, Ybor City, Hollywood, and everything that Key West represents — did we ever do to deserve this? Gees, just because Florida looks like a huge wang doesn’t mean we need to get screwed over and over, you know!
Here’s what really gets to me: Tampa’s gotta be the luckiest city on the Florida coast. The latest predictions have the hurricane hitting Key West and sweeping through South Florida. (Wang. Tip. Get it?) Tampa? Oh, they may get some clouds, maybe even a little wind and rain. Us? Why, we’re scheduled to be off the map in something like three days. (“Good bye, and thanks for all the fish.”)
Daing it, why did I move here? Why didn’t I stay in Tampa? Having lived there for the better part of my life, I have to say that I’d only feel threatened by a hurricane in Tanpa if they’d bus one in, give it a rifle, and tell it I was talking smack about its mom. Heck, even though Tampa got skirted by Frances in 2004, it still wasn’t exactly anything to write home about. (Literally; I was at my parent’s place in Brandon when Frances was going on. Nothing. Worth. Writing. About.)
At any rate, here’s hoping this one does something spectacular, like navigating under the state, never touching land, and floating off safely into the Atlantic. In other words, I’m hoping for a teaser.