: the real boobs on the tube :

Yesterday was a fine example of why I never listen to local weather forecasters — sorry, meteorologists. They like to be called ‘meteorologists’, sounds more official, I guess. But what, I ask, do meteors have to do with the weather?

Word derivations are baffling, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s no logic. I mean, we park in a driveway and drive on a parkway, don’t we? How bass ackwards is that? Then there’s the whole asteroid / hemorrhoid conundrum. Hemorrhoids should rightly be called asteroids and vice versa.  In a more sensible world, anyway.

Whoa, my train of thought got derailed. Where were we?

Right, weather people. With some of the local forecasters you have to wonder if they ever look out a window. I don’t believe they do. They just read what’s on the cue cards, no questions asked. The important thing is their hair, not their forecasts; you can tell because the comb lines are still apparent. They may be issuing dire warnings of violent, dangerous weather, but there’s not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in sight. Shirtsleeves are rolled up, though, to suggest an effort has been made.

I want a job like that. One where I show up for a few minutes, toss out a couple bad puns, make a wild guess, and take off for the rest of the day (or night). I could do that. I can be just as wrong, maybe even wronger. Plus, I can pretend to know what I’m talking about. Perhaps best of all, I can leave comb lines in my hair. What else do I need?

A little acting talent wouldn’t hurt. And some blinders. Yesterday, the weather dame pouted and stuck her lower lip out, feigning either sorrow or a toothache, as she predicted a gray, cloudy day ahead. Outside, meanwhile, the sky was blue and the sunshine bright, a truer harbinger of the day ahead. See, now me, I’d have looked out a window. And that, my friends, is why I’ll never be a forecaster.

Stoopid windows.

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