Big Deal, Another Disappointing Blowjob

Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master's whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough!

Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try with main-course.

A cry within

A plague upon this howling! they are louder than the weather or our office.

Special thanks to Willie, who, as you know, I call on from time to time to help in his own inimitable fashion to explain the inexplicable, and only in a way no one is sure to understand. And, what the fuck did I just say? In a nutshell, FS et al, are hunkered in what was supposed to have been the ‘Storm of the Century’, at least since the last ‘Storm of the Century,’ which probably happened two weeks ago in Houston. Supposed to be. Supposed to be. And, that’s wherein lies the rub.

Supposedly, this thing - Irma they like to call her - is going to bear down on us like a fucking runaway freight train on a Saturday night, whatever that means ‘cause it is actually going to happen Sunday. That was yesterday. That was then, this is now. Turns out the weather pundits got it wrong. Left turn, Clyde. And, all of a sudden Irma which had been heading toward us – me in particular because I tend toward the paranoiac – is dodging my bullet. Same thing happened during Hurricane Andrew back in ‘ought ’92. Yes that’s right, back in the day. On the eve of that true monstrosity, Andrew had been slated, even money, to level the city in which FS hesitatingly calls home. A raucous pre-Hurricane party-party ensued and bets were laid around the restaurant table. The drinks and merriment flowed and it was all but certain only one family at the table would be left standing in a day or two and it surely was not going to be mine. Ha! Well, FS lost that bet and with it a few close friends. T’was a pity, but there you have it. Money well spent I have been thinking ever since.

And, now there’s Irma. Same bullshit, different millennium. One minute it’s going to crush the living daylights out of the homestead and the next…. This is the next, and this looks to be another washout of a blowjob.

[That very next day] I am hunkered over the intricacy of the digitized, spaghetti hurricane prognosticator and pandemonium map on the aging, but still-of-service laptop, and I notice they are semi-right. Yes, this storm is barreling down on a different city on a different side of the state, but now hold on a minute…there’s something…odd…about this storm…Seems like all of the energy flow, inclusive of massive amounts of rain and a wind force that looks increasingly like Godzilla’s breath x100, is actually raging mostly to the east of the eye of this sucker. So, if that is the case…if that yellowish, reddish, purplish blob of energy mass consisting of voracious winds and drenching precipitation is to the east of the center, that means it is about to blow over MY part of this land. And, for no less than 12 fucking hours. Well that’s not good. That must mean that

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