Hurricane names

Chris, Debby, Florence, Patty, Nadine…

I don't know about you but hurricane names sound more like what you'd find on nametags at a PTA potluck, rather than a vicious tropical cyclone. They don't exactly put the fear of 80-mile winds in you, do they?

Hurricane Sandy isn't a cause for a state of emergency, it's cause for a makeover, preferably by Rizzo. If Hurricane Rizzo hit the East Coast, you'd better believe that I'd run for fucking cover.

The World Meteorological Organization and National Hurricane Center need to get some new baby books, preferably ones with badass names like Spike, Rocco, JR, T-Bone. Better get, I propose that we substitute roller-derby names for these milquetoast monikers. Helen Wheels, Dora the Destroyer, Naomi Cannibal—shutters would be nailed down and the coastline would be evacuated in record time.

(photo: geology.com)

The Giving Tree

I can't decide who's the bigger asshole: The tree or the kid.

In thinking about this since my childhood (I wanted to punch Shel Silverstein's classic in the face even then), I have never figured out what all the precious fuss was about.

While some claim this book is about unconditional love, to me it smacks of a cautionary tale heard over and over again in twelve-step programs. In addition to being a playmate (branches to swing on), a protector (shielding the kid from harmful rays), a provider (offering up its fruit for food, branches for a house, and trunk for a boat), and a stool (finally a stump), The Giving Tree is a sap.

Plus, the tree is female, which makes her continual sacrifice to this knob even more annoying and questionable.

Might I suggest that this parable serve as a lesson to all the other anthropomorphic trees and shrubs out there. Set some boundaries, learn to say no, and get your Serenity Prayer on. Accept that you can't change greedy, thoughtless little shits, muster up some courage to change your behavior and drop an apple on his head, and get wise to his ways. That's the path to happy, joyous, and tree.

Pollen

I know plants need you to grow and shit, but do you have to rub it in our faces (especially my right eye, which is almost swollen shut because of your need to be front and center)? I swear, you’re just like John Mayer or Speidi: stop talking about you for a minute and you have to whip up a new controversy to get carried along in the wind. Get over yourself and let something else shine for once. Have you ever considered that mold spores might like a moment now and again?

I don’t mean to be a major ragweed but enough is enough. I’m tired—seriously, I need a nap—of breathing only through my mouth. It’s time to make hay, not hay fever, while the sun shines, which means I need to wash you and your allergen pals outta my hair, off of my skin, and down the drain. I’m going to drown your greedy sinus-squatting ass in vats of antihistimines and decongestants. Maybe that’ll teach you to keep to your turf and fertilize flora, not my nasal passages…microscopic bitch.

It feels good to finally get that out of my system.

(Photo: flickr.com/photos/neoserenity333/1328125376)