Spinning Wind of Death - by Douglas

Well, God’s finally going to kill me. Tomorrow, to be specific. Down here in the Dirty South, (Wazzap my North Side Recyclerz?? Hauling bottles and cans wit my Crizzew!!) we are due for some nasty weather. Tornadic incidents are (cue ominous music) somewhat likely.



I have only ever lived in the South, and we do tend to take a bit more of God’s weather-related wrath than most of the contiguous 48. We get hurricanes every summer and tornados every spring. In fall, we get the latest rounds of asinine sitcoms and in winter we get weathermen wrongly predicting snow twice a week. I have ridden out my share of all these and by my calculations, my luck has just run out. This time tomorrow, I will be felled by a tornado. Or "Better off Ted."

Now we Dyers do have our tornado plan memorized and we are ready to implement it at a moment’s notice. First on the list is, “Buy a weather radio.” I gotta do that. When the power or cable goes out -which it will - you don’t really know if there’s a tornado around. Well, I do actually. I’ve got a tornado siren very near to my house. When my power and/or cable goes off and I hear the loud, plaintive sound of the tornado siren I always immediately run to the window and say, “What the hell is that? Are the neighbor’s dogs stuck again? Whoa, kids come see this! Something is making Mrs. Henning’s tomato stakes fly around like CRAZY!”



You can see that I’ve pressed my luck to the point that my death is now a mathematical probability. So, to those of you who offered the unsolicited nag-vice that I should have a will now that I have children, sorry I let you down. Oh, and you too kids. Daddy’s gonna write something out tonight and magnet it to the fridge. You need to give that to Mommy or the ambulance driver tomorrow, whichever isn’t pretending to sleep. And remind me to put it in a Ziploc bag since the rain will be coming in where the roof used to be. Our house will be a just like a convertible! Yay!

As one last favor to all you nice people, I will find out who is going to win American Idol and I will tip you off somehow. If it’s that Mary J. Blige one, I’ll leave a shiny penny on your doormat. If it’s that guy whose wife died, I’ll hook up with her (We’re dead, don’t judge!) then I’ll slip something into Paula Abdul’s drink tomorrow night so she says crazy, nonsensical things. Naughty dead man! And if it’s that blind guy then please send down some sweaters because hell has frozen over. Oh no I dit-uhnt!

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