I predict that somewhere in America, it's raining.

Dear National Weather Service,

I hereby wish to submit my resumé to your austere organization, with hopes of working one day in your Indianapolis office.

I think you'll find that my qualifications for employment are, in a word, impeccable. I have had an avid interest in the weather since I was a small boy, and have followed you closely as you've streamlined your operations, saving more people's lives than ever before while striving to increase your accuracy.

Some of my notable accomplishments in the field of meteorology include:

* Predicting with 75 percent accuracy at least 26 percent of southern Indiana's sunny days between 2004-2006;

* Forecasting the Great Tornado Outbreak of March 18, 2004, for the southeastern corner of the country (of course, the most severe weather that day was some chronic drizzle near Talladega, Alabama, but I digress);

* Remembering the names of at least 7 Atlantic hurricanes that have hit landfall since 1968 (and no, I'm not even including Katrina in that count because quite frankly, I think we're all pretty sick and fucking tired of hearing about Katrina);

* Forecasting within 6 months the latest-ever winter storm to hit the lower 48 states, the Blizzard of July 1998 (which, admittedly, didn't come to pass till December of 2004; I was clinging to an old obsolete forecast model that was a relic when Taft was president, but if nothing else, it shows I've got some initiative);

I am also in the process of writing a screenplay with the Captain for a big-budget disaster epic called "Humidity." It will grind your dick.

Please call me at your earliest convenience so I can further lay out my credentials for you and your staff. Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,
--Brandon G.
Director of Internet Blog Operations
Bee Circus Network

***

Twice so far this winter, we've gotten fucked by winter storms that were supposed to slam southern Indiana, yet tracked slightly to the north of us and left nothing more than some bitter winds and a barely-perceptible sheen of ice that was able to be smudged off my windshield with my thumb. Will we be 0-for-3 by this time tomorrow? Let's just say that I'm counting on going to work Tuesday.

And if they're right? Hell, even a blind dog finds the hole some days.

Which is why I'd fit right in with our friends at the National Weather Service.