This was it. Today was the day. It was all going to stop. No one was ever going to laugh at me, or throw things at me, or threaten to beat me with bricks, bats, and Hello Kitty backpacks. Because last week, I watched the Nick Cage movie the Weather Man, about a weatherman (shocker) that finally runs out of fucks to give and starts carrying a bow around wherever he went. And you know what happened? People stopped messing with him.
I am a similarly afflicted weatherman, in that people chase me around everywhere beating me up because I didn’t predict that rain was going to ruin the family picnic on Saturday, and now little Timmy is sad. It’s not MY fault that the Doppler Radar was broken, and as far as I knew, the next several days should have been thunderstorm free. But, now, that crap was going to stop. I needed to be like Nick Cage (I hope this is the only time I ever need to do that) and start carrying around medieval weaponry to fend off the enraged populace. But, I’m not using a bow and arrows, because they don’t work for crap at close range. This isn’t going to just be a deterrent, I’m going to dismember somebody.
So, I went to the place of all things for sale (eBay) and for 500 dollars, purchased the biggest goddamn sword I could find. And yesterday, I received it in the mail. I was delighted to discover that it wasn’t a movie prop or a display sword, but an actual Scottish claymore fully capable of dismemberment. For those of you who don’t know what a claymore is (shameful) it’s the sword that Mel Gibson used to murder the holy shit out of many Englishmen in Braveheart.
So, today, I go to work packing a sword, and we’ll see if anyone wants to mess with me then. I have to walk to work because cars are expensive and screw them, that’s why. I’m strutting down the street when I’m confronted by the first of my three daily Horrors: Mason Spanglish. A guy I went to high school with, and the star of the football team. So, the guy that picked on the little weatherman nerd like me. But no longer. Spanglish started in on me. “Yo, assface. Why don’t you get off my street and go predict a snow job or something!” He chuckled at his dry wit, and made to throw his beer bottle at me. Using my claymore ninja skills, I deflected the bottle, making HIYA sounds in the process.
Then I ran at the bastard with my two handed bastard sword. After I sliced off half his hair, he fled the battlefield, shrieking in terror like a little girly man. I continued on my merry way. The 2nd of my 3 daily Horrors was on the sidewalk smoking dope. His name? Salvatore “Reaper” Grim. This asshole got high every day and tried to burn me with his joints. “Hey man. You should totally come over here and like, suck me off man. Get it? ‘Cause you’re GAY!” I don’t think he realized he said the same thing to me every time I saw him. Regardless, I wasn’t putting up with it anymore. With a deft stroke, I cut off the two fingers on his right hand holding the joint, and then took off his nose for good measure. He was so spaced out, he didn’t even notice. All he did was say “Hey man, you made me drop my joint, man. That’s totally not righteous, man.”
And so I continued on my merry way. But the worst was yet to come, for I had yet to be confronted by the third and worst of my 3 daily Horrors: Glenn Spanks, a crazy, toothless, bald man who thought because I was a weatherman, that put me in league with the Socialist Democrats and Obama, who he hated with a passion. I’m pretty sure he was just racist, but I can’t confirm it because I don’t hang around him long enough. Why was he so horrible? He throws his dentures at me, and his toupee. Words cannot describe how disgusting used false teeth flying through the air at you is.
But not today, you Conservative nutjob, you. Spanks prepares to launch the choppers from his mouthly catapult, but I stopped him by inserting my claymore into his mouthhole, stabbing the teeth, and shoving them down his goddamn throat. Finally, I stabbed him right in the face, repeatedly, and with reckless abandon. There was no other such feeling I had ever had up to that point that compared with the simple joy of stabbing this guy in the face with a broadsword. When I was done, he looked like a literal interpretation of Mr. McGoo, and so I left him there, and walked into the TV studio feeling as though a weight had been lifted from me. I was free! No one would ever torture me for being a weatherman ever again!
“They weren’t torturing you for being a weatherman, you idiot.”
My boss said to me after I explained to him this day’s events.
“Of course they are, why else would they make fun of me?”
“Take a look at your nameplate, you assclown.”
Richard Pisser: Weatherman
“I still don’t see anything wrong with that.”
“Okay, how about saying what you normally say when you go on air?”
“Fine. I’m Dick Pisser, and this is the evening fore….oh.”
By Ben Adelman