Last month I inferred that Old Man Winter was behaving like a borderline psychotic suffering conflicting flashbacks inclusive of the peak of his ice age career to the wussy weather of the last few years where he came across as daunting as a dehydrated sponge.
I accused him of acting like a hungover dolt throwing fits of unstable fronts, mixed with everything from blizzards to fleeting flood-stage melts closely trailed by freezing temps turning highways into butt-puckering luge runs.
Well, according to some of this column’s more unbalanced readers, I owe the ill-tempered malcontent an apology because he was “just following mandates from his schizoid bossette, Mother Nature.”
I won’t divulge the originators of the emails because many of them come across as being in major violation of the substance abuse rules set forth in their parole agreements.
So, I officially offer my sincerest regret to the irritable old bag of flatulence for not recognizing the pressure he was under.
Feel better now, Citizens for Free Range Ganja, Bong Boy and the dude with the intellect of floor wax who signed his name a “Riteous Wede Man”?
The fact is, those seemingly chemically-enhanced citizens were right. Mother Nature is the C.E.O. of the environment so the buck stops with her. Thus, I’m having serious trust issues concerning her behavior during the next week or so.
Why? Because the preceding few winters have featured weather more akin to petulant autumns throwing diminutive snit-fits of snow, wind, and bawling bursts of waterfall rains.
Not so much this time around and it’s almost time to go fishing.
The 24th Annual Homer Winter King Salmon Tournament will be held on March 18, and, at this moment, they should capitalize all of the letters in “Winter.”
Cortana, the notably deranged elfette lurking within my computer, claims it’ll be around 41 degrees on launch day, the Weather Channel declares we’ll be looking at 28, while the Farmer’s Almanac hints at the need to layer on four sets of heavily insulated underwear with back-up hot packs for our critical nether regions.
It really doesn’t matter what they say.
My buds and I are going to hit the bay like we expect our salmon to freeze solid before we can get them out of the net and not as if we’re chasing marlin somewhere tropical where the word “snow” is looked upon as a sinister myth.
The initial two prognoses should make for a fairly comfortable trip unless Ma unexpectedly has some sort of cow and unleashes gales that would drive an aircraft carrier to port.
The odds on that happening are about the same as the U.S. Congress getting together to sing “We are family” and making pinky swears concurring that the earth is flat.
As of this moment, there are few indicators hinting at the need for participants to arrive three hours early to chip their boat out of its berth. But if the tides and winds are right, they might need to assign an obnoxious in-law to slab-ice watch while easing out of the harbor.
Been there. Done that.
I pulled ice avoidance duty during a derby deep freeze morning several years back. Why? There were only two of us and guess who owned the boat?
No problem. Feeling returned to my fingers around mid-June and my butt about a week later.
I think it’s cool that humble and empathic Homer willingly offers a respite from the angst of watching hibernating tackle rust by featuring a tournament that is a profoundly needed, waning-winter diversion, and major step back to piscatorian mental health.
Hopefully, the earth’s boss lady is in a good mood next weekend but I’m not counting on it.
Lately, every time I take the mutts out to perform their delicates, I swear I can hear the weather witch cackling as she ramps up the relentless zephyrs just to be obnoxious and I’m starting to take it personally.
You would too if you had a couple of dogs that loath wicked blasts of frigid air up their keisters.
Howard is the size of a fully dressed-out Harley and he refuses to step off the deck if he spots eagles flying backwards.
What a wimp. I’d have as much success as trying to walk a convenience store.
Luckily, he seems to possess a bladder the size of an oil tanker so we can wait until things calm down a bit.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way with our miniature rescue poodle.
Her storage tank’s overflow alarm sounds about every three hours and she’s not shy at expressing when she’s reached critical mass.
One minute she’s petitely snoring somewhere under Howard’s fur and the next, mimicking a potential waterspout at the cabin’s door.
Visualize a mini mutt spinning near the speed of light with its back legs crossed and you can almost sense the drama.
Luckily, although seriously wind-adverse, she’s able to shelter under the stairs of the deck and return with her dignity intact and I don’t have deal with a cur featuring the mobility of a cement truck on blocks.
Mamma N’s behaving herself, at the momen,t but who knows? Next Saturday may be mellow or feature moose sailing by our front window.
The lady always gets touchy when she goes through meteorological instabilities associated with seasonal changes.
Let’s hope that she checks her fiendish attitude at the door of our bay on the 18th and ops for a serious nap.
It’s about time Ms. Peevish takes a &%#*+$ break and lets us fish.
Nick C. Varney can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.