The Crimson Weatherboard’s Weekly Weather Review

It’s not easy to admit it when you’re wrong. It’s not easy to do one armed pull ups.

Dear Readers,

It’s not easy to admit it when you’re wrong. It’s not easy to do one armed pull ups. It’s not easy to transport a bottlenose dolphin across five states using only a spatula, some duct tape, 30 gallons of Poland Spring, a kiddie pool, a skateboard, and your best friend’s motorized tricycle, while some guy named Dom holds your family in his basement and threatens to send toes and fingers to you for Christmas unless he gets his damn dolphin in time for his daughters Bat Mitzvah. But rather than list all the different things that aren’t easy to do, I’m going to tell you what is easy: writing about past weather. Seriously, I don’t even have to go outside to do it. I just cry alone in whatever Eliot House walkthrough happens to be unlocked nearby (saving the tears for lubricant) and when I feel inspired I just bang one of these bad boys out in a couple of seconds. Boom.

’Til February,


This week in two weeks ago’s weather, we talk about the weather from two weeks ago:

Unable to stir up a gust, the wind contented itself with just blowing at stuff. Sails rose, temperatures dropped, a front arrived from the north, and suddenly we were all reminded of Canada’s incorrigible presence. “I’m not looking forward to the cold weather when we land,” says a generic overweight man, adjusting his grey galoshes so as to better fit them under the plane seat in front of him. I don’t give a lick about the cold, I think to myself; “But will you please close the window shade?” The oriental man doesn’t, and I have to watch the next two hours of “Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers,” made for people with no friends extended edition, on my laptop with a woefully obtrusive screen-glare scourging the more affable flanks of Helms Deep. Seat 19E. Fuck. I pressed the flight attendant button and slowly sank downwards, feeling even more depressed when I was told they were out of tomato juice. It’s not like a hobby or anything like that; I’ve just been really into tomato juice recently.

And were there even clouds this past weekend? The pretense of warmth tricked me into thinking otherwise, but nay: there were indeed still clouds, salient a topic as ever. I saw them from above in the plane, lording my height vantage above their oblivious white collectives. We talked about them around the Thanksgiving table, and mother agreed they were quite beautiful this time of year. Later, mother told father she loved him, then she said “just kidding.” All I wanted to do was to guzzle the full bowl of gravy right there and then. Maybe the tryptophan would knock me out and I’d be able to sleep through this horribly contrived family gathering. And perhaps the grease and fat in the delicious brown slurry would allow me to spend the rest of the break on the toilet, away from cousins and uncles asking about such things as “what are your friends like?” and “what girls are you interested in?” Maybe I’d sleep through final exams, too. Those are coming up, right? I suppose it’s a good thing I finally bought my semester textbooks this week. I got them on sale, a Black Friday deal. Sorry, that’s not right. I meant to say “African American Friday.” My bad.

Aggregate Score: 4.5/5

P.S. I love both of you, dear readers. Thanks for tuning in this semester. Also, my condolences to those harmed, injured, maimed, or trampled in the opening of Walmart stores on Black Friday. Your sacrifice was necessary for my sister’s holiday present (got it 50 percent off!!). God Bless America and our capitalist fervor.