Carl’s Weather

Dear Ice sickle:

I have to admit that you sent one of the funniest letters I have ever had the pleasure of molding into a Christmas tree lamp shade.

Sounds like (I had to read between the spaces) you are barely surviving the somewhat less than tropical weather gifted to you by our dear Uncle Sam. I must commiserate with you, for if you are affected by the cold, it must really be COLD! I have a complaint about our weather too. Although the temperature is more than satisfactory, the velocity with which it asserts itself is most unbecoming. One must prevail upon a neighbor three blocks north if he wishes to water his yard, and trash collection has become unnecessary inasmuch as you can set your garbage adrift in the wind and watch it wend its way to torranee. The wind does have its good points, it is only necessary to raise the convertible top on the car to half mast whereupon one may sail to work or play. Speaking of playing, the residents of the split-level homes in this tract have developed a new sport. It is played on the balcony outside the master bedroom and is called “Expectorate on the pompous neighbor who purchased the foreclosure down the street”. One stands on his respective balcony and gauging the wind direction and velocity very carefully, lets fly with vigor. Records have been established in both the standing and prone positions and doubles are fun too. For instance:

Standing (into the wind) –22 yards

Standing (with the wind) +76 Yards

It helps to gain the proper salivary consistency if you consume about a half a pound of Kraft fudge caramels before competing. It also helps the judges spot your efforts. I really think we have something here, and I am busy envisioning national and world competition. How about the Empire State Building for the Nationals and the Eiffel Tower for the first World Championship. And how would we do in the thin air of Mexico City for the Olympics. Only time will tell.

Sincerely

Carl


Dear Carl:

That sure was a strong wind all right. After it was through terrorizing California, it whisked around the world gathering specimens of rain and sleet. As it reached the Alps it slowed down slightly, flitted about the high peaks, and then came crashing down on us with renewed vigor. It gleefully ripped the tile off roof tops, broke windows, and bludgeoned some poor G.I. senseless with a sign which it appropriated from a nearby post.

It deposited its frosty wares in my face, then playfully snatched my hat and sent it whirling down the street. Being a good Scotsman, I was not going to let this precipitous child of nature have the last word or my hat. I did an abrupt about face and took off in hot pursuit of my hat. The velocity of my flight assumed such proportions that objects to my right and left became mere blurs, smoke rose from my feet, and my ears were pinned against my spinal column. It was at this point that I realized I was headed straight for a sign post. Veering right or left at this speed would have been disastrous. I placed both hands around my imperiled manhood, planted both left feet, and leaned back at a forty-five degree angle. There was the sound of screeching rubber and scraping nails. My legs quivered from the stress and strain, and I went into a fifty foot slide that ended with a bone jarring stop against a curb. Slowly, I pulled myself together, swallowed my navel, and trudged down to the P.X. to buy another hat.

As I left the P.X., I distinctly remember picking some sleet out of my right ear. This sleet had the same texture and consistency as Kraft fudge caramel impregnated saliva. I know not which of your contestants may have accomplished such a feat but I suggest that you either add another record to your record book or disqualify the chap for hurling frozen missiles.

Sincerely

Steve 

First Published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms.com on Feb 2, 2010