I am the Weatherhuman – a faceless, genderless entity whose job it is to defend the populace, or at least make them laugh until it doesn’t hurt anymore. This is my box: the Weatherbox. Most people who live in boxes around this town graduated in about 1978, but in a way, I never graduate. The Weatherhuman is immortal.

I’m guessing you’re in prefrosh/transfer student hell right now. Your friends have gone off to semester schools and you’ve since discovered that there are actually 28 hours in the day and that your parents have appointed you their grocery slave. Tough it out and we’ll save you a beer.

Oh, and don’t forget the hot dog buns. We wouldn’t want to have to send you back to the store.