Dear readers, the Weatherhuman was not to be found on Superbowl Sunday, most likely because the human was not answering the phone at the Fortress of Inebriation. Today’s musings are brought to you by the Weatherneanderthal and we ask you to excuse their inferior quality.
When the billygoats of fate gore you in the groin, when you’re blue over the defenestration of Janet’s boob, when Dean’s scream echoes in your soul, when you start to think that “collective semiotic unconscious” means something and when you muse that you might have been better off as a newt, please remember:
There are only 48 days until spring break.
Monday’s forecast: The unhappy realization that February lasts for 478 days.