I just got off the phone with a slightly deranged cousin who lives back east where the snow is roaring out of the sky in the form of an avalanche.
He spent thirty minutes yipping about how long it took to find and extricate his new electro-mobile from a snow drift the size of a morbidly obese mastodon only to find the eco ride frozen solid. I haven’t heard him so torked since he discovered his pricey and pretentious bottled water came from a bathtub tap in New Jersey.
When his rant finally ramped down, he mumbled that he was so cold that he was afraid to bump into anything lest several of his extremely vital lower appendages shatter and abruptly terminate his chance of expanding the family’s lineage.
I offered my sympathies but said that I was a bit confused as to why he called because of a few feet of snow.
“A few feet of *&^%$#* snow?” he raved. “I’m standing on my *&&^%$% roof to get a cell signal you @&^%$##*.”
“My, my, Mr. Church Elder, I’ll bet you don’t talk to your Sunday school class that way. Get a grip.”
“Sorry, I lost it there for a moment. Anyway, I figured since you’re a seasoned Alaskan, you could give me some insight as to what you would do if you were getting slammed like this.”
“First I’d gingerly stuff some hot packs into my Jockeys and stand around until I could sit down without catastrophic breakage, then smoke south to Tobago for some snorkeling. As of now, I don’t see that happening bro; it’s been really mellow up here.”
“Oh sure, like, you won’t be running a blower just about daily until the end of March.”
“In fact I won’t, although we are giving some consideration to mowing the lawn. It’s been slowly sneaking up on us with these 45 to 50-plus temps. Conditions have been so mild that a couple wild pheasant roosters are convinced that it’s spring and have been zipping around the deck challenging each other like they both just pounded a gizzard sized serving of Viagra. It’s unseemly and an embarrassment to the male species. If they keep it up they are going to be invited to Thanksgiving dinner as cubed hors d’oeuvres served on gourmet picks along with wild mushrooms and alder smoked bacon.”
“Sounds beyond delicious, wait … what do you mean 50 degrees and horn dog pheasants? Are you hammered? What’s going on up there?”
“Nope, believe it or not, it has been warm and rainy most of the month. We did experience a small quantity of snow that stayed on the ground long enough for some guys to testosterone up their rigs with plows so huge they could have cleared major mountain passes, then poof, it was gone. Why don’t you beat feet to the beach house your grandpa left you in Key West until your dream rig thaws out enough that you can at least activate its hot plate option?”
“You know my lady is uncomfortable being around the type people she runs into down there. She’s much more comfortable at her local social club.”
“Who said anything about her going along?”
“You know, you haven’t been much help. My wife was right. She said I wouldn’t get a straight answer out of you because you’re a Neanderthal and have the sophistication of an uneducated peasant when it comes to dealing with crucial issues.”
“Oh come on now, I suggested the hot packs and you had days of warning about what was headed your way. Why didn’t you have your weenie wheels in the garage along with your bride’s vehicle?”
“She doesn’t have a car!”
“I’m talking about her broom.”
I admit the conversation could have gone a bit smoother but my cousin, to put it delicately, lacks the common sense to fire up his honkin’ Honda 36-inch snow blower while he can still find his equipment storage shed and make out the snow silhouette of the top of his neighbor’s 3500 Dodge dually.
The man has lived in the same place for 9 years but always seems stunned when Mother Nature hoses him with a mass of white so deep that he has to let his dogs out a second story window to pee.
If he could get his spouse to take a break from the Kardashians and scope out the weather forecasts once in awhile he wouldn’t have to use Skype for his church classes.
Just to be a good guy, I called him back to tip him off that the Weather Channel was declaring that his area should prepare for another three feet of snow.
Once he comprehended what I was saying, there was a gurgle like someone was choking on a mouthful of lutefisk and then a muffled argument about heading for Key West followed by a proposition on what sounded like an extremely uncomfortable use of a broom before the phone went dead.
I think it would have been better for my cuz if his grand pappy had passed on a Mother Lode of sense rather than cents.
Nick can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org if he isn’t busy weed whacking.