It’s snowing and we’re all going to die.
That’s right. It’s all over now because we could have over an inch of snow. You and I both know that means certain death and the end of civilization as we strangely know it.
Many years from now our fore and aft fathers will speak of the 2010 Flurries of Death that swept northern Georgia:
“I can remember my great-grandfather. He had so much more to give. He was killed by a flurry. Never had a chance.”
And to think we were worried about the H1N1.
As I sit and write, flurries are falling to the ground, plotting, waiting — waiting for just the right moment. God help you people in your cars!! Go as far as you can! Don’t look back! Save yourselves!
Flurries everywhere — must … keep … driving …
Everyone will be gone soon. Most have abandoned their buildings, cars and the tollbooths for the already-paid-for Georgia 400. Soon the city will look as barren as the desert, or worse — as Detroit.
But not the weather people. They’re with us to the end, or until the ratings tank.
Nope, they’re here, their sleeves are rolled up, those ties are loose and, in some cases, their TV hair is slightly mussed. Yes! SLIGHTLY MUSSED!!
It’s crunch time and you’re gonna see every wicked flurry on a variety of mapping images, from satellite imagery to the one with the big arrows and spikes that look like grand-opening flags at the J.W. Whitlock’s Used Cars lot in downtown Cuba, GA.
Damn you, flurries!! I’m still in the office as hundreds of semi-informed corporate people flee Sandy Springs in what is best described as a near-panic or great reason to cut out early.
It’s dark now. The flurries are starting to climb up the building, looking for any survivors of the initial onslaught of one- to two-thirds of an inch of snow dropped during the initial flurry attack.
I’m locked in the building, alone except for my lava lamp and my Obama coin bank that says “Change.” I’m watching the weather people on TV. They’ve been at it for hours, including commercials, and the stress and strain is starting to show.
Ken Cook is running around with his shirt off, throwing tomatoes, like hand grenades, at the camera. He’s wearing a fez and calling himself Yul Brenner. “I am the King!!”
Paul Ossmann is bench-pressing Camera Two and doing impersonations of Arnold Schwarzenegger while Dagmar Midcap is wearing a Viking helmet and tap dancing to the tune of “A Night In Tunisia” by Dizzy Gillespie.
“Stomp Time Steps, Shuffle Time Steps, Traveling Time Steps, and Cramp Roll Time Steps,” she yells while trying to light a can of tofu for heat.
We’ve already lost Glenn Burns and David Chandley. The flurries got them while they helped Jeff Dore find his banjo in the almost one-half-inch of flurry.
Damn you, Jeff Dore!
When the spring comes and the almost half-inch of snow flurry slowly melts — partially due to global warming — and you find the last of us, the ones who couldn’t get to the milk and bread in time, tell them of our fight against the flurry. And then turn my lava lamp off.