“I don’t believe in weather,” said Alf Cronkin. “It’s all just circumstances.”
Nedwardo Scroggins scrunched up his shoulders in his Dee Cee straps and leaned forward. A river of chew threatened to break the dam that was the left side of his lips.
“What the fuck you mean you don’t believe in weather? Ain’t it rainin’? Ain’t that weather? The wind blowin’ the trees yonder, what the hell is it then?”
“Nah, it’s bullshit,” Alf replied. “I seen this fellow on the Dopey Windfreak show talkin’ about it. He said atmospheric circumstances occurred and we just called it weather for lack of a better term, but there wasn’t really no such thing. He said imposing moral positions like good and bad on unseen circumstances was wrong. I believe him, too.”
“Was that tornado blowed my tool shed away two years ago circumstances? It was goddamn bad weather, son, the big whirly.”
“Nah, it was maybe just bad circumstances. Look at all the good circumstances you had, all them years when a tornado didn’t blow your shed away. Don’t that make up for it?”
“I don’t know about this here global warming shit I keep hearin’ about, but I suspect you been hit with a bad case of global dumbass,” Nedwardo replied dourly. “That kind of talk is just plumb crazy.”
“I seen it on Dopey,” Alf countered. In his mind that was almost like saying God had uttered it from on high.
“I’ll bet Hal Bore wouldn’t agree with that shit.”
“Fuck Hal Bore,” said Alf. “He’s a bigger dumbass than I am.”
“Well, yeah, everybody knows that, but...”
“But, my ass. Only thing he’s real familiar with is the feed trough.”
“Yeah, he is gettin’ a little pudgy lately. Looks like a big slab of pale pork butt.”
Alf was happy that Dopey Windfreak had overcome her problems in that area. A Native American woman, Dopey had gone from sucking floppers for a bump of crack to becoming head of a multi trillion dollar empire. Word was she owned 500 solid gold crack pipes and could afford to hire 20 Ninjas to keep her away from the refrigerator at night. She was a real American success story if ever there was one.
“Well, I’ll think on it some,” Nedwardo conceded. “Fellow ought to be open to new ways of lookin’ at things.”
“Damn straight he should. No shame in admittin’ you might be wrong.”
Alf went home and got busy. He wrote a letter to the Dopey Windfreak folks suggesting a debate between Hal Bore and the Circumstances Man. He wrote another to the Weather Channel, suggesting that perhaps they might want to consider a name change.
Outside, the circumstances compounded themselves. The wind rattled the windows and hail stones beat the tin roof. He could feel the tug and force of air currents boiling around his small shanty. As for the noise, maybe somebody had laid a train track or installed an airport nearby recently without his knowledge.
“Well, what the hell,” he said aloud to nobody. “Leastways, it didn’t do this yesterday or the day before. It’s just circumstances.”
Three days later, Nedwardo stood smiling in the graveyard. Old Alf had been right about that circumstances shit. It was a beautiful day. Too bad he didn’t know about it, but that’s the way it goes.
According to rumor, Alf was still clutching a letter to Dopey Windfreak when they found his body over in the next county. Nedwardo was the only person who knew what that was all about and he intended to capitalize on it.
“Yup, gonna be a big change in circumstances around here,” he said, grinning at the mound of fresh dirt. “Thanks, ol’ buddy.”
Nedwardo Scroggins scrunched up his shoulders in his Dee Cee straps and leaned forward. A river of chew threatened to break the dam that was the left side of his lips.
“What the fuck you mean you don’t believe in weather? Ain’t it rainin’? Ain’t that weather? The wind blowin’ the trees yonder, what the hell is it then?”
“Nah, it’s bullshit,” Alf replied. “I seen this fellow on the Dopey Windfreak show talkin’ about it. He said atmospheric circumstances occurred and we just called it weather for lack of a better term, but there wasn’t really no such thing. He said imposing moral positions like good and bad on unseen circumstances was wrong. I believe him, too.”
“Was that tornado blowed my tool shed away two years ago circumstances? It was goddamn bad weather, son, the big whirly.”
“Nah, it was maybe just bad circumstances. Look at all the good circumstances you had, all them years when a tornado didn’t blow your shed away. Don’t that make up for it?”
“I don’t know about this here global warming shit I keep hearin’ about, but I suspect you been hit with a bad case of global dumbass,” Nedwardo replied dourly. “That kind of talk is just plumb crazy.”
“I seen it on Dopey,” Alf countered. In his mind that was almost like saying God had uttered it from on high.
“I’ll bet Hal Bore wouldn’t agree with that shit.”
“Fuck Hal Bore,” said Alf. “He’s a bigger dumbass than I am.”
“Well, yeah, everybody knows that, but...”
“But, my ass. Only thing he’s real familiar with is the feed trough.”
“Yeah, he is gettin’ a little pudgy lately. Looks like a big slab of pale pork butt.”
Alf was happy that Dopey Windfreak had overcome her problems in that area. A Native American woman, Dopey had gone from sucking floppers for a bump of crack to becoming head of a multi trillion dollar empire. Word was she owned 500 solid gold crack pipes and could afford to hire 20 Ninjas to keep her away from the refrigerator at night. She was a real American success story if ever there was one.
“Well, I’ll think on it some,” Nedwardo conceded. “Fellow ought to be open to new ways of lookin’ at things.”
“Damn straight he should. No shame in admittin’ you might be wrong.”
Alf went home and got busy. He wrote a letter to the Dopey Windfreak folks suggesting a debate between Hal Bore and the Circumstances Man. He wrote another to the Weather Channel, suggesting that perhaps they might want to consider a name change.
Outside, the circumstances compounded themselves. The wind rattled the windows and hail stones beat the tin roof. He could feel the tug and force of air currents boiling around his small shanty. As for the noise, maybe somebody had laid a train track or installed an airport nearby recently without his knowledge.
“Well, what the hell,” he said aloud to nobody. “Leastways, it didn’t do this yesterday or the day before. It’s just circumstances.”
Three days later, Nedwardo stood smiling in the graveyard. Old Alf had been right about that circumstances shit. It was a beautiful day. Too bad he didn’t know about it, but that’s the way it goes.
According to rumor, Alf was still clutching a letter to Dopey Windfreak when they found his body over in the next county. Nedwardo was the only person who knew what that was all about and he intended to capitalize on it.
“Yup, gonna be a big change in circumstances around here,” he said, grinning at the mound of fresh dirt. “Thanks, ol’ buddy.”
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