(This is where I take a moment to welcome any new readers who found their way here from outside links by writing a post about…the Minnesota weather. Inclusive! I’m such a moron.)
Michael Ian Black has been in and around the Twin Cities this past week, and yesterday typed out an angry little diatribe about the weather here in the Midwest. It was particularly memorable to me, because its title, “Fuck you, Midwest,” was repeated by me about a hundred times today during my drive home from the doctor’s office. 4.8 miles in a cool 49 minutes; no exaggeration. ‘Fuck you, Midwest’ indeed.
Here’s a fun excerpt:
Even as I write this, from under the covers of my bed in my five star room at the Holiday Inn, I am cold. My legs, which are specifically covered in hair to protect me from this exact situation, are cold. My feet, despite being swaddled in the finest socks available at The Gap, are cold and still feel wet even though I know they are not. They only feel that way to me because for ninety of the last ninety-six hours they have been wet, and I think they now cannot remember a time when they were not wet. It’s like when you lose a limb and still feel it. That’s called a phantom limb. I have phantom cold.
The people here take pride, of course, in the cold. They stand around outside in short sleeves and pretend they are not dying from hypothermia. Because to admit they are cold would be to admit that they have chosen to live in the worst fucking place on earth. It’s not like living in the Alps or something where you can make a legitimate case that it’s beautiful and there’s lots to do like bobsledding. Because it’s not beautiful and there’s no bobsledding. There’s nothing to do here at all. Which is probably why so many people have been coming to see us. I suspect a lot of those people aren’t even interested in seeing comedy, they just want to be somewhere where they know they are going to be a lot of other bodies gathered. Maybe they think if enough people huddle together and laugh, it will warm them up.
Thinking about it, this snowstorm is entirely my fault. It’s true.
You see, last year my friend and I decided to officially adjust the seasonal months in Minnesota. The way we saw it, March is fucking freezing these days, June has recently been more spring-like with its rains and slight chill, September has been mostly balmy a la summer, and the Decembers of late have been essentially snow-free.
So, we decided that from now on, we’d move each season back a month. Easy, right? January would be the start of winter, April would commence spring, July would signify the beginning of summer, and October through December would be fall. This plan was approved by the national weather service / weather.com / local news stations / our friends / no one, but the message is clear: God heard our calendar scheme, turned to the vindictive bitch lying next to him (Mother Nature) and told her to proceed with a vicious December blizzard to set us straight. Michael Ian Black was an innocent bystander in this mess.
Point taken, God. I rescind my proposal. The seasons will remain unchanged. You win.