Here I sit on the east coast of the U.S., securely (so far) sequestered in my casa as Hurricane Sandy gives us her worst -- wind gusts, torrential downpours, flooding. What a bitch. Luckily my power is still hum hum humming along so I can partake in the extensive hurricane coverage on the boob tube. Thankfully, the local coverage is up-to-date. Not so thankfully, I think the meteorologist has a rager. You know, boner, erection, stiffy ... While discussing Hurricane Sandy, he excitedly used some inappropriate language like the storm is "interesting" and "beautiful" reminiscent of "Independence Day":
Dr. Okun: The last 24 hours have been really exciting.
President Whitmore: Exciting!? People are dying out there. I don't think exciting is the word I'd choose to describe it.
Meteorologists love weather, obviously, so extreme weather is like fetish porn.
There are reporters out in the field: standing in flooded areas, complaining about the cold, wind and rain while the storm beats down on their pink, snotty faces peeking out from tightly secured hoods ... robed in bright slickers, they brave the elements to give us live coverage. I see some benefit -- reporters showing real-time conditions -- but it seems unnecessarily dangerous. The newsroom anchors comment how the reporter is "tough" and "doing a great job" while comfortably lounging in their chairs in the heated studio.
Politicians, like sassy porker Chris Christie, lay down the law: "Don't do anything stupid." Thanks, Vinnie Barbarino.
Then there's the 80-year-old veteran reporter in a yellow slicker standing in a river mumbling and bumbling about the wind, although my better half is a fan of this senile dinosaur.
It's like the Olympics for news. May the odds be forever in your favor.
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