According to the Weather Channel, this inbound hurricane is no joke. Stores and public institutions are already closing early and boarding up their windows in anticipation of the biggest storm of the year. Thousands of people will lose their homes, even their lives, and even more will be forced to change their weekend plans because backyard cocktail parties are not conducive to forty mile-per-hour winds, and those tiny drink umbrellas are an embarrassment to the rain protection community. Honestly, something has to be done. But meteorologists around the world are merely forecasting the storm, and our savior Al Roker has been missing since the tornado incident. While it would be better for the experts to handle this crisis, I see no choice but to take matters into my own hands.
I’m gonna fuck that hurricane.
I know what you’re thinking. “Blake, how the hell do you plan on seducing a storm system made up of strong winds and heavy precipitation?” Very carefully, that’s how. To entice a woman requires a gentle touch, but to entice a intangible conglomeration of condensation requires an even gentler one. I’m going to look that hurricane right in the eye and whisper softly, “Hey. You don’t need to be doing this. You and me, let’s go back to my weather-resistant bunker and watch some Cake Boss. I know a sweet cyclone like you can appreciate some pretty pastries.” If all goes well, the world will be spared another tragedy caused by Mother Nature. And I will have had sex with a hurricane.
If you’re asking what good doing the no-pants dance with a tropical typhoon will do, you’re asking the wrong question. The real question you should be asking yourself is, “What kind of monster am I for not whole-heartedly supporting any effort to quell human suffering on this Earth?” The answer is the bad kind. But it’s okay – we forgive you.
Look, it’s not my first choice either, but we don’t have any other options. Do you see George Clooney stepping up to protect his fellow man? No. No you don’t. He’s too busy being famous, probably hooking up with a minor thunderstorm as we speak. Even the alternative solutions aren’t an option. Mankind has never built a fishbowl large enough to trap a hurricane, and even if we had, it should probably go to a very large goldfish. The scientists currently running the Large Hadron Collider refuse to help because the machine “is not safe for untrained use” and “has nothing to do with hurricanes, stop contacting us.”
In reality, I am probably humanity’s best choice for this endeavor. I already like my women like I like my hurricanes – unpredictable, and responsible for billions of dollars in property damage annually. I already have a propensity for things that go counterclockwise – that’s why I’m not allowed on the tea cup ride at Disney World anymore. And if the storm violently tears my body apart mid-coitus, I want you to know I’m willing to make that sacrifice. Like Neil Armstrong once said, “One small step for man, one giant leap for a man about to stick his dick in a hurricane.”
If the storm horribly ravages my body and throws me into space, this very well may be my last testament. For my final words, I want the populace to know that I don’t regret my decision for a moment. I died doing what I love – putting my genitals in logistically impossible situations. Veni, vidi, Cōnvéneram cum cataegem.