The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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Bomb Cyclone. I guess we got a new name to replace some of the tired old ones. I thought it was the description of the Bannon kiss-and-tell book, all those gossipy tidbits that must have the Liar-in-Chief tearing his orange hair out, which, if we’re to believe the book, is dyed but turns orangutan coloration because the boy has the patience of a two year old and doesn’t leave the dye on long enough to give it a natural color. Apparently he has a bald pate and grows what’s left into the comb-over of comb-overs, but … well, wait, bomb cyclone isn’t that at all, fuggedaboutit. It’s meteorological, apparently.

Who says you don’t need a Weatherman to know which way the wind blows? My god, the weather these days demands an entirely revamped vocabulary. Polar Vortex, move over, let Beethoven bring you the news! Global warming? Naw, we’re calling it Climate Change. Snowmageddon, cute. Wind shear hurricane, okay. Haboobs, no, it’s not the U.S. Cabinet, it’s a sand storm. (I know, maybe we should switch the names.)

Bomb Cyclone. Where’s TSA when we need them? Weather terrorism. Who’d a thunk it? The meteorologists needed to explain the damn thing, something to do with barometric dives of x mm’s per hour or minute or, geez, if it’s that technical, maybe a better name. Low pressure cannonball in a hurricane. Course, polar vortex? Never much liked that one either. Faux science? I don’t like it at all, but hey, us plain folk at least get it.

Maybe I’ll go back to watching politics and skip the new lexicon of weather related events that always, and I mean always, lead some to question whether this was climate change or just the usual bomb cyclone. Who can say? Me, I blame it on the haboobs. They seem to be everywhere these days.

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