Picture it. The year is 2007. Spiderman 3 is dropped on an unsuspecting public and somehow, Maroon 5 is still a thing. Me? I’m stuck at a Chicago function with my future, esteemed ex Mrs. Bloomquist concerning of all things, weather. Thankfully, it was a her function, which meant I had no responsibilities whatsoever and could drink as much expensive liquor as I could fit in my person. Yeah, don’t even ask.
Not my first rodeo, I began swishing my drink around while wondering how much velocity the human body peaks at when crashing out the window of the 37th floor of a badly decorated building. As I’m carrying the seven, I overhear a conversation that I decided to butt in on for entertainment purposes only:
Weatherman: “…he looked so cute. His suit pant cuffs rolled up, proudly dressed like a big boy.”
Me: (leaning in) “Alright, this story is either about your son or (legendary Chicago newswoman) Carol Marin.”
WM: (laughing) “Hi, Jake. Actually, we’re all sniping at Jim Cantore.”
Me: Cantore? The Weather Channel, Cantore?”
Weatherlady: “Yep. He’s little. All I could think of when I met him was how can he not go airborne in a hurricane.”
I listened to the inebriated prattle about the short comings of said television personality for a bit, then excused myself for more Tanqueray and tonics. The only events I recall after that was discussing the movie Twister with a first year meteorologist. Things got weird, alright.
Cut to this winter. The city of Boston is on the receiving end of one of the biggest snow jobs in history and I catch a clip of Jim Cantore in a blizzard. Suddenly, all the adjectives used to describe him on my drunken night came back to me. He was not only small in stature, but “kind of a weirdo” and “bit of a whack a doo”. The clip confirmed it all.
There’s something just not right about 51 year old man jumping around in snow and freaking the $&@* out.
Cantore confirms his unhinged status when he tells the camera:
“You can have your $500 million dollar jackpot in Powerball or whatever the heck it was, but I’ll take [thundersnow] baby!”
Really? There’s a choice between untold riches or a weather phenomenon and you run with door number two? At this moment, if I ask my five year old if he’d prefer a rainbow or let’s say, a ten pound bag of Peeps, trust me, he’s going to end up with a yellow, sugary coating that not even 80 grit sandpaper and a can of Goof Off will remove. Nobody chooses weather over prizes. Ever.
I call bullshit on your entire charade, Cantore.
That’s all I’ve got for your weekend enjoyment, kiddos. I’ll try to do better next time. Outness.