The Storm Of The Century

One night crawling around my Avenue B apartment stoned and looking at all the different textures, I heard a gasping laughter. I froze, listening intently to the matted shag rug under the bed. Eventually, I realized it was my demented roommate Johnny Bubble in the living room. He was hooting and hollering. I found him on the sofa pounding his fist into his thigh, breathless from laughing so hard. Finally he pointed at the TV.
“Ahhh! The evil weather man!” was all he could say.
I sat down and looked. He was right. The weather man was cartoonishly evil. We stared transfixed for hours. We watched while burning our mouths on TV dinners of Salisbury steak and apple cobbler. We smoked Lucky Strikes and drank cold cans of 16 oz Rolling Rocks all with eyes glued.

Transfixed.

He was sooo fucking evil, yet no one seemed to notice over their own ridiculous fake cheer. But it was so obvious, his gleaming hatred of everything.
After a while we stopped laughing. It was beautiful, like an opera where he sang of his lust of wind and barometric pressure. “The storm of the Century,” he sang into the camera. Into our eyes and ears. Hypnotizing us to believe this was the pinnacle of evolution, crashing into our destiny. That we were here to witness it, this bright gift of the moment. A billion years of stardust fucking, coming down to this one blessed pinnacle of devouring destruction. All coming down to this. “The storm of the century,” we whispered to each other, long after the power went out. Long after we lost all hope of survival.