What's eating you, Mother Nature? Is it us?
I always pictured you as a nice lady, but after this much snow you're one mean slut
SCOTT FESCHUK | March 12, 2008 |
An Open Letter to Mother Nature
Are you for real?
We know it was wrong of us to stand idly by and let Al Gore show all those explicit photographs of what you're going to look like 30 years from now. But seriously — ease off. Enough with the apocalyptic downfalls of snow mixed with ice pellets mixed with freezing rain mixed with snow pellets mixed with the frozen tears of sedentary Maclean's columnists who just can't lift the shovel even one more goddamn time. I'm not saying I'm totally sick of winter, but see that animal's head mounted above my fireplace? Say hello to Punxsutawney Phil. Shadow-seeing bastard had it coming.
In Ottawa, we're closing in on the all-time record snowfall of 444.1 cm — a mark that has stood for almost four decades. Spring seems as far off as Jessica Alba's Academy Award. How bad is it in the nation's capital? I have to wear an avalanche beacon when I go out to get the paper. The local TV weather guy has the eerily distant look of a soldier with post-traumatic shock or a teenage virgin who's been left alone with Charlie Sheen for seven minutes. And at press time Scatman Crothers was desperately trying to get here before Jack Nicholson attacks my family.
Word is you've been kinder to other parts of Canada. Calgary was pushing 12 degrees this week. The mercury in Whitehorse hit the positive numbers. And Winnipeg reportedly made it a record six straight days without a single mosquito joke. But you continue to treat Ontario and all parts east as your own personal snow globe.
We've tried to have patience. Some of us have also tried patience's little helper, Xanax. But look what you've done to us. We're a quivering mass of shattered nerves, deadened eyes and extended middle fingers. Our arms ache from all the ice-scraping. Our eyes sting from the unrelenting glare. Our brains atrophy from hours spent staring at the shelves of the local DVD shop and trying to remember which of the Ernest movies we still haven't seen.
What's eating you, Mother Nature? Is it us? Listen, we all still have regrets about those 1970s commercials for Chiffon margarine — the ones with the catchphrase, "It's not nice to fool Mother Nature." The special effects were cheesy at best and some of those woodland creatures really phoned in their performances. And yes, we bear a collective responsibility for failing to punish Hollywood for callously having you portrayed in films by not only Phyllis Diller but also Bette Midler. Next time, Scarlett Johansson in a fig leaf. We promise.
But you need to lighten up. Winters like this — they're not something that humans are built to endure. In that way they're like all Robin Williams movies since 1987. We can't take the physical strain of trudging through this much snow. We can't take the mental strain of driving on impassable streets. And we can't outrun the yetis who've come down from the hills to feast.
What's that you say? If we don't like it we should go somewhere warmer? Oh you'd love that, wouldn't you? You'd love us to go to the airport so you can hurl another 50 cm of glistening white misery at us. We'll end up like those people on the news who spent half their March break in line at the departure-lounge Sbarro.
I always pictured you as a nice lady, sauntering through idyllic forests, bluebirds chirping merrily as they fluttered around your head. Maybe you'd stop now and then to enjoy a leisurely cup of tea with other famed anthropomorphized figures such as Jack Frost or Andy Rooney. And then you'd be on your way to cuddle a cute bunny rabbit or make the sun shine out of Barack Obama's ass.
But it turns out you're one mean slut. So much snow has fallen this winter that hell itself has frozen over — and you know what that means: now Rob Schneider gets to star in another movie. Thanks a lot, Mother Nature: first 410 cm of snow; next, Deuce Bigalow III: Gigolo Harder.
You and I have had our differences before. As one who sweats profusely under certain conditions, such as sitting quietly at room temperature, I wasn't too wild about the summer of 2005. By late June I was technically classified as an estuary. But this is different. This is worse. This winter has worn me down like a Rosie O'Donnell opinion. And to think this is the thanks I get from Mother Nature for spending 90 whole minutes cleaning up that riverbank that one afternoon 20 years ago when I was trying to hit on that enviro-chick who never wore a bra.