If you don't have two hours, here's a six-second video of a kid running over another kid with a toy car that tells the same story:
At the time of this writing, Irma's traveling at a leisurely 16 mph, like it's taking a romantic midnight stroll on the beach as it tries its best to fuck us using all of its most boastful pickup lines. "You know, I'm nearly bigger than Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina, and Maryland -- combined," says Irma with a suggestive wiggle of its eyebrows. "You may have heard of me. I'm only the most powerful Atlantic hurricane on record." Irma is trying so hard to replace Andrew as the name synonymous with ruination that even a city jaded by hurricanes is panicking appropriately.
Geez, overcompensating much?
I've had a nervous energy linger for hours after I've deemed myself fully prepped. There has to be something more I can do to ensure the safety of my family, some passage from the Necronomicon I can recite that will push Irma back into the sea from whence she came. We moved into a new apartment the weekend before the storm. I swept it and vacuumed and dusted and mopped in preparation for a hurricane. I just needed something that made me feel like I was prepping, even if it felt like I was prepping a corpse for its funeral. I want to make the apartment as clean as possible when Irma destroys it. At this point, nothing will make me happier than if excavation crews find my body in the rubble and remark, "My God ... these floors are pristine! Shame we lost such a skilled mop artisan."
We know Irma's on its way, but as of Thursday, we still haven't felt its effects. It was still a normal, beautiful summer day ... just with the apocalypse looming on the horizon. If Wednesday was a TV character in an HBO show, we'd critique it for being so obvious, because it's way too cheerful to NOT be taking a sword to the chest in the next scene.
I had a couple of cable/internet techs over doing some work recently. They'd take little breaks to watch videos on their phones of Irma tearing up the Virgin Islands. We were talking about how scary it all was, and how this is feeling like another Andrew.
There was a pause. I thought it was one of those dreadful pauses during which the gravity of a situation sinks in. It probably was. Then the younger of the two techs broke his stare to look at the three action figures displayed on the hutch over my desk. They're three versions of Link from the Legend Of Zelda series: an 8-bit Link from the original game, one from Wind Waker, and the centerpiece, Link from Skyward Sword. He asked if I had played Breath Of The Wild yet. I had. He had just started. We spent the next ten minutes fanboy-ing about the game. We gushed about its overwhelming but incredible sense of freedom. We loved how the combat system had (mostly) evolved from the simplistic "Hit the flashing thing!" setup to a one that opened the door to skill and welcomed creativity. For a couple minutes, we compared the overall experience to other games in the series. We concluded that every Zelda game that came before it was another in a long line of rough drafts before they finally figured it all out with Breath Of The Wild.
Within seconds, we went from silent contemplation on how utterly fucked we were to geeking out over a video game. We shifted from doom to glee on a dime. That's normal, and that's fucked up.
So watch out, Irma. You might be coming at us with 160 mph winds and apocalyptic storm surges, but we've got Facebook memes on our side, and we're not afraid to use them to make fun of clouds.
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