An Open Letter to Mother Nature

This entry is rated PG-13 for language, suggestive dialogue, and brief dudity. Viewer discretion is unfortunate.

All right Mother Nature, I've had it up to here.

Another winter storm? Really? Another one? You just don't know when to quit. You've passed out more snow than George Jung. You leave me no choice; I'm abouts to tell it like it is, yo.

You're a filthy, smelly whore. No one likes you. You get around more than a fruitcake at an office party Yankee Swap. Your legs close less often than a 24-hour Walmart. You're easier than a two-letter word scramble. Your bedroom has a drive-thru dollar menu. You suck more than a vaccuum cleaner stuck to the front of an exhaust fan. You're uglier than most protesters at a pro-life rally. Your face looks like you had a threeway with Captain Hook and Edward Scissorhands. You sound worse than Billy Mays eating a chainsaw.

I will not recycle my coffee cup tomorrow. I'll probably leave a light on somewhere. I wish I knew the proper feminine equivilant of douchebag so I could call you one. I don't, so I'm forced to guess.

Up yours, douchebaguette.