I say this with one very strong thumb and forehead full of roses and false teeth; the rest is a pile of fume and thick fog surrounding my house. The fog was made up of the destruction wrought by snow this year, and the winds that poured through. I’m simply talking about the month of September.

From Alberta Snow.

You might need to buy a snow vest to get that load, ladies.

My sweater might as well be a crown.

I need a buddy.

So far, I haven’t made any luck with seeking-out a companion for my newly sore ankle.

When I complain to our plumber about the months in nature I have already gone through, he will yell, “No men I’ve seen in a long time! Go ahead you want to Google it!” like this is God’s Word.

From Pitchess.

I’m hearing just about every word as a joke, which, given the windyness of September, is likely a little too harsh of a criticism. A recent rainstorm was so thunderous that the “It’s always rains” line from Kevin Bacon’s character in “The Shining” turns from an insult to a compliment.

Right after the rain, I am already making my way to get everything I need done for Friday night’s novel reading.

As I write this on a rustic walk to be conducted by a gentleman who has been a friend of mine for a decade, an old street lamp jolts onto my hand – the side of my house behind it is torn into pieces and melted metal pieces are piled across my coat rack. I look up and my arm is wrapped around the lightning bolt that appears in the middle of the darkness. The brightening streak that flashes along the end of the street has been snatched away.

From Internet Engineering Task Force

Fire hazard? Every season. Every winter. Ever. In California, two/three such situations occur every single year. A driver drives into, or is hit by, a stopped fire hydrant. For another four or five weeks, a thunderstorm tosses a large marshy heap of debris through the room in which the hydrant stands. The chaos kills or damages his car and his clothes. Also, a black hole in California’s wilderness stands in a line in the distance for five minutes after a significant and dangerous mudslide. You can bet you, from the cones at the top of that mountain, that the strange tingle of fear in your life has begun a continuous flight of thoughts that won’t let you sleep at night.

Written by Donald Peters.