an open letter to all forming Atlantic tropical depressions

Dear air masses:

You are all wimps. Your mothers were the belches of manatees, and your fathers smelt of rotting fish. There are baby hummingbirds producing greater wind strength than you. You have the moisture content of a piece of beef jerky buried in dessicant in the Sahara. Tropical depressions? You barely rate the name of mid-latitude minor disappointments. MJN Air makes cleaner landfalls than you do. Drunken pigeons wrapped in electromagnets have better senses of direction than you. Disco balls have greater angular momentum than you. You are worthy only of scorn and derision. If you wore clothes, they would be ill-fitting and unfashionable and dry. You are so incompetent that when your mist refracts sunlight into rainbows, the colors are out of order. You are so powerless that babies born the day of your landfall will be named for you, and they will have greater wind and moisture production than you. Oxygen attempts to escape the atmosphere in order to be spared the shame of being found in you. Migrating plankton are undisturbed by your passing. You are pitied by ceiling fans and mocked by ceiling leaks. You are disgraces to the atmosphere. Boats passing through you take no notice of your existence. You are tedious and unimpressive. Meteorologists would place you on their maps out of pity if they were not laughing at your pathetic attempts at weather. Umbrella manufacturers are put out of business by the very sight of you.

In short, I sit here in the land of drought and 104F/40C highs and I mock you for the useless collections of gas that you are, secure in the knowledge that you couldn't find me if the National Weather Service gave you a map and GPS, the entire remaining population of fish in the Gulf formed an arrow to guide your storm tracks, and Houston and Corpus Christi both put up signs saying "THIS WAY".

30N 97W. If you dare.