

Snowzilla, 2016. (Paul Sirajuddin via Flickr)

Humor

I, like many of you, love the winter season. The silence of a winter evening. The crackle of a warm fire. The threat of significant snow.

Nothing makes an adult feel quite like a kid again as much as the potential for a decent snowstorm.

Nothing warms the cockles of the heart like the storm prediction maps or the threat of grocery stores running out of toilet paper. Actually running out of toilet paper does not warm the cockles of the heart.

There is a certain peace of mind a human being achieves when they glance down at the empty toilet paper roll and know they only have to venture to the linen closet for a refill. Knowing that the county in which you reside has no toilet paper left is unsettling, much like your stomach after that third bowl of chili. Uh-oh.

As our planet warms toward levels seen only on the planet Mercury in July during its annual flame-throwing competition, I am perturbed by a phenomenon I have been witnessing lately. We shall henceforth call this phenomenon: “The dumbing down of significant snowfall.”

When I was a kid, the phrase “significant snowstorm” meant something. It was personal, powerful and capable of making you cry (if you lost power, which generally occurred). Okay, so I cry nowadays when we lose power. Hey, I’m sensitive.

Anyway, snowfall in the 1980s was intimidating. It elicited a visceral response. One of fear and of appreciation for what you have. It was epic in its potential.

And when it arrived? It arrived in such a way that made the 1980s feel like the 1950s. Roads were abandoned. The people living in houses on streets that had power welcomed in the people living in houses on streets that did not. Young people shoveled for older people without the promise of making money. You actually played these weird games with your family on boards with dice and fake little money.

Nowadays? There is a 94.8 percent chance that when a meteorologist utters the phrase “significant snowstorm,” our area will get two inches of snow on grassy and mulchy areas only. In fact, more salt will have been spread than snow fallen. There are only two geographical areas that should be concerned about two inches of snow, Atlanta and Smurf Village. Not even Brainy Smurf can help his hypoxic friends when two inches of snow fall.

Based on this information, I have drafted a set of rules and regulations for meteorologists to follow as a storm approaches.

Step 1 — Carefully review the temperature and direction of the potential snowstorm. If the “storm” looks lost and/or indecisive and has a general lack of interest in being plentiful, decrease predicted snowfall amounts by 86 percent, despite the loss in ratings or clicks.

Step 2 — Avoid misleading graphics and catchphrases in your forecasts unless you are certain the storm will meet these hyped-up requirements. Rating a storm potential using loaves of bread or rolls of toilet paper might be cute, but it is not helpful.

Step 3 — Please stop naming storms before they occur. We didn’t name our cat until we got to know her. Now she has a name that fits her personality. If it’s good enough for our cat, it’s good enough for you. Follow the example of the feline.

It is my sincere hope that we can get back to the values that have made this country great. Trust me, we would rather have one “significant snowstorm” over a five-year period than many threats of them every year. But just in case, I have 484 rolls of toilet paper in my linen closet. Bring on that third bowl of chili, baby!

Josh Lorenzo (a.k.a. AoS/Author of Sarcasm) is a longtime reader and active contributor to witty comments on the Capital Weather Gang blog. All opinions are his own — and make us smile.

More essays by Josh Lorenzo:

Rainuary: The sad reality of rainy days in winter

Essay: Winter driving leaves me crying

The raking guy: A (mostly true) essay on the seasonal struggle

Why autumn is better than summer (and it’s not even close)