In which my buddy Arthur is inspired by the Weather Channel:
I’ve finally made it to the big time—but not in the way I’d imagined. Every time I turn on the TV they’re talking about “Arthur”—trash-talking, that is. “Arthur is going to cause considerable damage in the Carolinas.” “Arthur is going to wreck everybody’s Fourth of July plans.”
Well, sorry to rain on your parade, but I am what I am, I do what I do: I’m a fuckin’ hurricane. Which part of that sentence don’t you get? I saw a satellite picture of myself—I gotta say I am one hunk of meteorological manhood—and the weather guy’s tellin’ me what I’m gonna do, like I don't know: “Arthur will be heading up the East Coast, missing most of the major cities, and eventually heading out to sea.” So I yell at the asshole: “YOU DON’T KNOW ME! YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE!” Think I talk funny? I’m from the South, dude! That thunder you hear? Well, you could call that my Rebel Yell.
None of you all understand me. I’ve got issues. I been struggling with tropical depression for weeks. I told my parole officer the flip side of depression is ANGER. He looked at me funny and said, “You look like you just sucked up a million six-packs of warm air. If you’re thinking about going off on another toot, just remember you’re looking at five years this time.” So I trashed his office right then and there—knocked the fuckin’ windows out: that blew him away.
Then o' course I skipped town. Figured I might as well head north.
Look, I’m tryin’ to be the calm eye in the middle o’ this storm of controversy, but now they’re talkin’ more shit about me, sayin’ I’m “weak” and won’t be around much longer. Well, maybe they’re right. Maybe I will just drift out to sea. I always was a drifter. Nothing on this fuckin’ land mass to keep me here. I’m sure you’ll all be glad to see me go. But guess what, I got a friend, and he’ll be comin’ all along right behind me. Watch out, assholes, here comes Hurricane Bubba!