As a student on Long Island during the onslaught of Hurricane Sandy, I’ve had mixed feelings about the whole situation. On one hand: no school for a week! On the other hand: no gasoline or drinking water! So after some meditation on the subject, I’ve decided that on the whole, I’m anti-hurricane. So anti-hurricane, in fact, that if given a chance, I’d like to fight one.
I know what you’re thinking. “Max, that’s crazy.”
Is it though?
So crazy it just might work.
“Nope. Won’t work.”
Well let’s agree to disagree. I’m doing it. So without further ado:
My open challenge to Sandy, and hurricanes everywhere:
Hey, storm. Yeah, you. Who do you think you are, coming to my town, uprooting my trees, turning off my power? Why don’t you come back here, I’ll show you what we do to storms like you.
First things first, I know you think you won this one. You think causing 50 billion dollars of damage and shutting the power off for about 10 million people is winning. You’re thinking “That was my goal, and I did it, so I won.” Well guess what, douchebag?
…You’re probably right. I’m almost positive that you won. The general consensus around here seems to be that you handily kicked our ass. I mean, nobody has gas, the public transportation system is useless, there was that crazy thing with the crane in NYC; you pretty convincingly won this round.
But I have a proposition for you, Sandy, you fat tropical storm hooker: Why don’t you turn around and come on back here, cause I’m gonna punch you right in the clouds.
That’s right. You heard me. Maybe I wasn’t prepared that first time around. Maybe most of us weren’t quite ready for you to come and rip up our yards and break our windows and knock over the Statue of Liberty (can’t confirm; haven’t watched the news). But this time, we’re ready. I’ve got my punching pants on, and I’m gonna lay into you, Sandy.
You think you’re the Real McCoy, but you don’t know from nothin’, see? You’re nothin’ but a jalopy; a lollygagger; a real bug-eyed Betty type’a dame who can’t mind her potatoes. You deserve everything you’ve got coming to you.
Next time you come around, I’m gonna grab you by the rain bands and give you a good one-two, right in the eye, you frankenstorm dirtbag.
This next time, I won’t just sit in my room eating a family sized bucket of Swedish fish, gently weeping as my phones service bars diminish into nothingness. No. This next time, I’m coming out after you, Sandy. I’m coming out there, naked, strapped in a jetpack and carrying a sawed-off shotgun. And we’re going to duel like the wild animals we are, into the wee hours of the morning. In short, Sandy: I’m going to smash your face in.
What’s wrong Sandy, you scared? Scared of a little one on one with the big dawg? You should be.
I’m down to tangle whenever you are, Sandy. Whenever you’re ready, just come on back, have a go at the title. Except not this weekend. This weekend isn’t good for me.