Dear Mother Nature:
You are a filthy whore. You are a wanton, depraved trollop devoid of all virtue. Your scandalous harlotry surpasses human understanding. So utterly putrid are your offenses that decent humankind is sickened by the vile rankness that emanates therefrom.
I have always admired your beauty and majesty. I have respected your power. I have sought to avoid the needless sullying of your pristine charms.
And this is how you repay me?
With the worst snowfall Portland has seen in a decade, just before Christmas, just in time to cancel every flight out of Portland International Airport?
I, who have done you no wrong, am to be prevented from being with my family on Christmas Day because of YOUR rancid excretions. I, who have never polluted your oceans or befouled your forests, and who usually remembers to recycle his newspapers, am to be denied the fellowship of my family for one reason and one reason alone: because YOU chose to void your infernal bowels and contaminate the land with over a foot of your heinous ordure.
“Can’t you just get a flight on standby?” I hear you ask, your raspy strumpet’s voice scratching across your cankerous lips. You and I both know that you caused most flights Saturday and Sunday to be canceled too, putting me in line behind hundreds of others also seeking standby seats. You know full well that any flight lucky enough to escape the now ruined precincts of this once fair city will be filled to capacity with the fortunate souls who happened to book tickets on it in the first place, accompanied by at most one or two standby passengers. You heard the representative from the airline tell me that, quite frankly, I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of getting on standby anytime before Dec. 26 — an ironic choice of euphemism, given that your perverse actions have turned Portland into an unholy admixture of both snow and hell.
Do not think that your fiendish abominations will go unanswered, Mother Nature. From this moment forward I shall litter your beaches with Styrofoam, set fire to your prairies, and defecate in the walking paths of your state parks. You are now my sworn enemy, you malevolent shrew, you noxious harridan, you shameful, scabrous, fetid she-whore. May the glad tidings of the season find you grief-stricken and forlorn, and may you never cross me again or so help me I WILL END YOU.
Eric D. Snider