The Old Farmer’s Almanac Predicts “We’re All Fucked” This Winter

It’s hard to believe we’re about to head into another winter, isn’t it? Time sure flies when you’re in intensive light therapy. And yet here we all are again, about to make fresh tracks on Bullshit Mountain. There’s no time like the present to start feeling pessimistic, so what’d you say we just get right to the forecast?

Summary

Winter will be a complete junk show again this year. It will be colder than average, with higher than average snowfall and lower than average wind chill. The coldest periods will be early to mid-Dec, mid-to-late Dec, early to mid-Jan, mid-to-late Jan, early to mid-and-late Feb, early to mid-March, mid-to-late March, and five scattered days in April that will push anyone who’s made it that far right over the edge. Oh fuck it, just for fun, we predict it’ll also snow on Mother’s Day. It’s your day, moms.

The snowiest periods will start in five minutes and continue without pause until mid-February. By that point, your morning routine will solely consist of crying, rocking, and holding conversations with your left hand—on which you’ve drawn an owl with a Sharpie. That owl is your only friend. “Hoo-hoo me?” Sharpie the Owl says. Ha-ha. Sorry, couldn’t resist.

There will be exactly two days in March that will feel almost like spring, and you’ll fill up with hope and throw open your windows. The neighborhood kids will ride their bikes through melted puddles of snow, but be warned: this is winter messing with you. The minute you open your donut holder and blurt out, “Maybe it will end someday,” the snow will immediately resume—flying sideways like something out of a John Woo movie—and those aforementioned puddles will freeze into lily pads of death, waiting to take out the old and young alike. So, thanks for that, numbnuts!

How We Predict the Weather

Funny story, we make it up. And brace yourselves—we’re not all old farmers either. A few of us are “middle-aged,” I suppose you’d say, but the one guy who’s in his 20s took a look at our predictions, grabbed his peacoat, and hasn’t been heard from since. Not to put too sharp a point on it, but the closest Jim and I come to being farmers is when we house a couple of bags of Pepperidge Farms Mint Milanos during a blizzard. Isn’t that right, Jim? Jim knows.

We’re guessing at this point you want to hear some sort of bedtime story about solar activity, magnetic storms, statistical averages, and secret formulas, but what do we look like, wizards? AGAIN, WE’RE NOT EVEN OLD FARMERS.

How Accurate Was Our Forecast Last Winter?

Pretty goddamn accurate, wouldn’t you say? Our prediction for last winter was "Oooooh fuck,” and we think we can all agree that that forecast was right on the money. In fact, conditions were colder, snowier, and just generally more “WHAT THE SHIT IS THIS?!” than we had originally predicted. We estimated that seven percent of the East Coast population would be all “I’m out” and move to Texas or the Florida panhandle by April, when in reality the percentage was more like nineteen percent. Given that, we’re going to put our accuracy rate for last winter at a solid two-thousand percent.

Conclusion

What shapes the weather? The weather shapes the weather. Then the shape of the weather shapes your personality. Then your personality, which is in horrible shape and in no condition to go out, goes out anyway and shapes other people’s personalities. And by early March, New England is just one big jerk-infested pile of garbage snow. Any more questions, smart guy?

Quite frankly, as much as you want to complain about the weather, you know what we want to complain about? The fuckheads who keep living in areas of the country where winter is so brutal, Amnesty International should intervene. Last time we checked, winter happens every year. It’s not like, “Whoa, shit guys, surprise! It’s winter again. HOW’D THAT HAPPEN?” So before you lash out at us—again—maybe think a little bit about your life. Maybe wave your hands around your face, pat the back of your head, and ask, “Is there a gun to my head?” or approach a trustworthy adult like a librarian and ask, “Am I someone who’s capable of packing boxes and then transporting myself from one location to another?” and then tell us who’s fucking fault this really is.

Also? If you’re going to send hate mail, just stick to the mail part. Whoever sent the dead fish last winter was totally out of line, and it really upset my mother. YES, I STILL LIVE WITH HER. HAPPY?

See you next year, idiots.