Superstorm “Pickles,” the storm of all times, the ravager of civilization,  has hired an agent and has signed up with the Weather Channel for an exclusive $20 million, six-year,  multi-storm deal, according to the news. Pickles will communicate to the world through  Google Mother Earth Translation Software, the first time a Superstorm can promote himself, rather than relying solely on cable news channels. A spokesperson for Google said this was also believed to be the first time a Superstorm could communicate directly to humans through cognitive software, without relying on God or angels or cable news.

Pickles gets to keep his own name, according to reports, and the WC gets exclusive rights to the life and travels of the Storm Of Storms (SOS), the storm that made God tremble and shake, the storm that will devour New York City, turn New England into a wintry bog and Miami into a swamp.
Pickles will market videos, storm-tracks, T-shirts and buttons, a tell-all book about his experiences and will publish an insider blog – $8 a day – for exclusive, secret and juicy details on what it is really like to be a Superstorm:  how difficult a job it is, how hard it is to be reviled and feared and wreak havoc Mother Nature, how it feels to mash up buildings and dams. Pickles is, the WC reports, the longest-lasting and most followed Superstorm of all time, he has more than a million likes on Facebook and a huge following on Twitter.

News reports said that Pickles agent was negotiating with Disney for the rights to an animated feature called “Storm,” in which Pickles will be portrayed by the voice of Angelina Jolie, music by Lorde. Disney says it wants to do a “Superstorm” theme park in Disney world, people can see whole towns and cities buried in artificial snow and swept away by onrushing water while they  bounce along on bobbing rafts ordering hot dogs and Turnkey legs with their Magic Bands. And insiders close to Pickles said the storm was also talking to Apple executives about posting his barometric pressure on the new IWatch, coming out next year.

In the future, says Pickles agent, the charismatic storm will Tweet his storm track on Instagram and broadcast his intentions on the Weather Channel. Five hundred images a minute on Snapchat. Users can sign up for the emergency alerts from Pickles himself for a weekly fee, he can communicate directly on tablets and cell phones. “You don’t need weather people,” Pickles said in a prepared statement, “you’ve got the real thing. I know where I am and where I am going.”

In an interview on the NBC Evening News with Brian Williams, “Pickles” revealed his own agony at having to wipe out homes, destroy shorelines, snarl traffic, cause accidents, wipe out town snow budgets and shut down schools and businesses, not to mention flooding half of the skyscrapers in Manhattan. “It’s not what I set out to be,” he said, “I had no idea the polar ice caps would melt, and people are so dumb – they still don’t believe it! I mean, you asked for it people, don’t blame me.”

Pickles told Williams that he was the storm that flooded the earth, he was very close to Noah, and he worked closely with God and the Angels. He blew the Allied Fleet across the ocean safely to Normandy and flooded Hitler’s Bunker. “Really?”, pressed Williams, “that seems a bit of an exaggeration to me.” But Pickles stayed with his story, he had better stories than that, he vowed.

Pickles disclosed to Williams that there are not many Superstorms, but one – him. Despite all of the dumb Roman names the Weather Channel has been giving big storms, they are really all him,  he said:  Juno, Sandy, Katrina, he chuckled through his translation program, “they are all me! All me!” Pickles just keeps circling the globe, running up and down to the North and South Poles, re-charging himself and coming around on the other end, over the horizon. “Every Superstorm is me,” he said. “It’s just one Superstorm, and I am growing bigger and more important and powerful  by the day.” The cable channels only show what they see, he said, nobody has ever bothered to follow him and see where he goes when he isn’t messing up cities in North America.

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This was all important news to me, I have followed Pickles historic and unprecedented track closely. He would be coming back, again and again and again. Wasn’t this Armageddon? I wanted to be ready, prepared for any emergency, as any level-headed new frontiersman or woman would be. I didn’t have any candles or batteries, but I had a new super charger for my Iphone 6 Plus, it would last for months without power. I could text for months.

Before Pickles landed at my farm, I posted a message on Facebook, I did not ask for help, of course, but I did mention casually that Lulu was starving and the chickens were out of grain and Red was existing on sugared water and the sheep were laughing at him.  I was down to 120 lbs, I said, I was getting along on a walker, but it was hard to get it through the snow, Maria was boiling the old hay for soup. We were down to three logs, I said, but it didn’t matter, I could take care of myself. And, I said, there are always good friends, and what are good friends for?

I was surprised (well, not really) to get a text from Ted Hunnelley from Peoria, Illinois. “I am on the way,” he said, “tell the animals to hang on.” He said he had just gone and chopped down his father’s favorite oak tree and that his sister had raided the Alzheimer’s unit at the local nursing home where her mother was, looking for macaroni and cheese, baloney and white bread – the national food of Upstate New York.  He would, they said, be at the farm in eight or nine hours. Perhaps he could sleep over for a few weeks?

Wow, I thought, how sweet, how good that makes me feel. I must be a very good guy if people will drive that far to bring me baloney and white bread. Maybe even some mustard. Staying over was not a good idea, I texted back quickly, no heat upstairs. Maybe next year, love to get together.

I was a little uncomfortable. After all, my county is one of the most rural and heavily forested in New York State, there are trees all over the place,  including thousands in my back yard, and lots of big strong men with large trucks who are happy to chop them down. And I am no wussy-man. I mean, it is nothing for me to me go out, wrestle a bear and chop a big maple tree up for firewood. Did I really need an oak tree from Illinois to keep warm?

Frankly, this could be a bit embarrassing. I’ve written books, blogs and given a lot of talks about my move to the wild of upstate New York, my surviving blizzards, coyote attacks, rabid skunks and racoons, bitter cold, rampaging sheep, torch-carrying mobs of angry townspeople looking to burn strange outlanders. It was, well, sort of the brand, you know, me and the dogs, up here in the wilderness, toughing it out together. Now Pickles was messing things up.

How, I wondered,  would it really look if Ted Hunnelly – he works in an Amazon warehouse  – had to bring me wood and macaroni and cheese from Northern Illinois, where they routinely get six feet of snow in the winter?

I have an image to maintain.  I ran to the barn, got my hatchet and my AK-47 assault rifle. I rushed out into the woods – I actually fell over a dozen logs lying on the ground, I do l live on the edge of a forest. I saw two rabbits running for their lives and opened up on them with my machine gun, there were pieces of rabbit all over the place. I karate-kicked a rabid racoon and tossed my knife at a squirrel high up in a tree.

I nailed him with one throw, his head would soon grace my fireplace. OK, I don’t have a fireplace, but I do have a mantle, he would be gracing the mantle over the wood stove. I skinned him right there while yodeling and singing old crop-picking songs from the Great Depression. I picked up the remains of one of the rabbits, put on my doo-rag, set up my video camera, and ate the rabbit raw, right there on camera, blood and bones dripping down my face. I posted the video to my Facebook Page. The likes came pouring in.

I might have my issues, but I was hard as nails, and just as sharp.

When Ted pulled into my driveway, I was waiting for him, rifle slung over my shoulder, blood smeared all over me. I explained again that staying over for weeks – or even for a night – was not a good idea, sorry, can’t thank him enough. Best get going before the storm hits, I suggested thoughtfully. He looked disappointed, but said he  understood. And he was impressed. “I admire you so much,” Ted said, “you are living the life you want. You are brave and strong. Don’t let anyone every criticize you or deter you, you are a hero.” Then I waved to him, he unloaded the food and wood,  got into his truck and raced back to Peoria, where Pickles was just a few hours away. It would be close, I sure hoped he would make it safely.

I am feeling good tonight, it was a good day.  It has begun snowing heavily, the wind is shrieking through the barn, the roads are too slick to drive on.  I am enjoying my baloney on white bread sandwich (w/mustard), it has been a long time since I had one. The donkeys and dog are fat and happy, and I am loving the Pickles video, I streamed it from Netflix. Even for a bit fat epic storm,  he has quite a story to tell.

Here comes Superstorm Pickles: Save The Farm!

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Disclaimer: I got an angry message from a woman in Toledo, this morning, she asked me why I was picking on the people who broadcast the weather, her son Peter is a weather man in Columbus, and people yell at him all of the time, and why, she said, was I working my poor border collie every day in the snow and ice, what kind of monster was I anyway? Stop picking on her son, she said,  and let the poor dog inside. I explained to her that the column was meant to be funny, as is this post. I also explained to her that if she did read this post,  I did not, in fact, shoot a rabbit with a machine-gun and eat him on social media. 

Humor is defined in this way by dictionary.com:

• 1.  The quality that makes something laughable or amusing; funniness.

  (she could not see the humor of the situation.)

• 2. That which is intended to induce laughter or amusement.

  a writer skilled at crafting humor.