Wonder Woman and I were preparing for our day this morning in the bathroom: brushing teeth, polishing brass knuckles, shaving eyebrows and what-have-you. The radio was on, the usual Morning Edition fare.
The weather report came on. We are to expect a cloudy and rainy day, highs in the low eighties. All very mundane stuff, not worth canceling plans over. Wondie wandered off into the bedroom, pondering the choice between the brass nose-ring or the onyx one I gave her for Arbor Day a few years back. I was left alone in meditative quiet as the radio droned on. Something about possible thunderstorms in the afternoon, which I dismissed as the Big-Government Socialist propaganda it no doubt was. As my toothbrush made its roborative way about the ancestral molars, the nice radio-lady intoned, quite portentously, that the predicted storms would bring the possibility of (I'm quite certain I heard this right) "strong winds and ham."
Dearie me, I thought. Not only do I stand an excellent chance of getting the careful coiffure mussed, but I'll have to spend the day under trees and awnings, ducking cured-pork products. I supposed the local carnivorous fauna would consider themselves quite blessed with the windfall, nice fresh porkies falling as manna from the heavens. It would also mean that their usual prey -- the rabbit, vole, earthworm and groundhog communities -- would consider this a welcome holiday from the usual skulking and burrowing behaviors that is their allotment in life.
Ah, yes, my powerful fish-fed brain continued in its inexorable train, but what sort of ham? Serrano? Smithfield? Prosciutto? Or -- perish the thought -- had Mother Nature decided to cheap out on us and rain down that horrible agar-embedded canned stuff from my youth, when refrigerated transportation was but a glint in Nikola Tesla's eye? Would Mother N. even bother to open the cans? Would she refuse to stir herself with the whole key-twisting business and just pelt us with unopened tins of Dubuque's Pride? I expect the insurance johnnies to have their pencils well sharpened. This could make golfball-sized hail look like hail-sized golfballs.
At any rate, I'm sure there's some outstanding poetry to be wrought out of even this impending natural disaster:
A-rumty-tumty ram-a-Tam (Gam? Flam? Ma'am? Work on this later.)
I do not like strong winds and ham
A-tumpty-tumpty sharks with hair,
The rest of the poem is left as an exercise for the student. Me, I'm off to herd the swine into the barn before the conflagration. Can you imagine their moral indignation? "It's raining...US!"