|Oh, I'm so glad not to be poor.|
Dear Hurricane Irene,
I cannot help but notice, from what I hear on the telly, that you are making your way posthaste toward the eastern edge of the United States. You may, I understand, travel as far west as Pennsylvania. Well, although you know I would never want to interfere in your matters, I must tell you that this state of affairs will result in some rather uncomfortable complications in regard to my travel plans (I set out for Pennsylvania to visit my paramour the night before you arrive, you see, and airplanes rather detest flying in high winds and severe rain, as you well know). In fact, the entire matter has me extremely distressed. Observe, if you will, a typical scene as more reports reach my ears about the impending interruptions you intend to cause travelers like myself:
What about my trip to Pennsylvaaania? I sob into my satin pillow case as servants fan me gently with large palm leaves. What if my flight gets cancelled and I have to take a different flight to somewhere elllse? Ugh, this stupid hurricane is keeping me from seeing my boooyfrieeend!
I've quite lost my appetite over it all: even as I write, my tea and petit-fours sit cold and forgotten on the grand piano, and I fear that I will soon lack the strength to rise from my velvet settee. So you see, I would be most obliged if you would just by-pass the East Coast so that I might fly to my love's side. Of course, you may certainly divert to another location if you wish - as long as my travel path remains clear, you understand.
When people in the Bahamas heard about my letter, they sent me one of their own:
Dear Ms. Thunderbolt,
Yo. Tracy. My house is gone. Chill out.
You're a jerk,
The Entire Bahamian Population.
Images via Hollywood Past, The Wall Street Journal.