Bonus Column | by A.G. Bibbophobe
Everywhere you turn these days, people are talking about winter. Last winter was mild, they say, but we lucked out. We dodged a bullet, they say. But this winter — ooh boy, it’ll be a doozy. Nothing but frigid cold and sparkling endless white. A winter of frozen toes and windburned nose, snowblind eyes and stark blue skies.
But who’s saying it? The Farmer’s Almanac, that’s who. And I’ve had enough.
Farmer’s Almanac, I’m on to you.
It’s time the people knew the truth. The Almanac doesn’t forecast the weather with pig spleens or caterpillar fuzz. The True Almanac, of which the retail version is an inert copy, is an undying book made of living runes that summons the weather for its own inscrutable purposes.
Generation upon generation of farmers are grown in its Inner Chamber, hatching from its pallid Eggs to spread out over the face of the Earth and grow a mixture of grains and pulses, along with delicious poultry, meat and dairy. Without farmers, we would surely starve. But the dark truth is that the Almanac controls the farmers, who in turn control our weather, our traffic lights, our smoke detectors and even our hair growth.
Ever wonder why we sometimes need a haircut right away? Just another eldritch ritual deployed to further the Almanac’s goals.
But no more, do you hear? I’m on to you, Almanac. On the next new moon, when your power is weakest, I will launch an assault on your Lair. I will brave the combine-human hybrids, the nitrogen moats, the chickens with bladed feathers. They will not stop me. I’ll open you up and doodle in your margins, Almanac. I’ll photocopy your index and post it on Reddit.
Let’s see what happens to your precious winter now.
A.G. Bibbophobe hates cold winters.
