A hurricane wanted to chew me to death, but I was prepared. "A HURRICANE IS COMING," Elegant Choice screamed one day last week. "It is unexpected. Soon, your boobs will transform into potatoes, and my wang will become an actual baby carrot." "My mind gropes toward your meaning, but is fired for it," I responded. "Forgive me for talking like a weatherman," he apologized. "I only meant that it will be the end of the world." "Aha," I rejoined. "I thought you meant that the hurricane would 'pull them out of the ground' 'of our bodies,' but then I realized I was thinking of tornadoes." Once again, my joke was so powerful that it became reality, and a number of tornadoes touched down in our town. Here is a secret: before I moved to Florida, I had no idea that tornadoes were possible here. That is some Kansas shit, I would have told you. You love Bill Paxton and can't admit it. You long for a tornado to leave its windy lipstick on your dick. You want to get sucked up into a twister and meet an animal there and spend an airborne afternoon squirting hot cow milk into your mouth. Well, tough. Tornadoes can't touch the American Area. Little did I know.