By now, you are probably aware that the East Coast is about to get murdered with 50 tons of acid methane snow over the weekend. You know this because people who live on the East Coast believe that their weather is EVERYONE’S weather.

Anyway, at the dead center of the Nor’Eastercane bullseye is Washington D.C., which found itself paralyzed for eight hours on Wednesday night when a fearsome one inch came to terrorize the area. The National Weather Service has already issued a Blizzard Warning and promised “life-threatening” conditions here. We are going to get crushed. The snow is coming for us, and we cannot stop it. It will turn us against one another in a mass frenzy of milk- and bread-looting. All the cheese has already been taken:

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Citizens are stocking up and fortifying their homes and digging Blizzardcaust shelters and canceling all productive activities and planning their Netflix viewing and committing suicide IN ADVANCE. I’m already girding for the prolonged exposure to my own children. It is a widespread Snow Panic.

And so, before it arrives, I would just like to take a moment to address the snow personally:

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Snow,

I am going to fuck you up.

You don’t scare me, Snow. I know you talk a big game with your 30-plus inches, but that’s just overcompensating. Let’s look at the facts, shall we? You are the original mayo boy: an inert white substance that is easily melted and/or moved with basic shovels. I am a hearty 39-year-old man that can avoid you simply by ducking under the nearest rooftop. Advantage: ME. You’re gonna fall and you’re gonna blow and you’re gonna whip around and you’re gonna threaten to cut my power and try to scare me. But all I have to do is wait. I’m gonna rope-a-dope like a motherfucker.

And then, when you’ve finished, I will begin my counter-assault.

I will put on my big winter coat (THE BIG GUN) and my wool hat and my snow gloves (which stink after five seconds of use), and I will grab a shovel and a brush, and I will LAY WASTE TO YOU. I don’t even have to be sober for it. I will have enough whiskey in me to kill a man. No matter. You will be helpless against my dizzying array of sweeps and pushes and scrapes. Also, I have salt. KNEEL BEFORE MY SALT, BITCH. I might even take a hot cocoa break before resuming my brutal and vicious assault upon you. One time I saw a snow boulder on the ground and stomped on it and broke it apart like it was NOTHING. What do you think of that, Snow? I bet you don’t like that. I bet you don’t like knowing that AMERICA HAS TAMED EARTH, and that I will find a way to ruin you eventually.

So do your worst, Snow. You may cripple the nation’s capital in the short term. But just know that, in the end, WE WILL PREVAIL. Matter of fact, why wait until Friday afternoon? Why don’t you come over here now and fight me like a man?

[Rolls sleeves up, then quickly rolls them back down again because it’s terribly cold.]

I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU.

(For real though, spare the power lines.)

Lead illustration by Jim Cooke.