Tragedy happens. Bad things occur in the safest of places. We forget that we can be vulnerable; we seem to forget that Mother Nature and the elements are always dictating what truly goes on. I know that many of us feel that the judges on American Idol are the ones who call that shots, and to watch Simon Cowell critique the performance of Hurricane Katrina would be far more interesting then watching him judge Fantasia, but the truth is, Momma Nature is boss, and she does not have our backs.

And as a man, I need to make a stand. I am tired of being the lesser. I demand equal rights. Forever, Mother Nature has not provided a level playing field. She has the power, she dictates the reality of life, and the men have no say. It?s high time we as men hold a rally and burn our boxer shorts in protest. We demand that Father Good Times has as much of a say as Mother Nature. So, if a bad thing happens, ol? Papa Good Times will bring in his clean up crew and make it better, then hold a party. This action needs to start today, and it begins with us.

The only problem I foresee with our boxer-burning bonanza is the heat. It?s getting pretty darn cold out, and I don?t know about you guys, but I really don?t want people on Monument Square to get a good look at me sans slacks in twenty-degree weather. Perhaps we could do something different, like watch the football game and boast about high school achievements. Yeah, that?s it.

How do these magnanimous storms affect us in Maine, you ask? Well, they have this vacuum like effect, swooping up the seaboard; they slide in the cracks of our windows and empty our wallets. The funds are then dispersed to gas stations and oil companies. Prior to Katrina, getting a gas station owner to smile was about as easy as getting me to do something on my day off. Now I walk in, and everyone is jovial, thrilled to have my fifty bucks. And the checks I am writing to the oil company rival that of my mortgage, and guess what? I haven?t even turned my heat on yet.

And, I?m not about to either. That?s right. My wallet is clamped shut. I am going to go as long as I can go without seeing that Brinks oil truck in my driveway. I?ve never been one to wear sweaters, but I will now. Long johns? Going to get some of them too. I will wait until February if I have to. I?ll buy a nice little out fit for my dog Bella too, to prevent her from becoming a pugsicle. And I will be caught dead before I cave in; I mean it. The police will come to my house and discover me in my bed, looking like a skiers body during the spring thaw. I?ll have the gloves on, the goggles, the whole nine yards. I only ask that I not be buried; I would prefer to be not only an organ donor but also a heat donor. They can recycle my body into heating oil. Shouldn?t be difficult with all the onion rings I?ve eaten lately.

Father Good Times, perhaps you could pay the oil company a little visit, take them out, give them a good time, booze them up in New Orleans, have them provide the necessary assistance, and bring them back around, say April? That should be just enough time to shave the ice off my chest.