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Uncle Bucky And The Global Warming Catastrophe

Posted on November 4 2009 2:00 pm
Divorced Dad of three. Collection A.V.P. by day, humor/political blogger after the evening dishes. Looking for hot/wealthy/uber-lifted Scottsdale Granny for hi-jinks, hiking, and Saturday-morning coffee. Is this e-harmony?
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Although F. Swemson’s series on global warming (Lord Monckton Challenges Global Warming On Glenn Beck, Parts I and II) is pretty darn good, it is way too scholarly for this guy’s brain – I can’t organize or deduce anything that is even somewhat logical – it makes me want to drink heavily for at least 48 hours, work-week be damned.

For instance, the very nice graph in his story that talks about Cretaceous and 17c and warm and cold might as well be the cross-section of a radiator, or maybe it’s some sound waves – I just can’t get a handle on it.

In fact, after looking it for over five minutes, I began to feel a little unsettled, and decided to drive up to Prescott AZ to see my Uncle Bucky – maybe he could explain it all to me.

For those of you who don’t know him, Uncle Bucky is my insane yet extremely intelligent (on several planets) Uncle, who chooses to live alone, on top of a mountain, in a rusty, shambling wobbly box of a trailer that hasn’t seen a dust rag in at least several decades. He has the world’s greatest satellite/computer/surveillance system outside the Bin-Laden cave complex, but he isn’t the cleanest fellow you’ve ever met.


Forget it.

Sometimes he spills his homemade tequila on the bumpy linoleum that lines the sub-floor of his trailer.  Then he moves it around with a worn work-boot.

That’s as good as you’re gonna get.

Anyway, as loony as my Uncle is, and as cantankerous and crabby as he is capable of being, he is one of the world’s leading authorities on terrestrial heating and cooling  patterns – he’s been talking about the subject for years.

For example, the last time I was up there (Early October,) he looked out the window-hole on the East side of his trailer and sizzed a nasty stream of tobacco juice right through the middle of it. It killed a squirrel and three rare tree frogs. (Branchicus camouflagicus, found only in Yavapai County, U.S.A.)

He harrumphed and gave me a forecast: “Fuggin’ cold out.”

Another time, I think it was last summer, he was wave-sweating some of the bottled vileness that he had choked down the night before, and announced: “Fuggin’ hot today, huh?”

As you can see, he is  a rigid follower of the scientific method.

So who better to ask for guidance as our planet morphs into a perpetual hurricane?

Driving up the switchbacks that lead to the top of his mountain, I had to admit that I had witnessed several climactic changes as I sped from Phoenix to Prescott: It had started out kind of warm in the city, but was actually sort of chilly now that I was up over 8,000 feet.

Talk about a sign.

My Uncle greeted me as usual as I entered the homestead: Heavily armed, grinning mightily, his teeth smashed and bruised and as rotten as an old picket fence.

It was nice to see him, too.

I showed him the graph, and the story, and he nodded his head wisely and only talked to himself a little bit as he read it.

“You should’ve seen the blouse Pelosi was wearin’ at that press conference yesterday.”

He gulped down a finger-and-a-half of his precious brew.

Cold front movin’ in!”

He cackled and slapped his knee and got up and rummaged around a slanty curio cabinet for a jug of his finest.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

It was only the weather, after all!

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