In which Shawna gets her oats

Pretty much everywhere, it's gonna be hot.

The goofy smile, the lackadaisical wave, the air of "who the freak cares". This is a weatherman worn down by his trade. As our protagonist shows us what Sol will bring us on her solar chariot that day, he weathers his own feelings of inadequacy and labored self-assurance, allowing us to peer into his self. From there we can ask the relevant questions: At what point on the scale of morning TV talk show professionalism does one lose all sense of decency? At what point does it all become a big joke?

Probably somewhere around the 3rd toke.

Donna?

"Get me the freak off camera/Where's the craft table?"

Then I don't need a jacket.

Shawna, you ignorant slut. When did you even think you needed a jacket? As you sit pretty near your coffee mug and wax grapes in this air-conditioned studio space, just know that yes, the world outside is much  different from the life of providence you so clearly take for granted. When our protagonist tells you that yes, pretty much everywhere it's gonna be hot, you don't respond with the kind of half-hearted banter appropriate only for strained workplace interactions. You ask him how hot? How long must we suffer this heat? How much pot have you smoked? Our protagonist lives to tell you where it's gonna be hot, and just how sure he is that it will be hot. He doesn't need to be questioned.

"...."

In this pause we may see the cosmos. In this pause we may see within ourselves. The woman has presented our protagonist (and us) with a daring question: Do we need a jacket? The answer, implicit in the initial statement, is no, you do not. But we do not address this. No, we let it simmer. Let it sit. In this pause, time stands still as we all wonder: what will he say?

A-hengh-hengh-hengh-hengh

Bliss.

Thanks, Arthur.

Our hero has a name--an identity--and for once, a purpose. At some point in his report and delayed joke-validation, he provided our two hosts with something of value. They don't see the angst, the hurt, that sits deep inside our protagonist. They see see something greater. A Haitian weatherman, weathering his own storms. And for once, he sees it in himself. 

Everything except the squeal

While to some this video may look like an attack on soap opera music, and the hackiness they exude, I see it as a cry for help. This cat's life work is being broadcast to millions of stay-at-home moms across the country, providing them with the vicarious life they so desperately want, while they struggle to provide for their households with a modest income of tasty cat treats.

Finally, these cats have a voice, one that can be used to say so much more than just "meow". For once they can stand up for the work they do. Stand proud of the arhythmic scores they've created for Days of Our Lives, Guiding Light, and the ever-relevant Passions. The only thing now is for the tyrants known as soap opera producers to act, and act soon, as D. Brent Nelson and Martin Davich (among others) fight to keep their head above water in this economy.

This video might well be our generation's The Jungle, with tvboy88 as the Upton Sinclair of cat soap opera composers. 

Inaugural Toob

In Greek mythology, the "Moirai", (or the "fates") were the three white-robed goddesses who weaved together the fates of men, controlling their destiny as a weaver would spin their spindle. They, and they alone, crafted the vast web of human interaction, crossing the paths of men and women as they saw fit. Every mortal, from birth to death, had their life controlled by these women, known to the Greeks as Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Only Zeus held the power to overthrow their spinning, and determine his own will for man.

At some point in their tangled web of deceit, marvels, and divine coincidence, these three women crafted a tangled knot of fated paths. A knot that could only come to be through divine guidance. The planets and stars aligned, smiling upon Nationals Park in Washington, D.C. that day, as the Washington Nationals and Cincinnati Reds collided to determine who could play the better 9 innings.

Known only to us and to them as "eyedropswag", this video is our only record of that event.