Mood: don't ask
Topic: "Breaking News" (7)
The next sound that you may hear, dear reader, will be a scream. It will occur only if Frodo is confronted by one more technological representation of Hurricane Irene spinning toward the Atlantic coastal region of the US of A. It will be introduced as "Breaking News," although cyclically repeated for the past 12 hours and at least hourly for the next 36. Frodo, you see, is at the precipice of sanity, and the evolutionary product of journalism confronting him at this moment is either going to entice him to puke or make potty in his drawers.
Frodo discussed his tour of CNN several years ago, and his unsuccessful side-bar attempt to get close to a certain news anchor with shapely legs and a geometrically-perfect butt. He never mentioned that on the same tour he got to impersonate a weatherperson. He stood in front of an all green screen (which reminded him of the 'Holideck' on the Starship Enterprise), and was taught how to point to the Gulf of Mexico and to appear as if he actually understood how to compute the dew point. Frodo was unable to pass up an opportunity to perform, so he enthralled his fellow touristas by describing fair weather as a "good guy" and any tornadic activity as "Republican sunshine." Chris Rock or Eddie Murphy, had they witnessed his performance, would've immediately recruited Frodo to be the voice of a wombat in their next edition of "Doctor Doolittle".
Returning to his theme after a slight digression, Frodo is rapidly grasping the truism that television journalism sucks. Why, pray tell, would Frodo find it interesting to listen to an analysis of Dick Cheney's book by someone who has not read the book, and was too young to vote the last time that Cheney even appeared on a ballot? So help him, said Frodo, that is what with which he was confronted last evening. Now, barely twenty-four hours later, he stands victimized by live broadcasts from the closest beach area to every bar between Charleston, South Carolina and that magical mystery place dubbed as the "Jersey shore." Attempting to impersonate past hurricane hunters such as Dan Rather (whose fingerprints are still embedded in every other light pole between Miami and the Outer Banks of North Carolina), these first responders are the ones who are next in line to be dumped, unless the wind gods find it advantageous to send them out to the depths of a "storm surge."
Oh no, dear reader, there it is, Al Roker (sans about 150 pounds) breaking into a discussion of "Category 3," and immediately behind him is the counter-clockwise collage of green and red over his left shoulder. . . .AAAARRRGGGH!
Lucy just picked up the football.