Dear Hurricane Irene,
Do not fuck with me. I'm totally serious. You better get your fat ass away from the East Coast this instant, or at least by this time tomorrow. See, tomorrow I'm headed to Maine, my favorite place in the entire world, and if your meddling messes with my red eye flight through Philadelphia to the lovely state capital of Portland I will be SO PISSED.
That shit would NOT be cool, Irene. Not at all.
Just calm down, okay? Maybe wait until like September 6, after I'm back in LA, to really muck things up. Could you do that please?
And change your name. Irene makes me think of a woman with excessively long fingernails that are some putrid shimmery orange color and she keeps pictures of her cat at her cubicle at her job as an administrative assistant at a paper company.