Phoney Calls

Okay, let's just get one thing straight before we launch into this: it was Clark that pooped in Michael's coffee, not me. And it was not real poop. It was a 'cat poop' cookie. Y'know, one of those delicious no-bake cookies that look like a cat turd. Don't believe me? Here you go, have a recipe: Cat Poop Cookies

Now, before this turns into a cookery show, let's get the show on the road.

I got a call on the Unbelievaphone the other day...

"Hello, Unbelievables! You tip us off, our hats we will doff!"

"Jeff, will you please stop doing those stupid ad-rhyme-greeting things?"

"Oh, hi Michael. What up, dawg, fo rizzle ma nizzle?"

"And quit with the ghetto speak. That is also not very cool. What I wanted to talk about was Clark and his stupid training calls. To speak in the lingua franca of your birth country, they are getting right on my wick."

"Yes, me too, matey. And top marks for getting the phrase right."

"So what do we do about it? He called me earlier, pretending to be you and claiming that you pooped in my coffee, and urging ME to go poop in your tea."

"Well, that is ridiculous. I don't even drink tea. I'm a coffee guy, like you. Maybe we should call him up on that carphone he's so ruddy proud of."

"Now, that's an idea..."

So, a little bit later...

"RINGGG!!!"

"Heyy, Clark here, comin' at ya live from Da Unbelievajalopy!"

"(sigh) not you as well... Clark, we need you back here at the base pronto! Code red, repeat, code red!"

"I'm on the case! Returning to base asap!" (Sound of car tires squealing)

Boy, did we laugh. See, we knew what was waiting for Clark when he got back.

Payback.

One ringy-dingy

Sometimes I conduct telephone training, just to keep the guys on their toes. Being able to think fast and deal with threats, be they merely a nuisance or something more sinister, is a valuable skill in our line of work.

*RING RING*
"Hello, this is Michael."
"Hello. Is this Michael?"
"(Sigh) That's what I just--yes, this is Michael."
"Michael, do you like coffee?"
"Yes, I like coffee. Who is this?"
"This is the guy who pooped in your coffee!"
"All right, who the hell is this?!? Clark? Is this you? It better not be you."
"No, this isn't me. I mean, this isn't Clark."
"Well then who is it?!?"
"Uhhh... my name is Jeff."
"Jeff, huh?"
"Yes. Me name Jeff. Me Engrish. Me from Gleat Blitain. You no can tell?"
"Well, the highly offensive stereotype accent you're attempting sounds more Asian than British..."
"Ha ha! Me tlicky!"
"(Sigh again) Listen, whoever you aren't, I'm kind of busy..."
"You know good way to get back at me, me being Jeff? You should poop in my tea! Mine, being Jeff's!"
"Great. Brilliant idea. I'll get right on that."
"You will? Oh, me will be soooo angry!"
"Right. (hangs up)"

Then I got a call ...

Memorial Morn

 

I sat there in the restaurant in the very early morning hour of this Memorial Day looking at my recently freshened cup of coffee.

I reached for a couple creams, opened them and poured them into the cup. Then, in went a packet of sugar. I drew the cup closer to me, picked up my spoon and stirred everything together. Extracting the spoon and putting it on the table, I stared into my coffee, watching a tiny collection of bubbles caught in the whirlpool vortex I had created. They were captured in the very center of that whirling, clockwise venture, continuously moving but locked in position in the middle of my cup. I could see the steam from the coffee emanate up in ghostly swirls, mimicking the direction of motion before disappearing into the air.

As the spinning coffee lost its momentum, the bubbles slowed and attempted to escape their restraint. The exact center of the vortex was their safest place, however, equally confining them to the middle of the flow while constantly trying to pull them toward the outer edge of the cup itself. As motion receded and receded, the bubbles threatened even more to break free ... but it wasn't quite time yet.

It was a good minute and more I watched the contents of my cup, waiting to witness the bubbles' final break away. And then ... there it was. The swirling came to a crawl and - suddenly and with a frantic rush - the entire group of bubbles shot quickly to an edge of the cup's interior, violently colliding with other bubbles already there. None burst though - the ones in the middle simply crashed into the cup and commingled with the others.

I picked up my coffee and took a sip and sighed. It was good to sit and relax with a warm beverage on an early morning, free from any needs or callings of The Unbelievables. I had no idea where Jeff was. I had no idea where Clark was. I didn't know where any of the Unbelieva-Babes were. I had no knowledge of any of the whereabouts of our arch enemies.

All was calm and quiet. A rare day to reflect, indeed, on this Memorial Day morn.

And then? I got a call ...

Weather or not!

"Is there really something sinister going on? (Frogs just don't fall out of the sky, you know.) Let's see what Clark comes up with ... "

The answer: Kinda.
As mentioned previously, I was outside buffing The (latest inCARnation of the) Unbelievamobile and having a heck of a time dealing with the swift and nasty changes in the environment. Frogs do indeed mess up a car's exterior in that they have some mass to them and not only do they scuff a high shine, but they actually put dents in the fenders. I staggered inside, a little woozy from being frog-smacked and said, "Hey guys?". Jeff and Michael replied simultaneously, "Yeah, we know. It's probably the Ex-Weathermen." I knew what needed to be done immediately and after I ate a sandwich and washed it down with a root beer, it was one of the things I did next. I asked if they wanted to help me and they asked, again in unison, "Does it involve going outside?" and I said of course. They replied, in perfect harmony, "Nah, we're going to stay inside and hope it's nice out again in time for the nude croquet tournament we're hosting together later tonight." The two of them being in such perfect sync was starting to get a little weird so I was happy to take this one on by myself.
I booked a charter flight to Tampa, Florida, where Roy Leep, formerly of Channel 13 WTVT and the leader of the nefarious Ex-Weathermen lives in his fortress-like weather obilisk.

See, what most people don't know is that back before we invented the internet the internet was invented, TV weathermen actully did create and control the weather. As they became obsolete, their TV stations started forcing those guys into retirement. Their bitterness and resentment as Ex-Weathermen is understandable when you know the background. Still, we simply can't have these tempermental outbursts.
I rang the tower's doorbell but there was no answer. I launched a grappling hook with a rope attached and used that to scale the outside of the tower, a task made that much more difficult by on-again, off-again hail showers. I got to the top and made my way inside, prepared to fight Leep and his cronies to the death if necessary. That's when I saw them, the whole group, running around and frantically fiddling with dials and meters. All the machinery, which was supposed to have been dormant since the early '90s was humming at full capacity. Leep saw me and yelled, "We can't figure out how to get this damn thing to record one program while we watch something else!" It seemed that they had been trying to program a DVR, got frustrated when it didn't work and had just started pushing every button they could get their fingers on. Leep was embarrassed. "Sorry about that. Obviously, modern technology hasn't been kind to me and my colleagues." I told him not to worry about it; technology is pretty pervasive and we all get over our heads sometimes. Then I helped them turn off all the weather machinery, figure out the DVR and then we all watched the first two episodes of "24" together, laughing at Jack Bauer. They thanked me as I got ready to go and asked if there was anything they could do to make it up. I looked at my watch and remembered Jeff and Michael's nude croquet tournament. I said, "Do you guys think you could do a really sudden freezing rain over Stiletto Flats in about an hour?". They gave me a thumbs-up and I left with a smile on my face.

Looks Like (Dallas) Rain(es)

I came bursting into the Unbelieva-base in a huff: "Hey, Jeff!"

I heard him call from somewhere down the hall: "What?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the control room with the Unbelieva-Babes, eating some whipped potatoes ..."

Sure enough, there he was. "Oh ... there you are. (Hello, Ladies!) Holy crap chips! Have you been outside today? It's insane out there! There's some really weird weather going on!"

"I know."

"I went out first thing this morning and caught the most gorgeous sunrise ..."

"Nice ..."

"Then, about ten minutes later, there was this freak hailstorm!

"Really?"

"Come 7:30? Snow! But just for a couple minutes ..."

"You don't say ..."

"Strangely, a clap of thunder stopped the snow cold in its tracks ..."

"Wow ..."

"The rest of the morning? And right into lunchtime? Nothing but baking hot sunshine."

"Imagine that."

"It didn't last though. There was an hour straight where it decided to rain ..."

"Huh. I bet there was flooding."

"Yeah! Flash flooding, even! In Stiletto Flats! Can you believe it?"

"Strange ..."

"Weirder still, it was beautiful the remainder of the afternoon. Sunny as all get out."

"That is weird ..."

"Yeah ... but then? Out of nowhere? A tornado hit!"

"Jeez ..."

"Oh ... it gets better. The tornado lasted just a blink of an eye. The rain came back after that ... then it turned into a plague of frogs! All in the space of 25 minutes after the sunshine dissipated ..."

"You know," Jeff confessed "I knew all those things already ...."

"... and yet ... you let me drone on and on about it."

Jeff shrugged.

"You know what this means?" I asked him.

In unison we said: "The X-Weathermen."

We paused dramatically to take it all in. Well ... I did, anyway.

"You have any idea where Clark is at?" I asked.

"Yeah ... he's out washing the 'Vette. All those turns in the weather, you know how particular he is about keeping the car clean. I would have loved to have been there when the frogs came down and splattered all over it. He must have freaked out ..."

"Aaahh Freak out! Le Freak ... C'est Chic" I commented and danced out of the room waving at the ladies.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In every corner of America, there's television news. Specific channels devoted to the news of the day, available morning, noon and night.

If there's news? There's certain to be weather reports. And along with them? The men and women who cover weather reports:

The Weather Reporters.

In my old stomping grounds - the Los Angeles area - there have been many of weather reporters through the years. Fritz Coleman ... Dallas Raines ... Johnny Mountain ... and good old George Fischbeck to many a few.

Year in and year out, they've been trusted by the adoring public to bring their unique brand of flavors and personalities on what tomorrow holds in store for us weather-wise ...

Fritz Coleman

"Weatherman" (*cough, cough*) ... comedian ... but not a meteorologist.

He's a comedian. (Really. He's done the comedy club circuit for ages.) Like many popular weather anchors, he serves as a "weather reporter" ... not a meteorologist. Why? He doesn't have a degree. (Underlying translation: Sounds suspicious.)


Dallas Raines

The fact he looks like a deranged David Lynch doesn't help Dallas' cause ...

Chief meteorologist certified by the American Meteorological Society. Bachelor of Science from Florida State University where he studied broadcast journalism and earth science with emphasis on meteorology. Daily News People's Choice Award for Best Weatherperson, an American Cancer Society Man of the Year, possesses a Golden Mike Award for Best Weathercast and an Associated Press Award for Best Weather Segment. Raines is popular for his signature "moves" during his forecast stints such as the "Dallas dip", the swirl, the fist pump and the golf swing. (Underlying translation: Sounds suspicious.)

Johnny Mountain

"Johnny Mountain" ... ??? Really? Tell me that isn't a stage name ...

Likeable and "Average Joe-ish" to a fault. He was recognizable on various Los Angeles stations from 1978 until his retirement in 2010 as part of "as part of a 'restructuring' of KCBS Channel 2 news operations." (Uh huh. Underlying translation: Sounds suspicious.)

Dr. George Fischbeck 

Never, ever underestimate the grandfatherly demeanor ...

And then? One of the most popular meteorologist ever to grace a cathode ray tube: Dr. George Fischbeck. Originally an Albuguergue, New Mexico television weatherman in the early 1960s, Fischbeck made his Los Angeles presence known in 1972 when he moved to KABC-TV becoming a staple of the local Eyewitness News. He retired in 1997.




(Yeah ... that goofy, loveable personality will only get you so far. But ... what's beneath that exterior? What's he truly thinking? That's what we really want to know. In other words: Sounds suspicious.)

So ... what do all these guys have in common? (Beside being weathermen I mean?)

Let's put it this way: How would you hold up if it was your job to report something to the masses that turned out to be correct only one-fifth of the time?

Want a little perspective? Imagine yourself in school, you take a test and you come up with less than 70% on it. That means you're barely staying afloat with a grade of "D" academically.

A weatherman's success rate? That one-fifth marker works out to a mere 20%. It doesn't matter what angle you're looking at it from, that's a damned depressing statistic from a career standpoint. Would you be satisfied at your current job if everything you did worked out only 20% of the time? 

Bottom Line: There's ample evidence pointing to the possibility of a secret society of weather people (whether or not they are "official" and hold meteorological credentials or are simply on-air personalities who love the spotlight) who, when you look at the profession they've chosen, could very well be using their vast experiences to initiate mayhem in the air up there. And world wide ... not just in Stiletto Flats.

Is there really something sinister going on? (Frogs just don't fall out of the sky, you know.) Let's see what Clark comes up with  ...

The Weather Report

What a strange day it's been here at the Unbelievabase. No actual crimes to deal with, just some really weird weather. First, there was that gorgeous sunrise. Then, about ten minutes later, a freak hailstorm. Then at around 7:30 a.m., two minutes of snow, a clap of thunder and then nothing but baking hot sunshine until about 12:15, when suddenly it rained for an hour straight, causing flash floods in Stiletto Flats. Then it was beautifully sunny for the rest of the afternoon, then we had a tornado, a rain shower and a plague of frogs in the space of 25 minutes.

"That?"  you may exclaim."That's nothing but climate change! Or the earth drifting out of orbit. Or the second coming of Jeebus. Or one of those, you know, magnetic thingies."

Maybe. But I suspect it may be the work of the X-Weathermen.

Who are the X-Weathermen, you cry?

I can't believe we haven't told you already.

The X-Weathermen are a group of has-been meteorologists who got too old, retired or were just plain fired in favour of today's new, young, hot, hip and let's face it sexy weatherpersons (let's be honest - it's mostly ladies (Hello, ladies!) these days) and they are out for revenge. (The X-Weathermen, that is - not the hot young sexy peeps).

Their leader, a man known only as Jack Scott, appears benign and kindly, doesn't he? But don't let that fool you. Underneath that genial exterior beats a heart of pure uranium. Or at least, it did - until he passed away a while back. But we Unbelievables have a strong suspicion that he faked his own passing and is still secretly at the controls, hidden away in a secret location somewhere in Surrey.

At his right hand is Trevor Baker, former Southern and TVS weather guy, whose failed chat show "Trevor Baker's All-Weather Show" (and no, I am NOT making this up) spelled the beginning of the end of Trevor's TV reign. So he's righteously peed off.

Then there are the other miscreants...

 John Kettley, a man whose TV career could not be saved, even after being made the subject of a hit single.

Ron Lobeck, ever vigilant, looking at some infernal device, no doubt.

The always dapper and dangerous Bill Giles.

Michael Fish and his fiendish sweaters.

The utterly psychotic Ian McCaskill (no relation to Schlomo McCaskill, the world's only Scottish-Jewish-American FBI agent).

And completing the lineup we have the innocent and sweet-looking Barbara Edwards. Trust me, the only reason butter wouldn't melt in her mouth is because she is a total ice queen. Believe me, I tried. No luck at all.

So rest assured the Unbelievables take the matter of weird weather very seriously indeed, because you never know... it could be the dark deeds of the X-Weathermen!

Of Cat Faces and Bum Legs

Look:

I don't know what all the big deal is with "Shifty-Leg" Solar Sue and the guys' interest between she and I but I'm here to tell you I WASN'T THE CAUSE OF THE TWISTY POSITION OF HER BUM LEG ... !!!

And that's final!

Let it be known I respect Captain Space and Solar Sue ... and even Bleep-Blorp isn't that bad a piece of machinery. (He's useful on occasion.)

Cosmo, on the other hand ... well ... as I've usually said: The only good cat is a flat cat. They don't pay attention, they're pains in the ass who do their own things without regard and they secretly suck the life-breath out of you when you sleep at night. (Here's one more little tidbit about the foursome: Steve Space isn't partial to Cosmo either - he tolerates the furball just to keep Sue on the happy side of the fence.)

I thought about detailing the time The Unbelievables and our interplanetary compatriots joined forces shortly before we put the Unbelieva-Base in order at our digs in Stiletto Flats, Nevada ... but I'm not quite certain that's declassified. Because ... you know ... it has to do with Sue's bum appendage ... possibly.

Guess I'm going to have to get clearance for that first ...