Friends, it’s February 20, 2025, and I’m officially declaring war on snow. Yes, that fluffy white bastard that turns Knoxville into a scene from The Shining minus the charm of Jack Nicholson chasing me with an axe. I’ve had it. Done. Finito. If I see one more snowflake drift down like it’s auditioning for a Hallmark movie, I’m going to lose what’s left of my mind, and trust me, there ain’t much left after the Girl Scout cookie season gauntlet.
Let’s set the stage. It’s East Tennessee, where winter usually means a light dusting of frost that melts by noon and leaves us free to argue about college football in peace. But no, not this week. This week, Mother Nature decided to cosplay as Elsa from Frozen and dump YET MORE snow on my driveway, my car, and my soul.
I’m not built for this. I’m a Southern boy—my blood’s too thin for anything below 50 degrees, and my survival skills peak at microwaving leftover biscuits. Yet here I am, shoveling snow like some Yankee sucker who thinks this is “character building.” Character? I’ve got plenty. What I don’t have is a functional spine after wrangling that damn shovel.
And don’t get me started on the neighbors. You know the type—those smug bastards who own snowblowers and strut around like they’re auditioning for Ice Road Truckers. “Oh, you don’t have a snowblower, Chris? Should’ve planned ahead!” Yeah, well, I didn’t plan for Armageddon either, Carl, but I’ve still got a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire in the garage if you keep smirking. Meanwhile, my nine-year-old son’s out there trying to build a snowman, but the snow’s so wet it’s more like a snow blob—a pathetic, soggy lump that looks like it’s crying for mercy. I feel you, buddy. I feel you.
The roads? Forget it. Knoxville drivers can barely handle a drizzle without turning I-40 into a demolition derby, so throw in snow and it’s like Mad Max with worse haircuts. I saw a pickup truck spin out trying to pass a salt truck—ironic doesn’t even cover it. The guy climbed out, waved his vape pen at the sky, and yelled, “This is bullshit!” Preach, brother. Preach. I’d join your sermon, but I’m too busy trying not to fishtail into a ditch while muttering prayers to a God who clearly hates me.
Then there’s the power situation. Because nothing says “winter wonderland” like flickering lights and the looming threat of a blackout. My wife’s over here stockpiling candles like we’re prepping for a séance, and I’m wondering if I can bribe the utility company with Thin Mints to keep the heat on. Spoiler: I can’t. Those adorable little cookie-pushing demons already cleaned me out, and now I’m broke and freezing. Perfect.
Look, I get it—snow’s supposed to be magical. Kids love it, Instagram loves it, and somewhere out there, a poet’s scribbling haikus about its delicate beauty. But you know what? That poet can shove it. Snow’s not magical when you’re scraping it off your windshield with a credit card because your wife took off with the one good scraper. It’s not magical when your dog refuses to pee outside and starts eyeing the kids’ toy room carpet like it’s a viable Plan B. And it’s definitely not magical when you realize the grocery store’s out of milk and bread because every Tennessean within 50 miles panic-bought like it’s the apocalypse.
So here’s my proposal: we ban snow. Round it up, ship it to Canada—they seem to like it up there—and let me get back to my life of mild winters and Vols football debates. I’m not asking for much, just a world where I don’t have to dress like a damn Michelin Man to check the mail. Is that too much? Apparently, yes, because as I type this, the forecast says school will be out again tomorrow because of the GODDAMN SNOW. Great. Fantastic. I’m going to go lie down in the yard and let it bury me. Wake me up when it’s spring—or when Sheriff Roy sends Deputy Miranda to dig me out, whichever comes first.
Happy Friday, y’all. Stay warm, stay sane, and if you see Mother Nature, tell her she’s made my list.
And FUCK SNOW.
