Me: Baby Cakes, I want to talk about the rain. There’s been so much of it.
Mother Nature: Frank, what the hell are you saying? Malcolm is the only man on the planet allowed to call me “Baby Cakes.”
Me: My name isn’t “Frank.” I’m speaking frankly.
MN: I thought only Frank could speak frankly just as I’m the only one who can speak mother naturedly.
Me: English is a strange language.
MN: Look, Toots–I hope it’s okay to call you “Toots” for old time’s sake–global warming is tangling up the planet’s cycles of heat and cold, rain and sun, and Coke vs. Pepsi.
Me: The rain, though, is keeping me from mowing the yard. Soon, the grass will be so high I’ll tear up the mower trying to cut it.
MN: Your writer friend Smoky wants you to get sheep to handle the grass cutting duties.
Me: Sheep, quite frankly, are just too sheepish.
MN: That sounds like something a guy named Frank would say.
Me: The thing is, sheep are more expensive than a lawn mower.
MN: That’s probably true. Nonetheless, I’m working hard to get the planet under control, and that’s not easy to do when–too put it frankly–so many people don’t mind p_ssing in their own pools and s_itting where they eat.
Me: Well said, Baby Cakes.
MN: What time do you get off work?
Me: I’m married. We can no longer meet behind the barn like we did when I was in college.
MN: Barns have changed since then, what with the hay being made a mess with pesticides and GMO tinkering. Maybe you can do something about that. Next time you update your blog, say something about the clowns who think climate change doesn’t exist, that fast food is really food, and that mayo should be slathered all over a hamburger.
Me: If I say something about climate change, will you give me a sunny afternoon and evening so I can mow the yard?
MN: Toots, I’m working on it. If only you weren’t married: we could make beautiful weather together.
Me: Aw, shucks, Baby Cakes, you’re making me cry.
MN: Me, too, and my tears are what you call rain.