I have spent the past few days absorbing all the models and updates from the meteorologists who feed the local TV people and from the TV people themselves. I’ve digested every bit of information, analyzed the probabilities, snowfall totals and advisories, and thus I have come up with this very specific forecast: WE’RE FUCKED!

Old Man Winter is gonna kick asses from D.C. to Boston, and the only question that remains is which boot will he wear. If you’re in South Jersey, it might be a thick rain GALOSH used to summon King Neptune’s revenge, flood the Jersey Shore under a mountain of liquid, and wipe it out to sea in a manner that will make Chris Christie’s fat ass yearn for chocolate covered funnel cake dipped in fat fucking lard. If you’re in the city or certainly north and west of it, where blizzard warnings have just been issued, it’ll be a big ‘ol snow boot used to curb-stomp your face into a pile of the white stuff so deep that it will have midgets digging up.

What’s the official call?

FUCKED is the call. But if you want specifics, here’s the latest from the National Weather Service, which recommends you SHELTER IN PLACE from 2 a.m. – 2 p.m.:

What does Bilo say?

J-Bo?

A-Jo?

When does it start?

Late tonight.

When does it end?

It doesn’t matter.

Are schools closed?

Yes, don’t even bother checking. Sleep in, it’ll be your last chance to do so.

Is there any chance it misses us?

No. Unlike virtually every other storm – snow, tropical, hurricane – for the past three years, there is little uncertainty with this one. The East Coast is going to get walloped. There is, to an extent, some question as to how much snow areas south and east of the city will get, but what’s not snow will be sleet and rain and basic annihilation.

Is it going to destroy Boston?

With any luck it will.

What can I do to survive?

You can learn how to kill and skin a deer with your bare hands and then cook him over an open flame shielded from the howling wind by only a snow bank whilst rabid wolves starved with bloodlust look on before you decide to use your one remaining bullet to off yourself lest you suffer a prolonged and painful death too graphic for Oregon Trail. As for the rest of us? Well, there is not an app for that.