Weather On Fire, Paper On Mute

Reporting the fever, hiding the flu

Even Stevie Wonder can see this bull****.

Yeah, I know. That’s the corniest, burnt-out cliché in the whole goddamn internet. Like, if you Google “lazy-ass writing,” my face pops up with this line. But here’s the thing: I am a mediocre writer some days. I’ll own that. What I can’t get over is that the Washington Post, one of the biggest papers in the world , is out here writing about summers getting longer, oceans cooking, September showing up in flip-flops… and they too scared to say the words climate change.

This ain’t a weather report. This is a five-alarm fire, and WaPo describing it like they doing play-by-play of a church picnic. “Oh, look at that, folks, it’s hotter than before, yes indeed, pass the potato salad.”

Meanwhile, the thermometer screaming, the ice caps crying, and Big Oil got a gun in the room. And WaPo whispering like your auntie trying to gossip in church: “Summer heat isn’t just for the summer anymore.” No s***!

The Absurd Premise

WaPo kicks this thing off with the line: “Summer heat isn’t just for the summer anymore.”

Mother******, what?! That’s your headline? That’s like writing, “Bullets aren’t just for wars anymore.” No s*** ya’ll! Of course they’re not. We already bleeding on the sidewalk!

Then they double down: “An analysis of U.S. weather data shared with The Washington Post shows which places are experiencing notably longer summer seasons than they were three decades ago.”

Oh wow, thank you, Science Sherlock. So y’all got a whole damn spreadsheet proving hell expanded its office hours, but you still won’t say why. That’s like catching your man in bed with the neighbor and filing a report on “unexpected mattress activity.”

The thermometer’s screaming like it’s on trial, the oceans hotter than a Popeyes fryer, and WaPo treating it like they just discovered brunch runs till 3 p.m.

Where They Whisper Instead of Scream

WaPo slides this in like it’s nothing: “In D.C., summer temperatures… begin June 5 and cool off near Sept. 11.”

Ohhh, so now 9/11 is not just a national tragedy, it’s also the day summer don’t end? Jesus Christ. We just stacking trauma like Legos now. What’s next? Christmas in August? Easter in July?

And then this one: “Key West… experiencing summer temperatures for 39 days longer than three decades ago.”

Thirty. Nine. Days. That’s a whole extra month of sweat, mosquitos, and swamp ass. But WaPo writing it like Key West just got comped a free night at the Holiday Inn. “Congratulations, your hell package has been extended!”

This is the part that kills me: people already can’t afford rent, can’t afford insulin, and now can’t afford AC. But the Post talking like we just won a damn lottery. “You’ve won a bonus heatwave! Don’t forget to hydrate.”

The Fire They Hide

Then WaPo hits us with this gem: “The rate of change over the past 30 years is faster than anticipated.”

Faster than anticipated?! What the f*** were you anticipating, exactly? A gentle little sauna? Some light misting fans? We out here boiling like crawfish, and these dudes act surprised. That’s like getting shot nine times and the doctor saying, “Wow, that’s more blood than anticipated.”

And here’s the thing, buried halfway down like an embarrassing family secret: “The root of the prolonged summer heat is the overall increase in global temperatures.”

That’s the line. Right there. The truth. And they whisper it like a guilty kid sneaking in past curfew. You buried the lead so deep it got a f*ing mortgage.

You spent paragraphs describing summer like it was a travel brochure — “Now with 39 more days of sweaty balls in Key West!” — and then drop the real s*** like a footnote nobody reads.

That’s not journalism. That’s malpractice. That’s like writing a whole obituary about how someone “really enjoyed brisk walks” and leaving out the part where they got hit by a damn bus.

Prediction: this post will cost me 50 subs. I can feel the slide back under 600 already. Why? Because I stopped being polite to sound “journalistic” and said the quiet part out loud. If 50 walk for that, I need 51 to step up for it. Be #51 if you want a voice that won’t whisper while the room burns.

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Stevie Wonder

Stevie Wonder Didn’t Whisper… He Scored the Alarm

Stevie wrote the playbook for calling heat by its name. Master Blaster (Jammin’) isn’t escapism. It’s reportage with a bassline.

• “Everyone’s feelin’ pretty / It’s hotter than July.”
  That’s plain-English temperature. No euphemism. He sets the thermometer in bar one. WaPo counts “42 more days” like a clerk. Stevie says it’s hot and makes you feel it.

• “Though the world’s full of problems / They couldn’t touch us even if they tried.”
  That’s the lie of American insulation. The article reads like that lie—balanced tone, unbalanced stakes. The fever is here, but the voice stays antiseptic to keep the powerful comfortable.

• “From the park I hear rhythms… party on the corner.”
  Community names the truth first. Neighborhoods register heat before institutions bless it with charts. Black public space has always been an early-warning system. WaPo treats warning like trivia.

• “They want us to join their fighting / But our answer today / Is to let all our worries… slip away.”
  That’s the temptation of sedation. Power prefers vibes over verbs. The piece gives you vibes: longer summers, neat maps. The verbs—cut carbon, regulate, expose industry—never make the chorus.

• “Peace has come to Zimbabwe / Third World’s right on the one.”
  A global South reference in a U.S. pop hit. Stevie centers the margins. Meanwhile, the article centers coastal U.S. metros and skates past who gets cooked first when “the ocean absorbs 90 percent of the net heat.” Rising seas don’t read the Style section.

• “We’ve agreed to get together / Joined as children in Jah.”
  That’s solidarity doctrine. Climate is a we-problem or it’s an L. The article’s advice? “Know they’re happening.” Know? Nah. Join.

• “When you’re moving in the positive / Your destination is the brightest star.”
  Name the cause, move your feet, change the chart. That’s a policy ethic, not a playlist. If “the past 10 years have been the hottest on record,” why is the lead quiet? Why is the culprit unnamed until paragraph six?

• Refrain: “We’re in the middle of the makings of the master blaster jammin’.”
  Translation: history is mid-mix. Stevie records the moment and insists on agency. The paper records the moment and mutes agency. That’s not neutrality. That’s whitewashing—polite prose that launders accountability for the folks lighting the match.

So here’s the spread: Stevie points at the amp, tells you who’s riding the fader, and drags you to the floor. WaPo clocks the decibels, prints a tasteful graph, and asks if the music could be a touch less… specific.

And yeah, ninety percent of that heat sits in the ocean like it’s doing CrossFit while we eat donuts. The fish are sweating. Nemo got pit stains. But the paper still won’t say who keeps feeding the furnace.

Difference in one line: Stevie took the fire and made you move. The Post took the same fire and made you nap.

We could’ve been jammin’. Instead, we’re frying.The Theater of the Absurd

WaPo tries to sprinkle in some geography, like that’s supposed to soften the blow: “Cities also experience longer summers than rural areas… rural communities are just as vulnerable.”

No s***, Sherlock. So the hood’s on fire and the cornfield’s on fire, but thank you, Dora the Explorer, for pointing to the map. “Can you say apocalypse, kids?”

And then …..oh this one sent me ….”Allen said it’s important to be strategic in how urban and rural communities are built to withstand the changes. But the first step… know they’re happening.”

Know they’re happening?! That’s your grand advice? My house is on fire, and your first step is “acknowledge flames exist.” I know! I’m roasting marshmallows in the living room!

This is like the doctor telling you, “First step to treating cancer is knowing you have it.” Mother*****, the tumor is waving at me on the X-ray, I don’t need a TED Talk.

What WaPo did here isn’t journalism. It’s therapy for denial. They handing out participation trophies while the grid collapses and grandmas faint in their kitchens. It’s like they saw the four horsemen of the apocalypse galloping down Pennsylvania Avenue and wrote: “Local equestrian season extended by several weeks.”

The Mirror Scene

Here’s where I gotta be honest. Reading this article, I swear somebody at WaPo finished typing, stood up from their desk, walked to the bathroom, and hit that psychological thriller moment. You know the one film scene. They stare in the mirror, pull off their glasses real slow, and whisper to their reflection: “What the f*** did I sign up for?”

Because you can’t write a whole piece about summers doubling in length, oceans hitting 90 percent heat absorption, and Key West turning into Satan’s Airbnb and not say the goddamn words. That’s malpractice. That’s cowardice. That’s denial dressed up as data.

Even Stevie Wonder could see this s*** back in 1980. He gave you a rhythm, a prophecy, a warning wrapped in a jam. And he did it blind, with a keyboard. Meanwhile WaPo’s got satellites, supercomputers, climatologists, graphs hotter than a mixtape in July and they still mute the beat.

That’s the difference. Stevie named the fire and made you move. WaPo measured the fire and made you nap.

So here’s the vision: you can jam like Stevie, call it what it is, move your a** to do something. Or you can keep playing mute, keep writing polite obituaries for spring, keep telling us “know it’s happening” like we ain’t choking on smoke.

But know this, the fire don’t give a f*** about polite. The fire don’t care about your headline. The fire already wrote its own. And it reads: Weather On Fire, Paper On Mute.

I spent twenty years looking in the mirror every morning like that WaPo writer, asking, what did I sign up for, then going quiet to keep the peace. Not today. If you felt this in your chest, if you want receipts without the mute button, help me build it in public.

If 50 cancel, let the math lie. Let 51 pull up. Be #51. Take the annual at $80 if you’re with me for the long fight, or $8/month if that’s the lane today.

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