Cherry Blossom Festival? Really? When?

Archetypically, Spring personified is a gentle, young, slightly shy, supple-limbed girl whose blossoming into warm full womanhood concurs with the failing heart and ever-slowing cold breaths of Old Man Winter. I've news for you. A sweet little Spring replete with Zephyrus at her side blowing bubbles will not cut it this year. Here we are in the month of March, and this year's Old Man Winter has not yet even paused to sit in his rocking chair, nor has Time intervened. Highlighting moot points in a sea of bitter-cold white, Time's right-hand calendars become useless. In fact, as of this very day, Old Man Winter is still bizarrely running around, hurling icy obscenities, yanking on himself and ejaculating all over the place. In case you haven't noticed, this particular Winter is a dysfunctional breed. Well beyond the scope of epistemologically-balanced counseling, he has no sense of boundaries or propriety. Perhaps it is we who've bred him: some sort of chemical cialis/viagra in the mix, akin to the petrochemicals released into the atmosphere causing global warming which is giving the son of a bitch an unheard of extra staying power. And in this context, it's going to take a special, hybrid, Amazon-like Spring to take this guy out. What's needed is a butch, she-male cop of a Spring; a tough dike who can take this megalomaniac to the ground with one hand, grab the elephant gun with the other, and drive several tranquilizing darts into his overactive butt while she reads him the riot act.