The stormy summer of 2025?

What a summer it’s been. Aside from temperatures giving non-believers in Texas and throughout the world a taste of what the pits of hell feel like, as I write this, Houston has so far been spared the wrath of a heavy, high-category-rated hurricane. Whew.

Not saying we haven’t had our share of weather and weather-adjacent disasters this summer. We have, evident by the severity and uptick of atmospheric catastrophes, both local and global.
Nope, Mother Nature ain’t playing anymore. She’s pissed. She’s taken off her chancla and is chasing us through the house with it. Firenadoes (Sharknados’ even deadlier distant cousin) set ablaze Hawaii, California, Oklahoma, Puerto Rico, and beyond.

Then, when Mother Nature wasn’t busy setting records with drought in the Plains states, she was flooding New Mexico and New York City. And she seemed especially pissed when she flooded Texas.
Used to be, when I thought about camping, my thoughts turned to Disney darling Hayley Mills’ magnum opus, The Parent Trap. In it — and don’t even start with the Lindsay Lohan version — Hayley plays long-separated pre-teen twins who reunite at summer camp and then plot to restore their home and family that was broken by their divorcing parents. Hilarity ensues. Happy ending.

Now, when I think about camping, I think of something nowhere near a happy ending. God bless Camp Mystic’s 27 young girls and their counselors lost in that catastrophic, unprecedented flood. God help their grieving families. And may God save us all from Mother Nature’s wrath on our planet, hell-bent on vengeance for centuries of neglect and abuse.

In other stormy summer news, the name Epstein has been on the tip of everyone’s tongue, leaving a very bad taste in the collective mouth of humanity.

Used to be when I heard “Epstein,” I would think of The Beatles’ long-time manager, Brian Epstein. He was the man (the gay man, by the way), who spotted the Fab Four way back in 1961 at The Cavern Club, a dingy, smelly, slimy little cellar in Liverpool, England. John, Paul, George, and then-drummer Pete Best were playing — Get this! — a lunchtime show when Epstein spotted their potential.

Epstein was to The Beatles as Colonel Tom Parker was to Elvis Presley, but without all the emotional, pharmaceutical, and physical abuse.

Less than two years after meeting Epstein at that chance lunch gig, The Beatles became not only history’s greatest influence on music since Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven, but also on culture itself.
Now, when I hear “Epstein,” my mind goes to a much dingier, smellier, slimier place. It goes to Jeffery Epstein, a monster of a man who procured young girls — some as young as 12 — whom he and pals would rape on his private island and in other locations. Allegedly, these pals included royalty, celebrities, and past U.S. presidents. Yes, even Democrats. Try, convict, and lock them all up.
Multiple photos and personal notes — you know, evidence — reveal a special friendship between Epstein and the current U.S. president. Of course, Trump denies having known Epstein beyond their “passing acquaintance” in Palm Beach’s social scene.

Talk about a fair-weather friend.

After being convicted of sex trafficking minors, Epstein was found dead in his prison cell. Suicide.

Sure.

At this writing, Epstein’s accomplice and pimp-in-chief, Ghislaine Maxwell, is in prison but still alive. Trump says he wishes her well, but claims not to know her, either.

Sure.

It’s speculated that the Justice Department may grant Ghislaine leniency in exchange for her cooperation in the investigation into what happened on Epstein Island. It is further speculated that Trump himself may pardon her, but certainly not in exchange for her silence about his “passing acquaintance” with Epstein. Of course not. How dare you? He wishes her well, though.
Is that thunder I hear?

Finally, a tsunami of plunging ratings swept over CBS when network officials decided to not only remove the bitingly hilarious and notorious Trump-thumping host of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, but also to ditch the show altogether.

Fans were stunned and enraged. Trump, not a fan, was delighted.

“I absolutely love that Colbert got fired. His talent was even less than his ratings,” his dingy, smelly, slimy little thumbs posted when the story broke.

CBS swears Colbert’s cancellation is all about the Benjamins. Cognizant people believe it’s more about the Madisons, as in James Madison, author of the U.S. Constitution’s Bill of Rights.
Colbert and The Late Show will run until May 2026. After that, he will land on his feet on some other lucky platform that respects his constitutional First Amendment right to free speech. When that happens, expect him to bury one of those feet deep, deep into Trump’s dingy, smelly, slimy backside.
Stay alert, friends. More storms are on the horizon.

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