In Seattle, the rain is short, thin and weak, like thousands of tiny little angels spitting on you from a distance.

It’s not that they don’t want you there, is that they have to spit, and you happen to be in their path, and they are too far gone to cure their chewing tobacco habit.

Alabama rain falls like God taking a diuretic, and he has a massive piss-kink.

In Mexico City, the rain falls in little spurts, like a 78-year-old Jewish man whose prostate is the size of a small watermelon. It falls 14 times a day, but barely enough to get anyone wet.

In Texas, the rain is like the exhortations of a southern Baptist preacher exorting a churchful of sinners to turn from their evil ways. It only shows up three or four times a year, but when it does, it is virulent, like the disease that took my father from me.