Hurricane Rasta

While watching the damage reports from the Gulf of Mexico island nations in the wake of Hurricane Ivan in an airport bar, I learned that while Hurricane Ivan might have been a mighty tropical storm indeed, there is nothing quite so vicious as the generated wind and fury of a large irrate Rasta woman in Rocky Pointe, Jamaica as she awaits on the tardy World Relief services to bring her water, food, and basic first aid to the hole in the ground where her tin shack used to stand *.

And no doubt she is so pissed off. I would be too if I were that destitute and the three rocks that I could consider as personal possessions have been snuffed out in a passing Level 5 Hurricane.

I sure would hate to be the first World Relief volunteer leading the convoy into Rocky Pointe to greet this anxiously awaiting Jamaican woman. He's liable to be on the recieving end of a machete blow from this grateful woman for his efforts. "Where you been, mon? We be here a-starvin', n' goin' t'irsty wit no water or rum or nut'teen, mon! While we be here suffer'een, you been out liv'een the life, mon! Praise Jah!"

I'd rather deliver a convoy of drugs to a Sudanese Mosque and risk being stoned to death by Muslim Fundamentalists than deal with this rather aggrivated Jamaican woman.

* And which, no doubt, is still circling above the Gulf of Mexico in the 140 mph winds like a kite in a wind tunnel.