Hurricane Irma is barreling down on the U.S., and I have to tell her she has really bad timing. I doubt she cares.
Here at Doright Manor we’ve stored up gallons of bottled water and my favorite survival snack, Little Debbie oatmeal cream pies. I have a pantry filled with canned chicken and Vienna sausages and enough cheese crackers to get us through the first hundred days of a zombie apocalypse. Now, it’s just a waiting game.
There’s still a chance the storm won’t hit us at all and might veer into coastal Texas, which is still reeling from Hurricane Harvey. As much as I don’t want Irma to come through here, I don’t want her messing with Texas even more.
Right now Irma is a category 5 storm, and anywhere she makes landfall is going to suffer tremendous damage. The projections we are seeing show that when she reaches Studly Doright and me in the Florida panhandle she’ll still be a category 1. Many things can change still, and we are praying she’ll weaken considerably before she reaches land.
Praying for the best, but preparing for the worst. Don’t be cruel, Irma.
Praying for Eyebrowz 