Remember that exciting broadcast over forty years ago? Remember when The Weather Girls advised you to leave those umbrellas at home because Mother Nature’s glorious buyout of all the angels in Heaven meant each and every woman would find a perfect guy? Well, you better fucking listen, all you lonely girls—because it’s been raining men every day since 1982, and the repercussions are getting more serious by the day.

On that infamous day in 1982 at half past ten, I, just like my two fellow Weather Girls, was excited to see the humidity rise and the barometer gettin’ low. What I should have realized, and what my colleagues chose to hide from me, was that the barometer has actually been getting too low. Far, far too low. It’s no longer just raining men; it’s a full-on flood of men. I’m talking hurricanes of men—twisters of men. Tsunamis of men! And that’s just in the past ninety days! Millions of lonely girls have already lost their lives.

The other two Weather Girls wouldn’t hear any of it when I called them “sellouts” and “complicit.” They cast me aside because I began to speak about inconvenient details like how our national parks will become mass graves of men, because their current infrastructure is not built to handle the literal tons and tons of bodies piling up in them. A hoard of men free-falling fifteen thousand feet to their deaths is nothing to shout “Hallelujah!” about.

In New York City, subways have seen a record number of delays due to men overflowing the streets as they rain down and flood onto the tracks, overflowing the gutters, and inundating the spillways as systems overload. The Statue of Liberty is literally barely able to keep her head above water because of how many men have fallen into the ocean.

Rather than talk with the other two Weather Girls about their misleadingly optimistic messaging, Mayor Adams and their managers have instead agreed to stay silent and just put more cops everywhere. Forgive me for not sounding surprised when I tell you that didn’t work because the men just washed away the cops.

The other two Weather Girls don’t want you to know that the damage oceanfront properties experience during hurricanes is nothing compared to how many women who live in oceanfront properties have to deal with all the men crashing through their roofs, piling up on the beaches outside their homes, and drawing all sorts of unwanted attention. A problem only made worse by the cost-of-living crisis. The only comfort they can take in that situation is that some men die on impact and become seagull food.

The first step to solving any problem is admitting it, and so I hope my ability to make you, the public, aware of this issue can bring us to a solution. Bonus points if we can somehow get Taylor Swift off of her private jet and into the recording studio for a song that lays out all these important details my girls couldn’t be bothered to include. If escalating this into a Drake/Kendrick-style feud between my girls and Taylor is the only way to end this, so be it.

If we work together, we can finally hold my girls accountable for their decades of negligence and get us back to a place where each woman has only one perfect guy who is sent down by Mother Nature from Heaven, we will finally have a good reason to exclaim “Hallelujah!”