I texted Superstorm “Pickles” this afternoon, he was bearing down on New England with record-breaking snow, cold and hurricane force winds, making life miserable for many millions of people and earning boatloads of money in his new multi-storm deal with the Weather Channel.

The marketing stats on this weekend’s storm are stellar – 70 million Americans affected, from Maine to North Carolina, several of the country’s biggest cities slammed – Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Washington millions already without power -blockbuster numbers on the Weather Channel website and its TV Channel. Everybody is freaking out, profits are soaring.

Me: Hey Pickles, congrats on your deal. I think I’ve outsmarted you, we got the new cord of seasoned firewood onto the porch, water in the bathub and under a tarp we will have heat even if the power goes out, you are no match for me, Maria and our friend Tyler, and our border collie Red, you are just a big bag of vapor on a screen.

Pickles: You have a lot of nerve, you are a pathetic spec on the spectrum, even by the standards of human beings, which are not high. I can slide right over your house and blow you and your barn and that teenaged boy right into the next county without even stretching. Tomorrow, I’m sending howling winds that will turn you into a popsicle if you spend five minutes outside with your fancy camera, old man, best not provoke me or you and your little dog will be on the news tomorrow night when they fish you out of a tree. You’ll be peeing outside into 60 mile an hour winds, love to see a photo of that.

Me: You are 90 per cent hype and 10 per cent weather. I live in proud upstate Washington County, my friend Carol Gulley the dairy farmer just messaged me and said her cows are dry and under shelter, we both think you spew a lot of bullshit, and that you suck (my words, not Carol, she is nice.) We have been living through winters long before the storms had wussy names like “Pickles,” my farmer friend Carr says he never knew winter was dangerous till his wife bought a computer and got him on the Internet. Hey, Superstorm, it’s snowing in February, big whoop, maybe you can sell a bridge in Brooklyn when your contract runs out. Tuesday morning, we will be alive and waiting for Spring, you will be a speck on the radar screen, hanging out on what’s left of the polar ice cap.

Pickles: See you tomorrow, old man, we will see who’s laughing when the wind chill is – 55 and your sheep are blowing all over the pasture and your big special dog is dancing on the ice like a ballerina in the Bolshoi to keep his toes warm I am heading for the Bahamas after I smack Boston around, I’ll be lying on the beach with my Ipad, sucking on some helium and humidity. Good luck with your little wooden sticks, tomorrow night you’ll be sucking on a wood stove trying to thaw your nose out. Are you trying to bully me?

Me: We are not afraid of any Superstorm, Pickles, we are well prepared.  We have Tyler, I have a wife who loves to stack wood and a border collie who doesn’t mind the snow. Plus some fresh oysters to sautee. Anyway, how can one old man bully a Superstorm that stretches over half the country? Just letting you know we are ready and not intimidated. Wood on the porch, pizza in the refrigerator, popcorn with pink Himalayan salt on the counter. Blow away,  you are mostly wind and gas, an equal mix of snow and hype.