Back in 6th grade Miss Blossom taught us the hydrological cycle. Water evaporates, gathers in clouds, and then rains back down. I listened, wrote it all down and even nodded my head.
But I knew better.
Rain was (and is) meteor pee.
You didn’t know that? I don’t blame you. It sounds a bit counter-intuitive.
So, you ask, why do you see rain a lot more than you see meteors, and why does rain usually occur where there are clouds in the sky? It requires a more thorough unpacking of the facts for the truth to soak through.
Rain that falls during the daytime could come from either source. Meteors are rarely visible during daylight. There could be thousands of urine-packed meteors above us at any given moment. Some, I imagine streak on by. Others treat our atmosphere like an interstellar rest stop.
You find that unlikely? You think you’d notice so many meteors? Do you see the stars during daylight? Surely if billions and billions of immense suns are rendered invisible by a few sunbeams, a few thousand comparatively tiny meteors could vanish as well.
So why don’t they tell us about meteor pee?
They created the hydrological cycle as a clever fiction to hide the truth from international gambling and resort concerns. Were such moneyed interests aware, they might attempt to redirect essential celestial waste products to casino fountains and golf courses. The hydrological fiction is almost universally accepted, but our English language betrays it.
What is a large grouping of meteors called? A meteor shower.
This is not to say that everything that showers in our language creates rain. There are baby showers for instance. But even the layman can see that babies have insufficient bladder capacity to create weather. Even if they could, you rarely see babies streaking along at 100,000 feet.
Meteors are unlimited in size, from the tiny squirt gun meteor, to the million ton super-soaker. A large meteor’s bladder holds more pee/rain than the collected bladders of a thousand day cares.
Still doesn’t sound right?
Meteoric behavior is at least in part, accounts for our confusion. When they urinate, meteors tend to do it through banks of clouds (which presumptuously take credit for the rain.) Why is that? Do they see clouds as opaque bathroom stalls to ensure privacy? Nobody can be sure, as meteors are notoriously impatient, and rarely, if ever pause to answer questions.
But attributing precipitation to clouds is transparently false. Clouds are like fog on drugs, flying up in the sky all airy-like. There’s nothing to them – no bladders, or canteens, or even tiny tea cups. How are they supposed to hold rain up there?
All the clouds carry with them is lightning. If they were really the source of rain, wouldn’t the water put the lightning out before it even got started?
Lightning’s another possible reason why meteors might choose clouds accumulations when they pass water. When the clouds do their lightning thing, meteor pee puts most of the fires out before it can hit the ground.
Imagine how much trouble we’d be in if that didn’t happen! We’d have lightning fires all over the place, burning down houses and barns and zip-line stations.
You could make a good case for intelligent life out there by observing how often the meteors pee on places that are under lightning siege.
Then there’s the behavior and content of rain.
Rain falls both straight down and at angles, just like meteors fly at different trajectories. Clouds just float like lazy bums. Do you really think Mr. Stratus Fractus and Ms. Cumulous Nimbus have the energy to throw rain sideways?
Rain sometimes has minerals, or acid content. Do you see rocks and acid flasks up in the clouds? Heck, if it weren’t for airplanes and high-flying birds, clouds wouldn’t have any solids in them at all.
So at the end of class, I went up to Miss Blossom, and I told her that I knew the real story.
“The real story?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, “about rain, and where it really comes from.”
“Where do you think rain comes from, Headley?”
“It comes from meteor pee,” I said.
“Meteor pee? That’s just plain ridiculous.”
“That’s right, Miss Blossom. You keep pretending it comes from the clouds.”
“Headley,” she said, “where did you get this astonishing notion that rain comes from meteor pee?”
“From the weather people on TV,” I said.
“C’mon, Miss Blossom. They’re called Meteor Urologists after all.”
That shut her up. Make believe is fine, but they really should teach the truth in school.
Here's some early George Carlin playing the Hippy Dippy Weatherman