Just go away

Enough of these pasty-faced twerps who move from Tewksbury to Texas and blather on about how great their lives are somewhere else, how they can suddenly afford a two-car garage, how they have a smiling boss at the Home Depot, no need for a snow blower, and they don't really miss us at all.

Good for you, cowboy. Get yourself another Super Big Gulp and put it on my tab.

Enough of this governor who spends 90 percent of his time running around any state but ours, smiling that vapid smile, telling everyone within earshot about the gay-loving tax-and-spend liberals back home who can't tell the difference between values and McDonald's value meals.

What did we ever do to the guy, besides elect him?

Enough of the congestion. Enough of the infighting. Enough of the rules and the regulations and the tunnel leaks.

But more than anything else, enough of this rain. Please, please, please, enough of this rain. Why can't it just rain somewhere else instead?

Here's the problem: I'm fragile. I can't afford to lose May. You want to meteorologically maul me in January and February, that's fine. You want to throw in a snowstorm in March and put April underwater, knock yourself out.

But not May. I allow myself a little bit of optimism in May. May is an emergence. May is when the days grow long and the nights get warm and the morning grass is supposed to be coated in dew, not covered by deep puddles of fetid water. May is when wool gives way to linen, when inhibitions are shed with winter coats.

That's the way it used to be, anyway. Then last year, May was a washout, 19 days of precipitation. Suddenly it seems like a Caribbean vacation in hindsight. Last year's mist is this year's sideways sheets of wind-swept rain, day after day after day.

Enough of the windshield wipers. Enough of the rancid towels that do nothing to dry off the foul-smelling dog. Enough of the radiators creaking in the middle of the frigid night. Enough of my hair frizzing up like I just stuck my fingers in a light socket, which, come to mention it, is a temptation.

Which brings me to one simple little innocent question: What did we do to deserve this?

Is it payback for the World Series championship? Was it the whole John Kerry for president thing? The Patriots dynasty?

People all over the country look at Boston and think to themselves: ''Lucky them." They covet our brains. They covet our location: a quick car ride to the mountains and Cape Cod beaches. They covet our ballpark.

Well, OK, let's be serious: They don't really covet any of that anymore. We've beaten each other's brains in. Crossing the Cape Cod Canal is a journey of frustration. It costs $85 for a decent ticket at Fenway, and you just about have to be the king of France to get one.

But despite it all, despite the naysaying, despite the fact that the female population wraps itself from head to foot in Gore-Tex for half the year, we always knew we had one true thing: A stretch of gorgeous weather from May through September.

And that's the worst part, the realization that we don't even have that. The calendar is a fraud. Drip drop, drip drop. The sound you're hearing is my love of my native city turning into a puddle.

So enough of the gloating from every former Bostonian happily living in a big house in some climatologically superior region, which could be anywhere else.

Enough of the smirking weathermen and weatherwomen predicting another day of, well, rain. Enough of the morons who are saying that June will be beautiful. Yeah, it will be great, if you like mosquitoes the size of panda bears buzzing around by the millions.

For no particular reason, I mention that it's supposed to be 78 and sunny in Seattle today, 73 and sunny in Charlotte.

Enough already. Enough.

Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com.