I live by D.C. We don’t get much snow out here.
A dusting is the Mother of All Blizzards, an inch an avalanche, and six inches is the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse on a tag team rampage of terror with the Nine Ringwraiths, an army of 13 riding swords raised, leaving a trail of milk cartons and loaves of bread tossed in the air by last-minute shoppers, shriveling toilet paper with their mist, and keeping their eyes open for the prize: a child stranded at a bus stop by his clueless parents.
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