Nickname for Irma

[lylsyly]

When Hurricane Wilma hit back in '05 we called it Wilma the Witch, now we are definately getting sacked by Irma nad I can't for the life of me thin up a good nickname, please help (I am in South Florida and there is NO doubt we ae going to get it).

[Mith]

Irma-geddon, perhaps?

[Vinyadan]

Irmahgerd?

[Max_Killjoy]

+1 to both suggestions so far.

On a serious note, everyone in the path, please take care and be safe.

One of our big offices (for the company I work for) is in coastal SW FL, so we have employees who live all over that area. Kinda worried about them right now.

[lylsyly]

Irma-geddon, perhaps?

Doh! How simple, makes me wonder where my brain is these days.

TY

[sktarq]

Irma from accounting

[JakiHere]

+1 on irma-geddon. stay safe floridians!!

[FinnLassie]

Aunt Irma.


... no wait, that's taken.

[pendell]

While this study (http://www.cnn.com/2016/09/01/health/female-hurricanes-deadlier-than-male-hurricanes-trnd/index.html) has several rebuttals, such as this one (https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/capital-weather-gang/wp/2014/06/02/female-named-hurricanes-kill-more-than-male-because-people-dont-respect-them-study-finds/?utm_term=.97885ab55f22), there WAS a study awhile ago which suggested that female-named hurricanes killed more people than ones named after males did, because (stupid) people take them less seriously.

So *I* think Hurricanes should get gut-wrenchingly scary names , names which make you shake like a leaf just to hear them, so that people will subconsciously get the message loud and clear:

GET.

OUT.


So maybe we need names like..

Hurricane Apocalypse
Hurricane Baalzebub
Hurricane Cataclysm
Hurricane Destruction
Hurricane Eternal Damnation
Hurricane Ferocious
Hurricane Genocide
Hurricane Hell's Fury

and for the I's ...

Hurricane Immediate Death
Hurricane Immolation
Hurricane Impact
Hurricane Incredible Hulk
Hurricane Instakill

Whaddaya think? :smallamused:

Maybe , maybe if we did something like that we woudln't have to Arrest people who literally don't have the sense to come in out of the rain (https://hotair.com/archives/2017/09/09/irma-approaches-people-arrested/).


Tongue-in-cheek,

Brian P.

[FinnLassie]

What is the basis of naming storms in the US, anyways? Here in Finland we have namedays, so a storm will be named after the nameday. Latest was storm Kiira (feminine), and the storm on boxing day was Tapaninpäivän myrsky - Tapani's day's storm (masculine). We call boxing day Tapaninpäivä since it's Tapani's nameday.

[Emperor Ing]

In the US, names are taken from a list, and every new storm that goes above Tropical Depression status gets a name from the list, and they just go down the list.

IIRC, it started when some guy named hurricanes after people he hated.

[golentan]

In the US, names are taken from a list, and every new storm that goes above Tropical Depression status gets a name from the list, and they just go down the list.

IIRC, it started when some guy named hurricanes after people he hated.

They'll reuse them, too, (they have six lists and rotate the list every year) but they get taken off the list if they do enough damage to be memorable, basically.

[Vinyadan]

Remember that scene from Armageddon? :smallbiggrin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZc4IBy0pSY

[Algeh]

Further, the names go in alphabetical order in the US (with different lists for the Atlantic and Pacific, so two alphabetical lists really), so you can tell how many named storms have happened so far that year by what the current one is named. The names alternate male and female on each list (with a different starting gender for Pacific and Atlantic), and then start with the other gender the next year. They have a multi-year list for each region and then loop it after a few years, but replace names of particularly notable storms with new once before that list gets re-used (we won't get another K-storm named Katrina for a really long time, for example).

We don't really celebrate name days in the US. We do in my family (because we're descended from people from Sweden and most of us have names from the Swedish list), but no one outside of my family has ever recognized my name day (which, to be fair, is ONLY on the Swedish list). Most people haven't even heard of name days until I mention them, and then hit the internet to see if they have one too.

[khadgar567]

So if we hit by huricane zantana then how many huricanes that made can someone count for us

[AMFV]

So if we hit by huricane zantana then how many huricanes that made can someone count for us

After that it'd be Hurricane A-aron

[Asmodean_]

They did run out of names in the 2005 hurricane season (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2005_Atlantic_hurricane_season), and they just switched to Greek letters for filler.

[hamishspence]

They did run out of names in the 2005 hurricane season (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2005_Atlantic_hurricane_season), and they just switched to Greek letters for filler.

I notice that Q, U, X, Y, and Z don't get personal names - probably because those are too rare as names?

It would be interesting to see a Hurricane Zachary, or a Hurricane Yvette, or other oddball names - but it would appear that under the current system that's not possible.

[JakiHere]

I notice that Q, U, X, Y, and Z don't get personal names - probably because those are too rare as names?

It would be interesting to see a Hurricane Zachary, or a Hurricane Yvette, or other oddball names - but it would appear that under the current system that's not possible.

agree. haha. glad someone noticed that too. and I think it's quite difficult to name anything starting with Q and X. lmao

[GAAD]

Hurricane **** YOU I survived.

I was in Sint Maartin. I have seen devastation. I am thankful to be alive right now.

[paddyfool]

agree. haha. glad someone noticed that too. and I think it's quite difficult to name anything starting with Q and X. lmao



Quentin
Quintus
Quincy
Queeny

Xanthe
Xavier
'Xander (Ok, that one's cheating)
Xykon

[hamishspence]

Or from TV shows:

Qyburn

Xena

[paddyfool]

Quetzelcoatl (because nothing can possibly go wrong if you name a storm after a local God of death)

Xerxes

[Many Chinese names]

[hamishspence]

It's mostly an American Atlantic convention - the Pacific has no such convention, so in 1992 there were storms called Xavier, Yolanda and Zeke.

No Q name though.

[ArlEammon]

It's mostly an American Atlantic convention - the Pacific has no such convention, so in 1992 there were storms called Xavier, Yolanda and Zeke.

No Q name though.

Oh contrare.
http://i.imgur.com/iEnqRDH.jpg (https://imgur.com/iEnqRDH)

[enderlord99]

The "Ghost-Child of Imgur"

...Okay, probably not.

[Lvl 2 Expert]

Hurricane **** YOU I survived.

I was in Sint Maartin. I have seen devastation. I am thankful to be alive right now.

How bad is it? We've gotten some snippets of news, 95% of the buildings gone or close enough, at least 4 dead on the Dutch side and I think they're running into double digits on the French half. Any idea how much worse the news is going to get for those islands directly in the path? Did the shelters hold?



On the more joking side of the topic: maybe we need a backup list that starts at A again but uses pop culture names and references, anything that can't be mistaken for a real name.
So like ATAT, Bond, Cypher, Dilbert, ED209, Freddy Krueger, Godzilla, Herby etc.
Thor help the poor souls that die in hurricane Furby.

[GAAD]

How bad is it? We've gotten some snippets of news, 95% of the buildings gone or close enough, at least 4 dead on the Dutch side and I think they're running into double digits on the French half. Any idea how much worse the news is going to get for those islands directly in the path? Did the shelters hold?

Here's what I went through.

I was going on vacation. I was going to have a nice Caribbean experience. Sure, Sint Maartin was near Irma, but it was a cat 3, heading away. They've seen worse.

It took so long to get there, that by the time we arrived we had a day to prepare for a cat 5 hurricane coming directly at us. So we stocked up on canned food, candles, and water. We filled the sinks of our hotel with water in case the cistern was damaged. We boiled two dozen eggs. We charged all our electronics. We barred the windows. We moved the mattresses to the hallway. We set up a last resort nest in the bathroom. We thought it was overkill. We were sorely mistaken.

Irma hit in the middle of the night. I couldn't sleep. The winds grew more and more and more and more and more. The building began shaking. The windows creaked. The front door rattled. My sister began to get very nervous and brought the family into the nest. Ten minutes later, the winds grew too much.

The front door was hurricane proof. The frame wasn't.

The hallway where I had just been trying to sleep was flooded. And Irma was trying to get in the bathroom. There was nothing between us and the storm but a single wooden door the likes of which Irma had blasted open. My father braced against the sink and the door, pressing as hard as he could so our last resort would not give way. He held it. By whatever forces care to bless me he held it. The doors shook. The water pooled. The winds howled. My ears popped, and everything went dead quiet.

The eye was upon us.

Looking outside, there were no clouds. There were no winds. There was no rain. It was a perfect, gorgeous sunny day. And then you saw the devastation. Trees cleaved in twain, cars tossed five meters away, people panicking, knocking on doors for some surer shelter, our door swinging on its frameless hinge.

My father grabbed the pieces of the frame and pushed them into the door. He prayed it would hold. Then he ran back inside, nodded at the trio of seabirds taking shelter in our unit, and went back to bracing the door.

My ears popped again, and the winds started up from zero to scalebreaking in about thirty seconds. The tail end of a hurricane is essentially a giant wall of pure tornado. We held on as he winds slowly died down over several hours, then looked outside.

Our unit was flooded. Our door swung free once again. There was a trashed car on the pool deck. There was a palm tree on our porch. Our curtains had sucked through the seal between our patio doors. We had no railing. We had no power. We had no water tank. We had no roof. Irma had ripped it all away. Every roof. Every building. Every car. Every boat. Every tree. The power plant. The desalination plant. The airport. The medical school. The prison.

On the other side of the island, the one controlled by France, a mass jailbreak began. The first thing the ex-prisoners did was raid an abandoned and destroyed police station for weapons.

Our family had no mop, so we took a broom to the flood, sweeping water out the front door. It took hours. Then I moved to help other people sweep out their rooms. The resort arranged meetings, held a census, gathered some generators and organized a militia. I went to the back room, we made egg salad sandwiches, and lit some candles into the night. I hopped onto the couch and went to sleep.

I awoke to the sound of gunfire.

I crawled into my parents' bed to find my sister already there. My mother raised a finger to her lips and we huddled together. It was hot. I moved and peeked out the window. Just outside our window, a car blazed. The shots continued to ring out. The fire spread to another car. More shots fired. The first car exploded. The fire brigade arrived. It took ten minutes and six cars but the fire went out and we relaxed.

The backup generators were gone. Looters had set the cars on fire in order to steal them.

We made egg salad sandwiches and tried to reach out. My father got one bar of cell reception and began (slowly) texting our friend Mark Watson our status. From what I've heard, his name should be familiar.

We no longer had the ability to flush the toilet. The room above ours was trashed. Therefore we commandeered their toilet as our own.

In the bay, we saw a destroyer approach. 800 Dutch marines arrived to maintain order and a curfew. They went house to house, finding and shooting looters. And anyone left on the streets after curfew.

For those whose food stores were destroyed, the one grocery store within walking distance was available. One person was allowed to shop at a time, under constant surveillance by armed soldiers.

The Dutch side of the island was being kept in order. The French side was not. The convicts had spread total anarchy throughout the north. It was at this point we noticed it - for it had gotten to the point of buildings ablaze. I barely slept that night, for I kept waking to watch the horizon burn.

The day passed uneventfully. I read, made small talk, ate egg salad sandwiches, and rejoiced at the survival of a very friendly one eared cat.

We hunkered down and rationed our perishables, planning to open the fridge only twice a day to keep the food as cold as possible. The lights came on. We started boiling water and flushing toilets. And suddenly the lights went out. Except for one, in the generator room. The technician had set the thing on fire.

Thankfully the fire went out, but we were without power for the rest of the night.

The next day, the runway had finally been cleared of debris. The half of it still standing, anyway. Women with small children were evacuated first. We stayed the night, but packed for a rush to the tarmac.

And a rush to the tarmac it was indeed. My sister and father (we operated under the buddy system. No one goes anywhere alone) came running back from the lobby. We had three minutes to get there and board the bus that would take us, eventually, home.

We each took one bag; my mother took a suitcase as well. We arrived at the airport; the USA National Guard had come to take US citizens home.

The C-130 was cramped, but safe. We arrived in San Juan - minus anything not on our immediate persons - and were given food and amenities by the Red Cross. On arrival, we were given a police escorted shuttle to Plaza Condado.

I am safe. I am alive. I am okay.

And I am NEVER eating another egg salad sandwich.

[pendell]

What a story! Congratulations on your survival.

Respectfully,

Brian P.

[Lvl 2 Expert]

Wow.

In 60 years, your grandkids are not going to believe you.

Glad to hear the ship helped the island a bit. Not that I had anything to do with sending it, but still nice to know.

[Asmodean_]

The hallway where I had just been trying to sleep was flooded. And Irma was trying to get in the bathroom. There was nothing between us and the storm but a single wooden door the likes of which Irma had blasted open. My father braced against the sink and the door, pressing as hard as he could so our last resort would not give way. He held it. By whatever forces care to bless me he held it. The doors shook.

The best thing about giving hurricanes names is that you can imagine it's actually an ex-partner in a soap opera

[ArlEammon]

The best thing about giving hurricanes names is that you can imagine it's actually an ex-partner in a soap opera

Hurricane Susan:?

[GAAD]

Thanks for listening/reading to me :)

[hamishspence]

Hurricane Susan:?

There was a Hurricane Susan in the Pacific back in 1978.

[Max_Killjoy]

Here's what I went through.

I was going on vacation. I was going to have a nice Caribbean experience. Sure, Sint Maartin was near Irma, but it was a cat 3, heading away. They've seen worse.

It took so long to get there, that by the time we arrived we had a day to prepare for a cat 5 hurricane coming directly at us. So we stocked up on canned food, candles, and water. We filled the sinks of our hotel with water in case the cistern was damaged. We boiled two dozen eggs. We charged all our electronics. We barred the windows. We moved the mattresses to the hallway. We set up a last resort nest in the bathroom. We thought it was overkill. We were sorely mistaken.

Irma hit in the middle of the night. I couldn't sleep. The winds grew more and more and more and more and more. The building began shaking. The windows creaked. The front door rattled. My sister began to get very nervous and brought the family into the nest. Ten minutes later, the winds grew too much.

The front door was hurricane proof. The frame wasn't.

The hallway where I had just been trying to sleep was flooded. And Irma was trying to get in the bathroom. There was nothing between us and the storm but a single wooden door the likes of which Irma had blasted open. My father braced against the sink and the door, pressing as hard as he could so our last resort would not give way. He held it. By whatever forces care to bless me he held it. The doors shook. The water pooled. The winds howled. My ears popped, and everything went dead quiet.

The eye was upon us.

Looking outside, there were no clouds. There were no winds. There was no rain. It was a perfect, gorgeous sunny day. And then you saw the devastation. Trees cleaved in twain, cars tossed five meters away, people panicking, knocking on doors for some surer shelter, our door swinging on its frameless hinge.

My father grabbed the pieces of the frame and pushed them into the door. He prayed it would hold. Then he ran back inside, nodded at the trio of seabirds taking shelter in our unit, and went back to bracing the door.

My ears popped again, and the winds started up from zero to scalebreaking in about thirty seconds. The tail end of a hurricane is essentially a giant wall of pure tornado. We held on as he winds slowly died down over several hours, then looked outside.

Our unit was flooded. Our door swung free once again. There was a trashed car on the pool deck. There was a palm tree on our porch. Our curtains had sucked through the seal between our patio doors. We had no railing. We had no power. We had no water tank. We had no roof. Irma had ripped it all away. Every roof. Every building. Every car. Every boat. Every tree. The power plant. The desalination plant. The airport. The medical school. The prison.

On the other side of the island, the one controlled by France, a mass jailbreak began. The first thing the ex-prisoners did was raid an abandoned and destroyed police station for weapons.

Our family had no mop, so we took a broom to the flood, sweeping water out the front door. It took hours. Then I moved to help other people sweep out their rooms. The resort arranged meetings, held a census, gathered some generators and organized a militia. I went to the back room, we made egg salad sandwiches, and lit some candles into the night. I hopped onto the couch and went to sleep.

I awoke to the sound of gunfire.

I crawled into my parents' bed to find my sister already there. My mother raised a finger to her lips and we huddled together. It was hot. I moved and peeked out the window. Just outside our window, a car blazed. The shots continued to ring out. The fire spread to another car. More shots fired. The first car exploded. The fire brigade arrived. It took ten minutes and six cars but the fire went out and we relaxed.

The backup generators were gone. Looters had set the cars on fire in order to steal them.

We made egg salad sandwiches and tried to reach out. My father got one bar of cell reception and began (slowly) texting our friend Mark Watson our status. From what I've heard, his name should be familiar.

We no longer had the ability to flush the toilet. The room above ours was trashed. Therefore we commandeered their toilet as our own.

In the bay, we saw a destroyer approach. 800 Dutch marines arrived to maintain order and a curfew. They went house to house, finding and shooting looters. And anyone left on the streets after curfew.

For those whose food stores were destroyed, the one grocery store within walking distance was available. One person was allowed to shop at a time, under constant surveillance by armed soldiers.

The Dutch side of the island was being kept in order. The French side was not. The convicts had spread total anarchy throughout the north. It was at this point we noticed it - for it had gotten to the point of buildings ablaze. I barely slept that night, for I kept waking to watch the horizon burn.

The day passed uneventfully. I read, made small talk, ate egg salad sandwiches, and rejoiced at the survival of a very friendly one eared cat.

We hunkered down and rationed our perishables, planning to open the fridge only twice a day to keep the food as cold as possible. The lights came on. We started boiling water and flushing toilets. And suddenly the lights went out. Except for one, in the generator room. The technician had set the thing on fire.

Thankfully the fire went out, but we were without power for the rest of the night.

The next day, the runway had finally been cleared of debris. The half of it still standing, anyway. Women with small children were evacuated first. We stayed the night, but packed for a rush to the tarmac.

And a rush to the tarmac it was indeed. My sister and father (we operated under the buddy system. No one goes anywhere alone) came running back from the lobby. We had three minutes to get there and board the bus that would take us, eventually, home.

We each took one bag; my mother took a suitcase as well. We arrived at the airport; the USA National Guard had come to take US citizens home.

The C-130 was cramped, but safe. We arrived in San Juan - minus anything not on our immediate persons - and were given food and amenities by the Red Cross. On arrival, we were given a police escorted shuttle to Plaza Condado.

I am safe. I am alive. I am okay.

And I am NEVER eating another egg salad sandwich.


That's one hell of a "vacation".