That cold air is emanating from your mom's vagina, you gigantic fucking douchebag. I just found out about your deal with NBC back in 1999 to have me demoted to assistant deputy meteorological consultant, a nice euphemism for "shoved out the door." You backstabbing, lying son of a bitch! I MADE you! When I found you in 1973, you were doing Afro-Sheen and Pop Tart commercials at a UHF station in Vicksburg, Mississippi. You are NOTHING! You hear me, boy? NOTHING! Me and Lauer oughta take you back to the plantation and show you how it is. Technically, that may be true, but do you REALLY think being composed of bovine assholes/gonads is cause for bragging? I, on the other hand, marinate in my own delicious, self-produced gravy. Let's not get carried away, sir. And even if you are, which is a bit of a stretch, I don't think I'm even real. I think he just made me up because he thought The Clam was a funny-sounding name. He could've made me The Dildo, The Virgin Airways Flight Attendant, The Tile Grout, Irritable Bowel Syndrome Man, Tampon Boy, Septic Toe Fungus Girl, or a host of other much funnier-sounding names. But no, all he could come up with was The Clam. Fucking loser.
