Adrian, the union boss, smiled and shrugged. "It's not our responsibility anymore, so who cares what happens?"
Ronald muttered to himself, "Farmers, pilots, picnickers..."
Adrian chuckled a little indulgently, and walked off. That's how it started, a little legalistic tiff over some obscure medical benefits that culminated in an all out strike by the entire weather-controllers union. Now a world accustomed to spans of perfect weather regularly punctuated by abysmal weather would have to carry umbrellas and tote jackets.
"Alright, I hereby call this mob to order!" Adrian yelled a few days later, at a chaotic assembly of the weather-controllers union.
"Boo!" a traditionalist shouted. "Down with a chairman!" from a budding anarchist. An incoherent jeer rose up from the general crowd. But Adrian was a veteran union boss (and had some experience as an unfunny comedian), so he was unruffled. He merely gestured, palms down and said, "Gentlemen. Gentlemen!" And a couple gavel-bangs later peace was granted.
"I know what you all expected; a day, two at the most of unpredictable weather, and the common herd were bring its bucolic pressure to bear on the higher ups." Adrian said. He paused (a rookie mistake).
"We expected that because you promised us!" A angry voiced called out. Cheers of vague agreement issued from the crowd.
Adrian repeated his palms-down gesture, hoping he wouldn't need to use it again. "I know! I thought the same. But we were wrong. It seems the people are as hard to predict as uncontrolled-weather!"
His unfunny-joke was met by a sort of pained silence.
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