Hurricane names matter to me. I think the name really, really matters. You have some soft ass name, I’m probably gonna laugh you off. Won’t even put Phil Swift’s Flex-Seal under the doors. You’re a joke storm.
But if that hurricane has an intense name? Watch the fuck out. Katrina? Rita? Iris? Fuck and No. The second those ‘canes got named the shorelines were doomed. Those are the hurricanes who argue with you in public and cheat on you with your friend. They’ll smack you inside a Wendy’s when you’re hungover and tell the whole party you have a small dick. You do NOT want to trifle with a intensely-named ‘cane. And that’s exactly what Joaquin is. Joaquin is trouble. Joaquin is the guy in a tight black button down with a man bun who can effortlessly bring home the girl you and your oversized flannel wasted an hour and four drinks on. Joaquin is your girlfriend Rita’s personal trainer who texts her later that night about the “progress” she’s making. Joaquin is the dickhead who speaks a second language. Joaquin is the worst, which means that this hurricane is going to be a Category 5 Disaster. Pack up your bags and head for the fucking hills. Get out of your house and head inland until you can’t head inland any more. Mark my words, Joaquin is here to fuck shit up.
P.S. Did anyone ever see “Her” where Joaquin Phoenix falls in love with his phone? It was actually a really well-made movie, but also top five weirdest things I’ve ever watched.