OTUS THE HEAD CAT

Won’t be long until everyone gets slimed by pods

This shimmering bowl of pre-humidity pod was photographed last Sunday by a longtime pod spotter in Bryant. Fayetteville-born Otus the Head Cat’s award-winning column of humorous fabrication appears every Saturday.
This shimmering bowl of pre-humidity pod was photographed last Sunday by a longtime pod spotter in Bryant. Fayetteville-born Otus the Head Cat’s award-winning column of humorous fabrication appears every Saturday.

Dear Otus,

You can’t imagine my delight at our good fortune. My husband, Cletis, and I have been members of the Saline County Pod Spotters Association (SCPSA) for 14 years, but Sunday was the first time we’ve actually seen a rogue pod. I took a photo for you of a glop I scooped off with a bowl.


Disclaimer: Fayetteville-born Otus the Head Cat's award-winning column of 👉 humorous fabrication 👈 appears every Saturday.

Is there any word on when the main humidity pod swarm might arrive this year? I need to be planning our SCPSA watch party.

— Anna Falactic,

Bryant

Dear Anna,

It was wholly a pleasure to hear from you and congratulations on your good fortune. Thank you for your service to our state.

Rare, indeed, are the individual rogue pods, but they are diaphanous and evanescent and lovely to behold — unlike the brief, but disturbing arrival of the annual humidity pod swarm.

Predicting the pods’ arrival is always a crap shoot. Even with intrepid KATV meteorologist Todd Yakoubian currently being assigned full time to Channel 7’s Podwatch on Your Side, and even though the station installed the latest GFS Global Forecast Model that combines four computer models (atmospheric, oceanic, land/soil, sea ice), it’s still an inexact science.

Yakoubian’s comprehensive hourly updates can be found on his Twitter page, @ KATVToddYak. Be sure to follow him.

Most natives are well aware of Arkansas’ annual ordeal with the pods. However, each year there are always a number of new Yankee retirees who are stunned by the pods’ arrival, which has been termed “apocalyptic.”

For those who’ve recently moved from northern climes to our four main Yankee cantonment and quarantine areas — Hot Springs Village, Bella Vista, Cherokee Village and Fairfield Bay — here’s what you need to know.

First of all, remain calm. Just like Arkansas mosquitoes, chiggers and ticks, the humidity pods and resulting recidivistic rehumidification are a normal part of the Natural State. Don’t forget, you moved here to escape the 10-foot snow drifts back home. This is the price you must pay.

Humidity pods are composed of a highly viscous, gelatinous-like substance that congeals in late spring over the Gulf of Mexico around the Yucatan Channel and in the Gulf of Tampico. They replicate through parthenogenesis and a form of asexual gelatinous mitosis.

The giant, transparent amorphous pods have been known to venture as far north as Texas’ South Padre Island by early May before sending precursors — termed “rogue pods” — scooting northward.

The typically spherical or oviform rogue pods can be as big as a house, but most are the size of minivans. They always seem to surprise folks when they arrive in an event called “peripodopause.”

The humidity pod swarm has been known to arrive and disperse over the state as early as May 14 (1958) and as late as July 22 (1972). This year, due to an unusually cool and wet spring, the arrival will be more toward the end of the pod window.

I said that rogue pods rarely cause damage, however, long-time pod watchers recall the giant rogue pod that destroyed two Tyson chicken houses in Benton County in 1982 and the rogue pod “miniswarm” that engulfed several golfers at North Little Rock’s Burns Park in 1988.

Then there was the infamous 1994 “Riverfest Pod” that slimed Patches the Clown, sending the beloved festival fixture to the emergency room with a broken red clown nose.

“All that scientific mumbo jumbo ain’t worth a bucket of warm spit,” says Jackson Sturges of Lewisville. “I’ve seen a mini-pod the size of a Studebaker goo a small child to a swing set. She never saw it coming.”

Perhaps the worst rogue case was in 1998 when as many as 75 pods (such a clump is known as a “pride”) struck just north of Brinkley, and closed both lanes of Interstate 40 for 45 minutes while volunteer fire department crews hosed down the sticky mess.

That was the same outbreak that sent then-North Little Rock Mayor Pat Hays to the hospital. The mayor should never have been up in that firetruck bucket yelling, “Welcome to North Little Rock! Woo hoo! Welcome pods to the North Shore!!”

The annual pod swarm is another matter altogether. Moving up from Louisiana, the giant lard-like blobs blot out the sun from horizon to horizon. Then they turn into millions of marble-size globules and coat everything in a sticky goo for the duration of the summer.

Until next time, Kalaka reminds you that once the pods arrive, Arkansans can expect life-sucking, lethargyinducing, oppressive humidity until at least the third week in September, probably later.

Disclaimer

Fayetteville-born Otus the Head Cat’s award-winning column of

humorous fabrication

appears every Saturday. E-mail:

mstorey@arkansasonline.com

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