It has come to this: After the State of the Union address 17 days ago, all three central Iowa news affiliates opened the broadcast with snow.

To be specific, talk of it.

After five minutes of this – five! – Kevin Cooney of KCCI (the CBS affiliate) told me about hog lots.

Then after breaking for commercial, more snow.

“Paul,” you’re saying. “What does this have to do with sports?”

It has everything to do with sports.

If weathermen are bumping the segments before them, (especially if these segments contain the freakin’ State of the Union address) do you think these camera hogs will go quietly for the segment after?

We, as Iowans, however temporary our stay, are simply too concerned with the weather.

That’s a shame.

A shame because a storm of any strength or length is going to cut short the sports.

But it doesn’t have to be this way.

Let’s look at a tape of repartee between anchor and meteorologist before the commercial break, and see what went wrong.

“Well Bob, it looks like we just can’t keep that cold weather away.”

“Heh, heh. You’re right Juanita. Old Man Winter’s coming. And I’ll be back with your forecast right after this.”

No. No “heh, heh.”

First off, of course it’s cold.

It’s Iowa. It’s February.

Secondly, what’s with this “we” business?

Does Wolf Blitzer have the clout to release the detainees at Guantanomo Bay?

Lastly, you know you won’t be back with my forecast right after this. When you come back, you’ll talk about barometric pressures and jet streams and wind chills for three minutes.

We, as viewers, don’t know anything about these things.

What we do know is that north winds are cold, south winds are warmer and Al Roker winds are smelly.

Oh, and you take too long telling us tomorrow’s high.

So here’s how the small talk should go:

“Well Bob, it looks like we just can’t keep that cold weather away.”

“Nope. Tomorrow expect a high of 34. Low of 12 around midnight. Thirty percent chance of snow by mid-afternoon.”

Boom. None of this aggrandized ability to put the clouds in motion or talk of weather across the nation.

Just a high, a low and snow.

Bring on the sports.

Now, I don’t want it to seem as if I don’t like meteorologists because I do.

I admire them greatly.

They get paid to point, make broad sweeping motions with their hands and tell the camera about information they received from the National Weather Service – which half the time is wrong.

And half the time interrupts playoff games.

I guess they feel they have that right because of their title – any title ending with “-ologist” does serious and important work. Or thinks it does.

Playoff games should be interrupted when it’s warranted, but there are now so many meteorologists crying Pinpoint Doppler Radar that the sports fan doesn’t know whether to find cover or find another station carrying the game.

Which is another thing. I’m watching the Wizards and a meteorologist meddles in to tell me a severe thunderstorm is coming.

Really? Surely it won’t affect me, seeing how I’m sitting in my living room.

Until it finds a way to break in, keep the thunderstorms to yourself.

But if you can’t, interrupt the game at it’s most boring – say, when Karl Malone is on the line and Michael Jordan is on the bench and Alan Greenspan is on the mike.

Because the people most in need of weather updates are always outside.

That’s why I suggest every local station builds a tower that flashes initials of warning.

Let’s say a light drizzle is coming your way. That’s a Bring Your Umbrella Day, or B.Y.U.D.

For thunderstorms of serious concern, that’s a Bring Your Yacht, or B.Y.Y.

For typhoons, that’s a Bring Two Of Every Pet, or B.T.O.E.P.

Now, if you’re seven miles into your weekend run and you see “B.Y.Y.,” in the distance you can probably find shelter.

But if it’s “B.T.O.E.P.,” well buddy, you’re S.O.L.

I also realize this tower business will take away from the meteorologist’s face time.

Well, no, not if a bullhorn, a smile and an open window are nearby.

Just picture it: People everywhere fleeing the streets, drenched through, and some guy, completely dry, yelling from an open window on the third story in that garbled, projected, monotonous voice “That’s right pal. There’s an 80 percent chance of rain tomorrow, too.”

Now there’s a weatherman I’d turn the game off for.

Paul Kix is a junior in journalism and mass communications from Hubbard.