Tuesday, July 14, 2015

We're getting fried.

In the next week, we are all gonna die. Dried up like Rod Stewart's face. Honestly. Dead.

Fried like, oh, a fried Oreo.

It's going to be more than 100 degrees as often as, say, Kim Kardashian burns bridges in relationships. Flames leaping higher and wider than her behind, that's the way the weather is gonna be in the next few days in this country. If you like hot, well, you are gonna feel hot as likely as Fox News is conservative.

Remember, there was a time when summer was merely hot. The type of heat that a cool drink would zap. Oh, you remember those days. Happened fifty or sixty years ago. Normal heat, not when the lawn mower bursts into flame when you pulled the chord, when fire poked its head from the mower and said hello wearing a costume like the one Firestorm wears on the Flash TV show.

The type of heat that causes cars to explode like fireworks on July 4th is that type of heat to expect this week. Long sleeved heat is what to expect this week, as I recall. Roll down the cloth on the arms and let the attire catch fire.

There was a time when hot meant, er, livable, not insanely warm. Hey, I actually remember a time when houses were not air conditioned but instead were fan modulated, and we lived. We lived. We actually lived.

There was a time when Mr. Hott didn't worry about surviving, and he lived through it, without running to Uncle Firecracker.
There was a time when Mr. Hott didn't take cases of water with him when he went to the store to get cases of water.
There was a time when Mr. Hott could get his ice cream home from the grocery before it became the basis for his Ninja blender's hot toddy.
There was a time when Mr. Hott's bubbly was his champagne, not his Blue Belle.
And there was a time when Mr. Hott could drive home without wearing oven mitts to protect his hands from the steering wheel.

Seriously. There was a time. I think it was the age called Fireastic World or something like that. Remember reading the book just before it sparked in your hands? Yeah, me too.

Remember going to the park for picnics? Remember raking pine straw instead of waiting for it to be set afire by two sticks rubbing innocently together?

Remember a time before bread toasted in your hand at the park? Yeah, I remember so. Time when there was an evening in which you could enjoy a bit of a breeze instead of a hot wave of microwave intensity?

Remember when Mars Attacks was a goofy movie instead of a weather forecast?

Remember when the weather man told us the Plains are baking?. The West is broiling? The South is cooking? The East is turning electrified?

It's so hot this week that you notice your car is overheating and you haven't even cranked it yet. Hot air balloons can't go up because the air outside is hotter than the air inside. Airplanes can't land because the asphalt is too soft. It's so hot that the seams in the park are coming in two types: original recipe and extra crispy. It's so hot that water from the cold water tap is hotter than the hot one. Strawberries are ripe, and cab drivers are riper; The hot dogs in minor league baseball stadiums are actually hot. Pigs are complaining about sweating like fat humans. A scalding hot shower in the morning cools you down. You've been getting hot flashes, and you're a man. A $20 surcharge is added to your evening meal bill because you're eating at an air-conditioned restaurant.

It's so hot that the Devil is taking new patients because they wanted to go to a cool hangout.

And the news was led last night by another sad story. Seems the only ones happy were the companies digging swimming pools, but things changed when the employees began digging their own graves instead of their own pools.

Friends, it was so hot out there yesterday the only thing Lance Armstrong tested positive for was Snapple.

Seriously. 








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