Ella Fitzgerald, "Too Darn Hot"
Yesterday I mentioned wanting to rant about the heat. Which is pointless. Everyone talks about the weather, but no one ever kills the weatherman.
Too darn hot? Try: it's too goddamn hot. It's too fucking hot. We've been joking when it drops into the nineties about the cold snap, is how hot it's been. The jokes haven't been funny, it's just the kind of thing everyone does when it's so goddamn motherfucking hot as hell.
It saps the will. No. It doesn't sap the will so much as it causes the brains to leak out the ears and run down the sides of your neck like so much grey clay washing away in the rain. Ninety-two Fahrenheit right now as of this writing and it isn't even noon yet. Fifty-one percent humidity. The Internet tells me this is making 92°F feel like 98°F, I say it's making me feel like cowering indoors in the air conditioning like a fat, pampered dog. We get angry and cooped up, a form of cabin fever; seems like there ought to be something you could do, but taking a walk gets the blood to boil and at a picnic your ice melts to the temperature of lukewarm tea in minutes flat; nothing much of anything is playing at the cinerama unless you're dying to see Spider-Man rebooted or live somewhere Beasts Of The Southern Wild has opened, or are a Wes Anderson fan (I'm too damn hot to see Wes Anderson right now, I think).
Actually, let's be honest: I could probably sit through something, but I don't feel like getting in the car because it's too hot and I don't feel like spending the money; what I really would like is going for a walk in the snow right now.
Too darn hot? Try: it's too goddamn hot. It's too fucking hot. We've been joking when it drops into the nineties about the cold snap, is how hot it's been. The jokes haven't been funny, it's just the kind of thing everyone does when it's so goddamn motherfucking hot as hell.
It saps the will. No. It doesn't sap the will so much as it causes the brains to leak out the ears and run down the sides of your neck like so much grey clay washing away in the rain. Ninety-two Fahrenheit right now as of this writing and it isn't even noon yet. Fifty-one percent humidity. The Internet tells me this is making 92°F feel like 98°F, I say it's making me feel like cowering indoors in the air conditioning like a fat, pampered dog. We get angry and cooped up, a form of cabin fever; seems like there ought to be something you could do, but taking a walk gets the blood to boil and at a picnic your ice melts to the temperature of lukewarm tea in minutes flat; nothing much of anything is playing at the cinerama unless you're dying to see Spider-Man rebooted or live somewhere Beasts Of The Southern Wild has opened, or are a Wes Anderson fan (I'm too damn hot to see Wes Anderson right now, I think).
Actually, let's be honest: I could probably sit through something, but I don't feel like getting in the car because it's too hot and I don't feel like spending the money; what I really would like is going for a walk in the snow right now.
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Which is why, of course, I live in Colorado. ::eyeroll::