It’s hot here in Texas in the summer. Ridiculously, oppressively, stupidly hot. Hot for no reason at all, except to completely discombobulate your senses and make you wish for random hailstorms or death or free ice cream by the gallon. This is how hot it can get:


Do you see this? This is the digital thermostat inside my Jeep. I took this pic as I was driving home from work one day last week . And yes, that’s a Hard Rock t-shirt I’m wearing.
Here’s the clincher, and it’s a two-parter: (a) the A/C in the aforementioned Jeep doesn’t work, and (b) the driver side window won’t roll up or down, and is held in place with a combination of clear duct tape and suction cups. When I roll, I roll ghetto, baby. How hot is it? It is:

Hotter than the hinges of Hell.
Hotter than a fresh-fucked fox in a forest fire.
Hotter than a goat’s ass in a pepper patch.
So hot the hens are laying hard-boiled eggs.
Hot as a two-dollar pistol.
Hot as a stolen tamale.
Hotter than a preacher’s knee.
Hotter than a fur coat in Marfa.
Hotter than Satan’s asscrack.
Hotter than a big screen TV in Harlem.
Hotter than two mink coats having sex in an oven.
Hotter than a hooker’s feet on payday in July.
So hot, the sun was eating a snowcone.
So hot, I saw an armadillo with air conditioning.

I was cutting my front yard yesterday in the blazing heat. I was using a push mower because my riding mower hates me and wants me to lose weight. My yard is huge. HUGE. And I’m not braggin’, ’cause yesterday I wanted nothing more than a two bedroom condo with no yard and a hot Brazilian next door neighbor. Instead, I have a large 40+ guy named Joe as my neighbor. Joe waddled over after I’d been in the 99 degree heat for 2 hours, with 2 little strips of grass to go. Joe’s not real bright, and he looks like Butthead would look if Butthead made it to his 43rd birthday. Here’s what talking to Joe is like:

Joe: “Hey! I saw you out here cutting. Sure is hot.”
Me (sweating like it’s my job): “Uh, yeah. The sun’s certainly not on vacation today. What’s up?”
Joe: “I saw you out here cutting…”
Me: “So you said.”
Joe: “Yeah. So I said ‘Hey, I should let him use my riding mower’, but I see you’re almost done now, huh?”
Me (wondering why the hell he was over in my face): “Yup, just a little bit to go.”
Joe: “Yeah.”
Me (roasting in the heat): “OK, then.”
Joe (oblivious to the heat): “Yup.”

And so it went. I don’t remember what I said to finally get rid of him, but I vaguely remember something about monkeys and pagan rituals.

It’s too hot for this shit.

Peace.

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