Tag Archives: weather

Too damned hot for funny. Let’s talk about the debt ceiling or something.

Tatooine = Preferable to America this week, for two reasons: 1. Vaporators. 2. Droid sales.

GateHouse — As a licensed Reformed Humor Professional — having graduated from a monthslong Comedy Immersion Program led at a secluded Wisconsin camp by Dr. Marcus Bachmann, who helpfully compelled me to Pray The Grim Away (incidentally, it’s basically just 12-hour “Growing Pains” rerun marathons, save your money) — I can confirm that it’s currently too blank-wording hot to be funny. Go ahead and fill in your own expletive there; the newspaper has rules about such things, though I’m guessing that most editors are too sweaty to care. (If you are having trouble finding just the right bad word, go outside in a pair of sweatpants and jog to the end of the block. By the time you return you will have thought of dozens.)

There is hot, and then there is slap-your-belly-and-run-to-your-mama hot. I don’t want to turn this into a game of Heat Dome Story Trumping, but I live in South Carolina, where we routinely enjoy the kind of heat that makes grown conservatives go running to the government for Oscillating Fan handouts, the kind of heat where you go to get the mail and then stop on your way back to hallucinate.

Within 12 seconds of going outside in South Carolina your clothes grow damp and heavy enough to make you feel like you’re wearing a used beach towel. I recently saw a Facebook experiment in which some a friend’s kids tried to literally fry an egg on the sidewalk, a plan that unfortunately foiled when the sidewalk liquefied. On the plus side, when it’s this hot, you feel less weird having your morning margarita at work.



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If I wanted to live in this much cold, I would have never left Reykjavik

Pictured: The worst remake of "The Adventures of Milo and Otis" ever.

Island Packet — Let’s be honest with each other, Lowcountry people: A major reason that we expatriated ourselves here in the swamps — in addition to retirement, golf and/or the realization of our dream of opening a makeshift bar in a storage facility — is so that we could spend no small amount of time gloating at all of the slushy saps who have elected to live in the North, on purpose, despite considerable scientific evidence pointing to the fact that winter has been known to occur nearly every year.

Over the years and in my two separate stays here in the Lowcountry, I have done this a lot. I did it last week. I’ve done it enough so that I have been occasionally disinvited from important family gatherings. Now and again I’ll load up the weather forecast for Chicago, gasp in farcically overwrought Glenn Beck-ian horror at the shockingly low figure before me, do a genre shuffle for “Reggae” on the iPod and sit back and drink my morning margarita.

One afternoon in 1998 I mentioned to my absurdly talented photographer ex-roommate that I was heading out to finish my Christmas cards by our apartment complex’s pool; he responded, “Shovel the sidewalk while you’re out there!” chortling with a good-natured what-ho as we patted each other on the back and enjoyed the sort of convivial laughter you’d expect of very old criminals, smirking inwardly at our friends and family who had, very likely, spent a good part of their morning chucking a Tootsie Roll-brown mixture of slush, road salt and small former animal chonks off of their wheel wells. (Karma being a jerk, three weeks later I found myself stranded in Chicago’s O’Hare airport — I can’t remember exactly how long it was, but I do know I began to make vague plans about which fellow travelers should be eaten first — but that’s probably for another story time.)




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Cold is a stupid jerkface

Pictured: A commuter in Tampa, Fla.

GateHouse — Cold is stupid. It is vicious and dry and holds grudges. It makes your eyes sting when you blink and city buses sploosh sopping-wet snow on you.

It is responsible for slush, which is frequently brown. It makes materials in your nose that are generally liquid-based freeze displeasingly, which is a feeling about which you never get less weirded out. It is also indicative of February, traffic problems and Green Bay Packers football.

And that is just basic, everyday cold, which is not the kind currently descended upon most of the United States that is not Texas, which I am not convinced is fully part of the United States anyway. This kind of cold is a pure, nearly beautiful kind of cold, a kind that we should probably create a Cabinet-level czar to whine about appropriately, the kind that makes your mother cry (or, in my case, curse dramatically in front of strangers), the kind that forces you, on a walk out to get the mail, to stop on your way back and construct a small fort where you can mentally prepare for the remainder of your journey. I am thinking of calling for a $700 bailout for the cocoa industry.




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