Monday, August 13, 2012

It's Tebow's Fault, or...Stapling the Weatherman.

After enduring the first half of the local news broadcast last night, and becoming steadily more depressed and irate from hearing fifteen minutes of stories about mankind’s penchant for depravity and mayhem, I was informed by the anchorwoman’s nasally shrill voice that weather and sports were next. Alas, a break in the visions of misfortune and I could see highlights of the baseball game I missed. I knew I would have to endure the weather portion to get to those highlights, but small sacrifices must be made. I briefly entertained changing the channel to ESPN, but their ongoing love affair with Tim Tebow held me back. I admit, I did try to watch SportsCenter earlier that evening, but I was not up to the task of sitting through listening to them try to make the sport of driving around in circles for three-and-a-half hours sound exciting.

So as I sat and waited, the weatherman appeared on the screen and during my haze of disinterest, I heard him say, “It’s only going to be 105° tomorrow.” At that point I wished I had Wonka-vision. I wanted to go inside the TV and beat the little man with hand and fist for saying it’s only going to be 105 degrees. Here in Devil’s Tookus, California, in the great Central Valley where, for some reason, though I don’t know why, I live, 105° does indeed, to the uninitiated, seem like a cool-down. But saying it’s only going to be 105 degrees is like me going to this weatherman, via Wonka-vision, and telling him, I’m only going to staple your mouth shut. Okay, I wouldn’t actually staple somebody’s mouth shut just for spouting off about how much cooler it’s going to be while he flits about the studio in his suit and tie, but, when I walk outside and the space-faring giant glowing death orb is blasting me with its carcinogenic waves of thermonuclear radiation, 105 degrees just does not feel like a relief. He went on to say that the heat warning is over. Yippee! For those of you who don’t know what a heat warning is, *(Usually, at this point, I would refer to Nebraska, but I’m going to leave Nebraska out this discussion, because, by the looks of things, it appears as if the Sun has parked it’s corpulent derriere right in the middle of that state), a heat warning means this: go outside and you will be instantly charred, singed, seared, and/or scalded to death. Whatever clothing you are wearing will be baked into your skin and,  if you somehow survive the Sun’s blistering attacks, (think Super-Mario Bros. 3), and you walk out onto the street, you will sink up to your knees in the melted asphalt and then be eaten alive by roaming packs of hell-hounds.

[BTP] Living in Devil’s Tookus—hold on. You need to know this next part: *(Because this is a valley, where I live is not really the entire posterior of Satan. It’s more of the anal cleft, but naming this place the Devil’s Crack leaves too much to the imagination. I want you to know—nay, understand and feel—that if the Devil is indeed real, then the place I call home is the place from which she/he/it defecates devoured lost souls). [btp] Devil’s Tookus does have its benefits. Well, if truth be told, one: if you get an extremity amputated, you can press the bleeding stump against a scalding, white-hot, sidewalk and instantly cauterize the wound. So that’s it; I live here just in case I lose a limb.  

[BTP]After putting up with the talking suit’s weather forecast, I prepared for the baseball highlights. And wouldn’t you guess it? The signal from my old friend Xfinity/Comcast (see previous rants), had a glitch, and I ended up watching  two minutes of something that reminded me of a rerun of Max Headroom instead of the baseball highlights I had waited so long and endured so much for. Such is life…
UPDATE: I just saw the current temperature—109°… He is a liar! The weatherman is a filthy, filthy liar! 

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