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!
