It’s Not The Heat

Boy oh boy, what a hot one today! I’m sweating worse than a pig in the slaughterhouse, or some such thing! I know the ol’ weatherman says to try and keep cool on mid-summer days like this, but gosh darn it, there’s only so much I can do. I won’t drink no fancy bottled water or buy me no air conditioner, nosiree. Just give me one of those fans on a stick, a glass of lemonade, and a shady spot and I will make the best of it. It just feels so dang hot!

But you know, it’s like they say, isn’t it? It’s not the heat, it’s the intense animosity between us. That’s what’s making this day just unbearable, I’ll tell you what! Just being within a few hundred feet of you, and good golly, I feel like I’m suffocating like a goldfish lying on the linoleum floor. And not the good kind of linoleum, neither. There are hot days and all, but then there are hot days when you and me’s gotta be here together. An 80 degree day feels like 110, on account of the animosity between us.

I know you don’t like it any more than I do, but we just have to grit our teeth and bear it. I can’t stand you so very much, and I know you ain’t sending me no birthday cards any times soon. But we’re forced to be here on Tuesdays and Thursdays to mind that there art collection and this here history exhibit, so let’s just continue to do our jobs like men. We ain’t little boys who settle things with fists and shouting. We can be respectful gentleman in this here museum and do our community proud by keeping these artifacts safe. And that is what I intend to do here.

Good god damn, son, this has been a real scorcher of a day. And I ain’t never lie when I say I hate you as much as the day is long. And I don’t know if that makes any kind of sense, but it’s as true my daddy’s aim with a six shooter. And even though the Earth will start tilting away from the sun and we will have a cooler time of things and the days will get shorter, I can’t imagine that I would begin hating you less. Why, every single day it takes just about all the fibers of my being not to smash your face with that priceless vase over there. Nothing would make me happier than to knock you out, but then you wouldn’t have to suffer this here hot day and I would still have to. I’m not giving you that satisfaction, believe you me.

I was telling the boys over at Sal’s Pub about your stupid slack-jawed face, and they says to me, “Eugene,” they says, “Why don’t one of ya’ll just work on different days?” And I explained what you and I both already know. You get the kids from that she-devil ex-wife of yours on Fridays through Mondays. And my weekend is filled up with my bowling league, my bridge club, my Sunday of drinking, and my Monday of sleeping off the drinking. And we’re stuck with the museum being closed on Wednesday. And goodness gracious, are we stuck.

You a dang fool, that’s a truth as good as any. And your brainless antics got us all tripped up and stuck in this Le Brea Tar Pits exhibit. This muck is impossible to get out of, but at least it ain’t so deep that we’ll die in here. No one is even gonna come find us here until morning. So that’s the last time I try to help you out. Next time you think you see something shiny in the tar, don’t go chasing after it. And I’ll remember not to try to pull your dumb ass out if you do. Shoot, this is the worst thing you ever gone and did.

3 thoughts on “It’s Not The Heat

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