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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Summer is just so damned inevitable.
Have you ever been 44 years old and working under a boiling hot sun, digging in the dirt, and almost passing out because you’re out of shape and out of focus and out of breath, basically, and then finished the job, still 44 years old but feeling much older, and then stumbled into your car and driven into the downtown of the nearest small town, and then stumbled even more into the first little tavern you came to with a long, wooden bar, air conditioning, cold beer, and wireless internet service, and for whatever reason, you happened to have your laptop strapped to your back, because, if you must know, you thought you were absolutely going to die because of that boiling hot sun and you weren’t sure you would make it to the shade of a barstool before you gave up the ghost, and if you didn’t make it, you wanted to make damn sure you died with all your typed words close by, even if they would just be grabbed up by some old drunk who just liked the look of your backpack - well, I just did.Update: Due to an official complaint filed against this sentence, it will be provided with an alternate ending until an official ruling is handed down from the Dash & Question Mark Subcommittee. Thank you for your patience in this matter. Have you ever been . . . . grabbed up by some old drunk?
Hot enough for ya?
“Mom, I plugged the iron in, and it’s hot now,” she yelled across the house.
Two drunks with a nickel between them were arguing over what to play on the juke box until a tomato in a dress that was too tight a year ago pushed the key that started off something noisy and hot.
I’d like to get angry with someone about the continuing horrendous heat, but it’s just too bloody hot to be bothered.
There’s a special sort of boredom that comes from being too hot to do anything, knowing there are things you should be doing and not wanting to do any of them.
According to the well informed Grudknows, I am a cybervixen, a real life vixen, and a vixen vixen, but I think that’s all open to hot, buttery debate.
No one complains more poignantly than a 12-year-old on the last, hottest day of the summer.
“I don’t know what a ‘weathermudgeon’ is or what this 99F (37.2C) they’re talking about at the picnic is,” thought Little Bear, but I do know it’s time for a dip in the creek.
If 5 days of 39C is a ‘tad warm’, then… Mister, I hope you fry in hell.
If I ever kill anyone, it will be in crushing, soul-destroying hot weather.
While I do not dispute my 15-year-old daughter's assertion that 97% humidity and 97 degrees in Taiwan is "hotter than balls!" I do wonder how she acquired the knowledge of such a subject.
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