UNCLE

 

We are declaring surrender, crying uncle.

Do you hear us Al Gore? U.N.C.L.E. We believe you! We are living your nightmare come true. Only thing left to do is fill the little blue kiddie pool with ice cubes and make like clams on the half shell. Heat temp records are being smashed willy-nilly. It hasn't rained since 1973. Our pond is a mud puddle. The birds sit around in the shade panting. The Duke won't go outside to pee until his bladder is ready to burst. The very worse part of all this purgatorial torture, it doesn't cool off at night. Yesterday evening I opened the door to step outside and admire the waxing crescent that mortals call the moon, only to be met with a crematorial blast of 92 degree air... at 11pm!

Texans are tough. REAL tough. We spring from our soggy, crumpled sheets in the pre-dawn atomic glow, gulp down a cup of coffee with two ice cubes, pop the straw cowboy hat upon the noggin and get on with the chores. We suck it up. There is no whining, unlike our East Coast friends who get all verklempt and woozy when the mercury rises into the 90's. "Oh my goodness, we are so hot. Look! Perspiration!? Alert the media. We may PERISH!

WaaWaaWaa. What a bunch of whining titty babies. Here behind the Pine Curtain it's been over 100 degrees every day for weeks and weeks. We suck it up and carry on. But better you should get your arse back in the shade by 10am, or you risk that pounding headache that comes up with the sun. Food loses all appeal. Nothing looks good except cold fruit. The only tolerable protein is a half-frozen hard-boiled egg.

Remember that poor Rocker Emm BZ who melted down to goo like the wicked witch of the west?   Well, I scraped the colorful slime into a mason jar for future use as an emergency fuel source for Beauregard.  We surrender.