It's getting towards the end of July, and by now I don't care how it happened. Whether it's the harbinger of global warming, the last prank of El Niño or the first one of his sister La Niña, or a disturbance in the Force, it's just too damnably hot.

Of course, as Mark Twain never actually said, no one is going to do anything about it. Nobody has any control over the mechanisms of weather — not you, not me, and most especially not Pat Robertson. So we're stuck with this mound of hot air that not only won't go away, but which actually seems to repel cold fronts. The rainfall in the past month wouldn't wet a windshield. Stepping outside into the wind is the next best thing to walking up to a blast furnace. There's no point in trying to fry eggs on the sidewalk: the concrete itself seems to be starting to liquefy. Right now, the price of a full ice tray is far above rubies.

And, worse yet, we can't store this hot air for the middle of January, when the mercury will be hiding in the bottom of the thermometer and I'll be issuing my annual "Geez, but it's cold" statement. If whoever or whatever have been in charge of Daylight Savings Time all these years suddenly found a way to accomplish this little task, they might actually justify all that mucking about with the clocks — but I'm not holding my breath.

The Vent

#110
25 July 1998

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