Well, guess what? It's too darned hot.
As they say, if you can't stand the heat, get out of Indiana.
Or Iowa apparently. This morning's news showed an incredible heat index number for somewhere in Iowa -- 128 degrees!
Forget that old "Field of Dreams" line about heaven. It's been edited to fit current conditions.
"Is this Hell? No, it's Iowa!"
But true to that vow I made back when it was so cold the dog nearly froze to the driveway and we had three inches of solid ice on the front steps, I am not going to get all hot and bothered about the heat.
Instead, my complaint here is that no one really has anything new to say about it.
It's time to give the cold shoulder to all those trite heat analogies, metaphors and similes.
I mean, if one more person greets me with "hot enough for ya?" I am going to bring some real heat down on them.
"It's not the heat, it's the humidity," someone else will always offer.
Translated, that might be better off as: "It's the humidity, stupid!"
Another hollow, meaningless statement always has been: "It's 100 degrees in the shade." Geez, then get out of the shade!
Cue the music, Buster Poindexter. Somebody play "A Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight" or "The Heat Is on." Arrrgh!
This is when I really miss the old Johnny Carson-Ed McMahon "How hot was it? ..." bit.
The set-up was always fun as Carson would invariably drop some hint about the heat and the unseen McMahon would bellow in methodically over Johnny's monologue with: "How hot was it? ..."
Some of his answers were priceless.
It was so hot, Carson would say, I saw a guy putting Solarcaine on his ballpark frank.
It was so hot, liar-liar's pants really were on fire.
It was so hot, a snowball would have a better chance in hell.
It was so hot they had to use the Jaws of Life to pry me off my leather interior.
It was so hot, Burger King was saying if you want it your way, cook it yourself!
David Letterman has tried to keep those fires burning. He's had a couple good "How hot was it?" analogies of his own recently. Such as:
It was so hot, the terror alert level has been raised to "sweaty."
It was so hot, Dick Cheney was waterboarding himself.
It was so hot, you could fry an egg on Paris Hilton (that's hot!).
Despite such clever quips, we desperately need some new cynical weather wisdom.
I've been tirelessly researching the possibilities. Testing out one-liners. Promulgating puns and punch lines.
But nothing seems quite right. Must be some reason.
Hate to complain, but it's just too darned hot.