An Open Letter to the Heatwave

Dear Heatwave,

You've been hanging around Philly for a while now, haven't you? You've forced summer camp and school-related activities to close at 12:30, sending children home to nasty, filthy, overcrowded, ancient rowhomes-- most with no air-conditioning. I'm sure the Philly crime-rate has spiked in the last few days, because all the toughie bastards are hanging out on the street corners with their sawed-offs hanging out of their baggy, oversized denim shorts that are as big as parachutes.

You killed some 92-year-old grammaw, found dead on the second floor of her sauna-like rowhome. Way to go, asshole.

I'm not impressed.

See, I have an Emerson Quiet-Kool window unit, and a motherfucking Power Miser that can kick your ass forty ways from Sunday, bitch. Sure, the Power Miser was manufactured during the Woodrow Wilson administration, puts out an obscene amount of BTUage, and it's approximately the size of a Renault LeCar, but I'm pretty satisfied that it can kick your hot ass any day of the week.

Just bring it on, fuckstick.

And another thing, if you think I'm intimidated by a little notching up of the temperature gauge, just know that I've got two words for your sorry hide: Tank. Tops. Yeah, that's right. Your heat waves only make my married, genteely-restrained sexuosity that much more, um, awesome. That's right, Heatwave, you're only adding fuel to the fire, and there's still a fire burning, make no mistake about it.

I will say, however, that your presence has brought about a marked increase in the phenomenon known as I.T.T., which is roughly translated to "Inappropriate Tank Top." Cases of I.T.T. are being reported to local authorities at alarming rates. Just this morning, a call came in to the I.T.T. Command Center about a seventy-four-year-old woman pushing a granny-cart filled with groceries while wearing a red tank-top. The arm-skin-flapping was appalling. The pock-marked side-boob was degrading. And the dimpled sternum-skin was, well, regrettable. Anyone who spots a confirmed case of I.T.T. is urged not to take any action in the situation other than immediately telephoning the proper authorities. Remember, I.T.T. is a felony in 37 states, and your state might be one of them.

Now, getting back to you, Heatwave, I've got another beef with you. Shorts. Yeah, that's right. I've been wearing shorts since Tuesday, and I'm pretty pissed off about that. What business have you creating an envirnoment where I am forced to look like a police officer from the Bahamas all day? Not fun, not fair, not fucking right. At all. I don't know what to say to you. After all the delightful tank-topptedness I thought we were friends but, evidently, you are just another bully out to shame me-- no different then the bullies in high school who relentlessly peppered me with homosexual epithets and pointed at me while I was eating in the cafeteria, prompting a life-long obsession with not eating in front of people.

Seriously, I was having a crab rangoon appetizer at a wedding reception last month and, the moment someone came up to talk to me, I hid the appetizer in a plant. A couple moments later, I took another appetizer and people kept coming up to chat with me (I don't know why-- this doesn't happen often) and I held the mini egg roll in my hand for at least twenty five minutes.

"Are you going to eat that thing?" my wife asked me once the agitators had departed in search of more normal, less stilted conversation.

"I don't think so," I replied, and hid that in another plant.

So, I guess the moral of that little story is, if you ever invite me to your wedding, after everything's over, make sure the help checks out all the plants before closing up shop for the night.

Now, back to you, Heatwave, you ornery motherfucker. I know this is just a plea for attention, and I also know that I'm just feeding into that whole schtick by writing you an open letter on my blog which is read by exactly seven people (I think this whole 189 followers thing is pretty hilarious-- I check stats, people, you would be disappointed) but I just can't help myself. You have assaulted the people of my homeland, and you must be exposed for the infidel that you are and then summarily destroyed with a penknife or a buttered roll or something possibly even more lethal-- like schtick!

Yes. I will schtick you to death, Heatwave. So watch. Your. Ass.

I'm comin' for ya, boy.