Archive
08/05/08
428 Degrees of Indexed Heat Fancy-schmancy, Nancy! Hotsy-totsy! Far out! Nifty! Neato-Tito! Keen! Cool! Groovy! Swift! Cle-ver! I mean, the seasonal meteorological terminology Being spewed and ballyhooed and mooed by local-TV weather jockeys. I'm talking "heat index," "heat index," "heat index," Whereby a steamy, stalled-thermal-inversion, muggy, humid 95-degree day Gets miraculously escalated into a 135-Fahrenheit scorcher, Just by the wave of an elaborate array of cutting-edge-technology wands, Which, ultimately, work to negatively impact us all, Reinforcing, facilitating, our apathetic, lethargic, sedentary lifestyles, Encouraging us to stay safely indoors, air-conditioned to the nines, Terrified to step outside, into our own personal Death Valleys, Content to let the other guys die from overheating strokes — Those who fail to heed the latest heat-index oracles.
I must confess, embarrassed though I may be, That I fit into the category of paranoid worry-wart nervous Nellies Who put complete credence in TV's best and brightest weather-heads, Especially whenever they prognosticate triple digits. After all, tipping the teeters at 428 pounds, I have to watch my step, steps, keep as cool as a flash-frozen cucumber, Not stray too far from the oscillating fan in my basement. Face it, I hate summers in St. Louis, like a plague of black buboes, Hate even when I have to buy groceries (which is every other day), Let alone drive, every night, over to Ted Drewes, To get my daily nutritional supplement, from three large concretes — Vanilla frozen custard chock-full of Heath Bar pieces and M&M's — Which help me cool off while I stand there, on the parking lot, Eating that creamy-crunchy good-and-good-for-ya goodness before it melts. Admittedly, it's a love-at-first-hate relationship I have, With St. Louis, heat indexes on TV, sweating my buns off (I wish), For a good three straight summer months, every summer, A hate-at-first-love relationship I have with my basement, Dinosaurs causing greenhouse gases to escape down our exhaust pipes, Pollute the stratospheres, allow the ozones to stagnate or disappear, Trapping and turning the hydrogens around Earth into molten frozen custard. And believe me, this heat doesn't make 428 pounds any easier. It makes it feel like 590, when my fat index factors in all the factors, Like exercise (standing, walking — moving, in general) missed, For having to hunker down in the basement, with the oscillating fan, Additional large concretes eaten, to keep cool on the parking lot, And pining like two polar bears, in heat, on separate ice floes, For wind-chill factors to freeze hell out of heat indexes.
08/05/08
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