I keep hearing all these rapturous odes to summer. People seem to think it's a relaxing, fun-having, enjoyable time of year. Having lived south of the Mason-Dixon line for all but a year and a half of my life, I can say with utter certainty that the people who say such things are insane. Summer is not fun or enjoyable; it's a nonstop inferno of heat rash and despair! I have given a name to my pain, and it is summer. In place of an ode, let me offer a lament.
Summer, summer -- cripes, what a bummer!
TV's on hiatus and the movies are dumber.
It may be bright and sunny, but fun it is not,
When humidity's high and the heat's too damn hot.
The children are out in the suburbs in force;
They scream all day long and they never go hoarse.
The neighbors awaken at the butt-crack of dawn,
To run power tools at full blast on their lawn.
You can put up the sunshade across your car's dash,
But the seats still reduce you to smoldering ash.
And your hands haven't managed to scab up and heal
From their last sizzling date with a hot steering wheel.
It's a special hell for the woman of size,
With the sweating of boobs and the chafing of thighs.
Other people may tan on their summer beach trip,
But I sunburn and blister like a skank's upper lip.
When I start every day in a thin film of sweat,
When the air is as thick as canned Aqua-Net,
When I clean shedded hair thrown up by a pet,
When the back of my neck is always slightly wet,
When I down frozen beverages I later regret,
When I contemplate a show with a Michaels named Bret,
When I start pondering how much hotter it can get,
I must rage and fume: Is it October yet?!