Someone give Al Gore his money, it's getting wicked hot. How hot? Today I saw a squirrel soaking his nuts in Gatorade. I would have captured it on video too, had I not been busy french-kissing the air conditioning vent. What can I say, it was a long stoplight. At last I think it was. Truth is, time goes all slow-mo when every outdoor assignment comes with a brand new case of swamp-ass. And don't talk to me about wardobe, either. I'm already dressed like a third grader! One more layer shed and I'll surely spark a flurry of suburban Bigfoot sightings. Then I'll never get these Man on the Street interviews done, no easy feat when your face is wrapped in a soggy beachtowel. Fact is, there's no way to pull off a smooth focal move when sweat's pouring off your brow in sheets, your upturned viewfinder cup a flickering cauldron of saltwater. Don't bother looking for shade either, that's where the oven-blast really settles. A few more weeks of this and we'll have air so thick you can hang art off of it. For now, it's all I can do not to Stop Drop and Roll every time I fall out of Unit Four. Just when I'm sure my eyeballs are about to melt, I realize I'm not on fire after all. It's just a July Tuesday in the Carolinas. Wait until August, when SwelterFest begins...
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Piercing the Humidisphere
Someone give Al Gore his money, it's getting wicked hot. How hot? Today I saw a squirrel soaking his nuts in Gatorade. I would have captured it on video too, had I not been busy french-kissing the air conditioning vent. What can I say, it was a long stoplight. At last I think it was. Truth is, time goes all slow-mo when every outdoor assignment comes with a brand new case of swamp-ass. And don't talk to me about wardobe, either. I'm already dressed like a third grader! One more layer shed and I'll surely spark a flurry of suburban Bigfoot sightings. Then I'll never get these Man on the Street interviews done, no easy feat when your face is wrapped in a soggy beachtowel. Fact is, there's no way to pull off a smooth focal move when sweat's pouring off your brow in sheets, your upturned viewfinder cup a flickering cauldron of saltwater. Don't bother looking for shade either, that's where the oven-blast really settles. A few more weeks of this and we'll have air so thick you can hang art off of it. For now, it's all I can do not to Stop Drop and Roll every time I fall out of Unit Four. Just when I'm sure my eyeballs are about to melt, I realize I'm not on fire after all. It's just a July Tuesday in the Carolinas. Wait until August, when SwelterFest begins...
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4 comments:
MOS patrol in a swamp-ass kinda day. Really proves the saying down here, "It's not hte heat; it's the stupidity."
I feel ya bro.
As an downeasterner, you know it is just starting to warm up here!
My neighbors asked me the other day why they haven't seen me in a while...I tell them because I try not to come outside from May until the end of September.
Just to be helpful, try stashing a pack of babywipes in a small cooler filled with ice. You get back in the unit, drag one out and wipe the layer of sweat off. Gross, yes, but so is this....what did you call it..."swampass"? That's a lovely word....and I thought "snot" conjured up a distasteful image.
Oh, yeah. It's getting to be that time around here as well. I was going to put up post soon about this myself, with today being MY first real case of swamp-ass. I've been back in the station for three hours and my shorts are STILL soggy.
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