Hot, ain’t it?
Whenever I find myself cussing over hot and humid weather, I close my eyes and try to imagine being out in my driveway shoveling four feet of fresh snow while an icy wind blows down my neck and up the legs of my pantaloons. I imagine the back-busting weight of the slush that forms at the end of the driveway and how the plows will push it right back the very moment you get it cleared away. I recall the gore-crow voices of grinning editors demanding another weather story. I remember the cold, soul-sucking depth of darkness that falls at 4 p.m. and the feeling of never being warm all the way into your bones. I remember those horrible things, open my eyes and then cuss some more, because MAN, it’s hot.
Bite me
A five-foot serpent is on the loose in Camden. I know people who are terrified of snakes and every time this happens, they become absolutely convinced that the asp in question is going to show up in their washing machines. Which is just ridiculous. Chances are better that the snake is going to appear in your toilet just seconds after you sit down.
Clearly you’re confusing me with some other lizard
Speaking of serpents, whatever happened to that monster, beaver-eating snake that was said to be tormenting the fine people of Westbrook a couple summers ago? One day they were locking their doors and boarding their windows and the next it was business as usual. My guess is that the slithering monster was so embarrassed by the “Wessie” moniker, it packed its bag, put on some dark sunglasses and headed straight for your toilet.
Liberte!
So, I was in Quebec City splashing around in one of those street fountains along with four or five dogs and roughly a hundred children. You know what the coolest thing about the street fountain was? The utter lack of warning signs and long lists of strict regulations such as you’d find at a similar place in the U.S. In Canada, I never see dire warnings or stern rules listed anywhere. Try going to a street fountain in the U.S. and you’ll have to watch a short training film and sign a waiver of liability before stepping anywhere near those cooling streams of water. And of course no pets, no alcohol, no unaccompanied children, no smoking, no glass containers, no running, no loitering, no whooping, no splashing, no skipping, no shaking of your groove thang. It was so liberating being unfettered by excessive rules, I managed to knock four or five things off that list in one grand move. Didn’t whoop, though, because I don’t know how to do it in French.
Stop eyeballing my giblets
So in the mail last week I received a piece of food packaging taped to a piece of cardboard. No note, no explanation. The packaging label reads: “Whole Young Chicken with Giblets and Neck. Some giblet parts may be missing.” Is this meant to be some kind of cautionary tale? A death threat? A work of art meant to express man’s ultimate inability to understand his feelings of affection for barnyard fowl? I don’t know, man, but whatever it is, I’m scared. And a little bit hungry.
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