Saturday, July 22, 2006

Kissed by the flames of hell -- and in San Francisco!

Hot. Beyond hot. Inhumane. Everything and everyone stinks from the heat. I take six showers a day and still feel filthy. All my plants and the cats are limp and lethargic, and I water them almost on the hour. Ugly, never should see the light of the day bodies are exposing themselves to the brutal, godless summer sun. Why has this horrible weather hit our city? It feels like we are living in some useless, shithole city in the South. I can’t even think of the South, the most worthless, horrible part of the world. Republicans, barbecue, evangelicals, tobacco, country music, Wal-Mart, Jessica Simpson, Britney Spears – all the evils that I associate with summer, heat and sun. And it feels like San Francisco is Atlanta, Dallas, Orlando or some other miserable summer sewer. Heat, heat go away. I may have to start living in my car to soak in the only personal air conditioning I have available. I may just stay at Office Depot all day and buy more ink cartridges and SD cards. Because it is hot, hot, worthlessly, pointlessly hot, and smelly, sticky crowds of people are pouring into Jamba Juice like melting. slimy slugs while others buy frapaccinos at the Safeway Starbuck's stand and only soak in the fattening sugar to show more hideous, please don’t make me look at them, fat tattooed guts and flabby arms on display. Yes, I know you had it inked and pierced, but -- PLEASE -- cover up that hideous flesh. Bring me Parka weather. The sound of flip flops with that sing-song, bad rap music gone worse is pounding in my ears like feverish, rabid rodents gnawing at my brain. Fippity, floppity, floppity, flippity -- as those filthy, sweaty feet traipse through Safeway to take gallon containers of Lucerne ice cream to the express lane.

Screw you worthless that keeps claiming it’s 64 degrees in the 94110 zip code. 64? Maybe in centigrade! Fly me to Nome or Reykjavik or any place that doesn’t have a summer. All the windows at home are open, and the sounds of hot, skanky, screaming children vibrate the walls. The stench of their hot, dirty diapers is so ripe I think I can almost see it climbing over the fence and pouring into my personal space, their filthy, feral fecal baby skank is so putridly present that it smells like a pile of peppered pooh roasting on a George Foreman Grill. Our once foggy, near frigid paradise has been transformed into a swirling urine and feces filled hot tub where howling Birkenstock-clad, stench-infested granola types congregate, their horrid odors emerging in full force, liberated from their thin, useless veneer of Tom's of Maine deodorant. Out the front window I see a fat, sweaty gut slithering beneath a tank top like a bowl of jiggling, oily gravy flown in from Nashville. And on top of that he has a cigarette in that septic tank of a mouth. He blows out a smoke ring that has the robust resonance of molded feces roasting on an open fire, his breath as fresh as someone who just rimmed a German Shepherd.

Summer, the worst, most ruthlessly worthless season of all. Go away. Go away. Go away. I want to go for a walk. I want to exercise. I want to be outside. But I can't because it's fucking summer!!! Not the good, foggy San Francisco summer, but the shitty, southern summer of my worst nightmares. Can't move. Can't breathe. I feel like a Pentacostal woman wearing her best Lane Bryant floral microfiber floral print blouse, trapped in a trailer in one of the bad suburbs of Houston who can't do anything but eat gravy-covered fried slop, pork products and barbecue while smoking and watching Fox News and Dr. Phil.

Oh, I almost feel better just letting out all that hot air and hoping it lands in Texas. Then I see that says our high tomorrow is going to be 84 which must means it will really be 140.

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