It's so very, very hot.

The AC is out.

The AC is out and I’m sitting here making my own nut soup. It’s a complicated dish that requires you to be a 250 pound man sitting in an 85 degree house on top of a electric blanket. The secret ingredient is ginger. Mmmmmmmmmm.

This shit happens to us every year, every god damn year. You may be asking us why don’t we just go ahead and buy a new air conditioner. I’ll tell you why. Because we just bought this house for Christ’s sake. It was our old house that the AC went out in every summer.

This is not supposed to be in the new house. What the hell? Do I have some Chernobyl type radiation coming out of my sweaty pores that breaks down air conditioners? Or maybe it’s the glare off my blinding bald head that reflects my misery, maybe that’s it. You like that god? You like seeing a fat man sweat? You like that back sweat stain that I keep leaving on every piece of furniture. When Hossmom kicks me out for soiling all our fine linens, I expect some goodies coming my way. I want my own comandment. Thou shalt not run out of clean underwear.

When this happened last time, why just last year, I bought two fans to help keep us cool. One is a standard box fan and the other is the deluxe Porter 2000. It’s what the Japanese car makers use in their wind tunnel. That one was all mine. I would place it by the bed and prepare to have the gentle breeze of a hurricane pass over my supine body while I dreamed of the freezer aisle at the local grocery. Good times.

That was when we only had one kid. The other one was safely tucked away in Hossmom’s belly thus letting good old Dad enjoy his Porter and a glass of bourbon. But now kid number two is in the house and they are both asleep.

Anyone want to take a guess where my fans are? That’s right, both the kids get the fans and I get ass crack sweat. Let’s chalk that up on the good old Dad Scoreboard of Sacrifices. Let’s see, where do I stand.

I quit my job to raise my children, that’s a point. When Little Hoss was puking her guts out 4 months ago she demanded to be held, which I did, which allowed her to puke on my back, that’s a point. Bubba Hoss didn’t want to sleep through the night on many occasions, that’s at least 50 points. And finally, I never ever under any circumstances get the last cookie.

Ok, let’s run that tally. Let’s see, carry the one, divide by the number of years I will use this to guilt trip my children, minus the number of years I’ll be in a nursing home because I can’t live with them and……..

It’s a million to 2. They got the two points for Little Hoss punching a nurse during Bubba Hoss’s birth and I like family loyalty and they got another point for Bubba Hoss being cute enough at the pool that all the hot chicks wanted to come talk to me.

So you guys owe me. I want my fans back. I want my fans back and I want to live inside a working refriderator complete with air holes so that I don’t suffocate, because ya know, that would be bad.

But I’ll tell you want, we’ll call all this even if someone would keep the dogs away from me. They are licking my legs at every turn. It’s not enough that I am sweating enough that my body has it’s own low and high tides. I’m dodging mutts left and right like little slobbering tongue mine fields and I’m beginning to get annoyed. And yes, I tried kicking at them but they think that means HUMP ME! GET OFF MY LEGS!

This is the Midwest, why is it so hot? I don’t get it. They say, oh, it’s not to bad, just wait for the winter.

Ok, here I am. I’m ready for the winter. Show me some snow. Let’s see some of that good old snow. Just scoop up a big handful and stuff it in my pants, that would be great. Let’s cool off that chode a little people, go ahead, dig around in there and get it packed nice and tight.

But there is no snow. There is only the heat waves coming off my forehead so that I’m distorting my own vision. It’s like a F-16 is in my living room running an engine test. Knock it off admiral, I’m sweltering here.

The A/C guy couldn’t come until tomorrow to which I replied “Prick!” but I went ahead and made the appointment anyway. What are you supposed to do? It’s not like I have a whole lot of choices here. No, if you can’t come now then don’t even bother coming at all. I’ll just sit here and sit in my sweat of spite and prove to you how valuable a customer you lost. And no, I wouldn’t like a nice drink of water. I want to be able to get up off my leather chair without having to be rubbed down with cooking spray first, that’s what I want.

So I’ll wait, unable to sleep, unable keep my clothes dry, until the A/C repairman comes. I wait for you sir, you are my new Santa. Until you get here, I silently pray for a Tornado to crash through my living room.

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