6.21.2010

Sure, it's the heat.

If you don't live in or around St. Louis like me, you might not know that it's currently hotter than balls here right now. Looking at the temperature doesn't do it justice, because that usually only tops out in the high 80s to low 90s. You have to couple in the horrific humidity that makes the heat index, as it was this morning when I left for work at 107 degrees.

Farenheit.


I don't understand how heat indexes work, but the basic gist is "Oh, it's actually only 80 degrees outside, but because of all the moisture in the air and lack of wind it feels like it's 100." Well if it feels like it's 100 doesn't that make it a fucking hundred?


Anyway, there's no respite. It's in the 90s when I wake up and go to work in the morning, and it's in the 90s when I go to bed at night. It's disgusting. As soon as you walk outside you're sweating.


So I was enduring the hell that is Midwestern living while I was pumping gas at the QT by my work when a car pulled up at the pump beside mine. The passenger got out and I noticed right away his pants were sagged to below his knees. I could literally see his legs below where his comically-oversized boxers stopped, his jeans were that low.


If you didn't know, "sagging" (I put it in quotes to sound educated. And white.) originates on Death Row, where inmates are often denied things like "belts" and "elastic bands" and "anything at all because you're probably going to kill yourself or someone else with it," so their pants often sag. This eventually caught on with "gangsta" rap and thus got co-opted, focus-grouped, packaged up and sold to the youth of America as something the cool kids do. Children doing this are literally emulating someone who can't be trusted to not injure themselves or others with an elastic string.


So this guy hops out of the car and immediately lurches into a wild, backward scramble until he smashes into my car. The alarm goes off and he turns around to stare at me, sizing me up before deciding the fat guy with the little girl haircut is probably not a threat.


In MY mind, I'm thinking, "What the fuck is your fucking problem you fucking stupid fuck?" But that's no way to make friends or avoid getting your ass kicked at a gas station, so instead I say to him, "You okay pal?"


He looks at me, completely dazed, and says, "It's hotter than Mama's chicken wings out here." He then proceeds to launch into the most cartoonish, over-acted, drunk stumble I've ever seen into the gas station. Loony Tunes characters don't wobble this much even when they're taking pulls from some jug marked "XXX" and hiccuping every 20 seconds.


But at least I came away with a new phrase to use: "hotter than Mama's chicken wings." I've never heard something so clever, probably because my mom usually just buys chicken wings from a bar.

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