It’s Not the Goddamn Heat, It’s the Fucking Humidity

What’s that? Oh, you bet. Sure is. I’ll tell you, it’s the hottest it’s been in a long while ’round these parts. Why, it sure enough could peel the paint off a barn.

But I’ll tell you something: it’s not the goddamn heat, it’s the fucking humidity.

It’s like a thousand and one alien suns had decided just now to descend upon the earth in the hopes of quickly stifling all human desires and—

What did you say? Oh beejesus! Can’t you feel the Christ-fucking dampness around us? It’s everywhere!

Are you slick-shitting me? You’re telling me it’s not the fucking hottest you’ve ever felt in your whole worthless Judas Priestly life? And even then it’s not because of the God’s-cock-sucking dewpoint?

Fuck you, you fucking liar. I said it, I’ll say it again: fuck you.

You whoreson dog! I’m honestly surprised that the entire air is not dense with a demonic fog, filled with creatures so Christing horrible they defy description.

If the death-veiled heat had not stolen all my motivation toward movement, I would strike you squarely in the nose, causing splinters of bone to be driven upwards into your philistine brain.

You’re not worth the sweat beads off of that dead whore’s decomposing snatch-hairs. Yes, I killed her. Why, you ask? The fucking humidity!

Ah, cock! I wouldn’t trust your meteorological skills over that of a retarded groundhog.

That’s right: Give me the pea-brained fucking creatures of the earth before I trust your mongoloid judgment on any other fucking thing of consequence.

You a fucking cowardly child molester and—yes, I’ll say it again—a liar, sir.

Fuck. Is it ever humid.