By Jeff Girod
“Why?” I asked.
“Excuse me?” said the realtor.
“He’s a professional athlete who makes millions,” I said. “The Angels play in Orange County. Why the hell wouldn’t he live at the beach?”
The realtor seemed offended but screw her—seriously screw her right in the ear hole, there’s about a dozen things I hate about my home now—and I thought it was a fair question. Everyone who can afford to should live at the beach where it’s never, ever more than 100 degrees.
That’s not to say I’m disparaging the Inland Empire. Everyone has to be from somewhere and this place is better than many. But I give up. You win. Do you hear me up there?
Enough already. Make it stop. Hello-o? Anybody?
It’s been 100 degrees all week. It might as well be 1,000. Why not just kick me in the groin already. But be careful, or your foot might stick. (I stopped wearing underwear months ago. I’ll do anything for a cool breeze.)
And did I mention it’s already October? It’s officially the season when tree leaves are supposed to change colors. Leaves are changing colors all right—they’re on fire.
We’re less than a month away from Halloween. At this rate, trick-or-treaters better dress as Tarzan or nudists.
It’s not supposed to be this hot right now. I know it’s hot like this every year, but every year I forget. (Maybe it’s all the brain damage from all the hot car rides.)
People are trying to cheer each other up by saying, “I heard a rumor that by next weekend it will only be 87!” ONLY. That’s like saying, “I heard they’re only going to chop off the front of your head!”
Whenever I go outside I feel like God is punishing me. I feel like there’s an enormous bratty kid following me around with a Mr. Wizard magnifying glass. Forget suntan lotion, I need a welder’s mask and oven mitts.
Between May and September, they shouldn’t even televise weather reports for the Inland Empire. Just show a cartoon volcano spouting lava, with a few people from Rubidoux on fire.
The entire thing is depressing, seeing forecasts for beaches and mountains where everything is always 15-35 degrees cooler than everything east of Pomona. Do we really need a five-day forecast of what our weather is like? Never mind the 5-day, here’s the 50-day: Stare into the sun and then imagine living on it.
Inexplicable weird goop will melt on the side of your house. Gum kept in your car will turn your cup holders into gumbo. Our joggers should be put on suicide watch.
What does it matter once the temperature hits triple digits? You already know everything you wear is going to be accessorized with forehead pimples and a sweaty ass-ring.
According to weathercurrents.com, Riverside has already had 19 days this year over 100 degrees. The high this year was 110 degrees just a few weeks ago on Sept. 15—and you can bet it’s been way hotter in other parts of the Inland Empire. (Can you hear me, Palm Desert?)
110 degrees . . . how is that even possible? Subtract 45 degrees and that’s still shorts weather. Divide 110 degrees in half and maybe, just maybe, I’m considering a windbreaker. Subtract 77 degrees from 110, and water still wouldn’t be cold enough to freeze.
You shouldn’t be expected to go to work when it’s 110 degrees. You shouldn’t have to go outside at 110 degrees. At that point, it’s less about getting things done and more about making sure your orifices don’t Ziploc shut.
Nobody should have to do anything they don’t want to do when it’s 110. And nobody should be held accountable for his or her actions. I should be able to rob a bank or even stab someone, then look the judge square in the face and say, “You honor, in my defense, it was 110 degrees outside.”
Contact Jeff Girod at firstname.lastname@example.org.