A Letter from a Concerned Reader Regarding the Unusually Hot Weather
I am writing to complain about the drastic rise in heat in our area recently. It seems to be getting hotter and hotter everyday, and I, for one, am outraged! In my day you could go outside for hours on end and lie in a hammock, eat a peach, throw the pit at a squirrel, drink a beer, read the National Review, listen to the ballgame on the radio, take a nap, drink another beer, eat another peach, throw the pit at a neighbor's dog, drink another beer, read some more, go inside, get another peach, make a gin and tonic in one of those 46-ounce cups they give you at the movies, forget to eat the peach, fall while trying to get into the hammock, spill your drink, go inside and make another — this one stronger, slowly maneuver yourself back into your hammock, listen to the game some more, realize game has been over for an hour, take a sip and imagine yourself in some fancy Caribbean resort full of muscular young men wearing straw thongs, immediately change image in head to that of Dorothy Hamill, picture her skating with Mark Hamill, wonder to yourself what happened to all the celebrities named "Hamill," smell the freshly cut grass as your wife mows the lawn, count the number of clouds in the sky shaped like Dorothea Lange's "Migrant Mother" photo from 1936, let your troubles fall away — no wait, that's you, falling out of the hammock, tell your wife to get you another drink, and so what if there's no gin — improvise, gently get back into your hammock, massage what may be a torn ligament, blow your wife a kiss as she hands you what appears to be a bloody mary, kick off your shoes, wonder who took your peach, maybe it was James, laugh to yourself, think of "James and the Giant Peach," wonder why he had such a big peach, wish you had a big peach, peaches are good, peaches are juicy, peaches are tasty, try to figure out why James would steal your peach, guzzle the rest of your bloody mary, think to yourself, "This doesn't taste like a peach," throw your "Air Force One" cup on the ground, scream for your wife, stare up at her, try not to crack up as you point to her breasts and ask, "Can you make peach schnapps with those things?", burst out laughing even as she flips you out of the hammock, crawl out of bed the next day, go to work, and dream of simpler times.
But all that is impossible in this heat!
— A Concerned Citizen