In the very near future, everyone will agree that global warming will defeat and devastate mankind. Even the stubborn Republicans, who will fully admit that they knew it all along, but were merely playing devil’s advocate to force the science community to work harder, will demand a change.
Lest we head into the dog days of summer, let us recall the hell days of winter.
It was so cold, the words coming out of Albert Gavoora’s mouth froze, ice cubes of various sizes, each cube representing the length of the word. Conversely, on the other side of the world, extreme heat was killing people left and right.
Albert shut the fuck up and pulled the thick red, white and blue knit scarf over his face. This was the first wise thing Albert had done all day. He prevented his exposed nose from the cruelty of frostbite, and possibly nose amputation. A nose should be a nose, and not a flap of skin, like a door to a teepee.
What he tried to say was, “Jesus son of a bitch, it’s colder than two refrigerators fucking full blast. This ain’t global warming. It’s the ding damn opposite for the sake of Christ. It’s as if no one knows up from down in this fucked up fuck world.”
He waddled off, secured in the Midwestern four-layer wardrobe, thermal underwear, sweats, oversized pants and flannel shirt, all contained in a zip-up hooded snowsuit. Even dressed like this, he could feel the Arctic wind blow right through him.
The moon said, “Checkmate.” The man stood there, dumbfounded. Minutes later he said, “You’re a checkmate.”
Long into the night, the man debated with the moon over the terms waxing and waning. All the while, growing louder and louder with each shot of cheap bourbon they imbibed. The man claimed that the moon was waxing, and the moon insisted that the man was waning.
It did not matter a lick that they were both correct, for there was still a lot of bourbon left. What the two lacked in intelligence, they more than made up for with their impeccable stamina.
Another day in the suburbs, a different kind of perverse.
All evening, things were off at the Wagonsworth household. Hal got home at 6:07 instead of 6:01. Maxine served dinner at 6:20 instead of 6:22. It was Wednesday and instead of the traditional hump day lemon garlic chicken on a bed of overcooked rice, it was a turkey casserole. These breaks of habit went on all evening. Instead of Fox® News, ESPN®. All the while, not one word was exchanged. This was highly unusual in comparison to their constant bickering.
It was midnight. They were in bed eight minutes later than usual. They kissed goodnight like rehearsed robots. Hal rolled on his side to turn off the dusty Hello Kitty™ lamp beside the bed. He broke the silence to say what he had said every night since they got married. “I love you. See you tomorrow, unless I die in my sleep.”
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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