When Mad Dogs and Englishmen retire for respite within the confines and contructs, you know is hot. The current luft ladden with wasser blankets our environs you don’t hear the naysayers expounding on the wacko of Waco bitumen melting mercury reports. As mercurial as it is, the stifle is only louder than ole’ Archie Bunker would have it.
Tick Tick Tick, that great southern yarn about the strife between races opens with the wagering on eggs frying on the Parthenon or not. Seconds and minutes pass, then one bubble, a spurt, another crackle and then the whole ovum denaturing to its recognizable whiteness. Drop your mouse now and go outside and see if you can flip and egg on your walk or drive.
Only after success will you not be so averse to the heat we are experiencing. After all, heat is just a concept: you cannot touch it, lift it, drink it, or change it. Even my Davidson by Harley sprigs off more heat than a roast tomato in Italy. No heated truncheon can hammer through my armour of coolness.
Purgatory would be cooler in a freeze dried summer. Roast some Java on my bean before I bust’da’move. The weather is always on my mind as you are too. Placating those with pulchritude gleaned from the orb above us. Sol the source of all life beating on those wishing and not wishing for it. Masses slathering massive amounts of SPF 1 billion on their appendages like salsa on a Tostito.
Will the desire for the sun be overpowered by the distaste for it? Will those congregants be blessed with a tawny tan or be left the white ghostlike walking dead we fear? Chalk white dirge dancers dosing at midday. Baskers busking for bucks from the Sun God. Each summer we heat our Java on hot stones baked with the mad dogs and Brits.
And alas my namesake has been born, Alexander’s Rag Time band will play me to the beach. No Joe Louis here, and no George and Ringo starring in my parade. I take full responsibility for Alexander being chosen. Debate me not yee of little faith.
My cup runneth over Madge, not so full next time.
Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau.
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