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Update 24 January 2005 by Amazing Ben
I had some grand, witty update swirling in my head all week, destined to be filled with incredibly insightful witticisms, biting social commentaries, explosions, cyborgs, monkeys, prostitutes and exploding cyborg monkey prostitutes. However, as this week drags on I am gradually coming to a startling realization that is currently dominating my every thought. Something so monumental, that it could change the way I look at life forever. Dearest readers, I think that I am slowly freezing to death.
Many of you uncultured buffoons out there may not have heard of the tiny rural Northeastern hamlet in which I am currently residing, but rest assured that temperatures are far below ambient in the quaint shire of Boston. This week we've encountered such ungodly highs as six, eight, and one. And let me be the first to tell you that when the daily high-low temperature forecast closely resembles the box score of a well-pitched baseball game, you better just say goodbye to having any feeling in your testicles for the next twenty-four hours. So this week, I've decided to scrap my monkey hooker update in lieu of a detailed list of all the reasons why it sucks to freeze your ass off every single day of your life.
One Isn't a Temperature, It's an Absolute Value
While I was born in Philadelphia (Go Eagles), I actually spend the better part of fifteen years growing up in Coral Springs, Florida, an area which is not particularly well-known for blisteringly cold temperatures or arctic conditions but rather for scantily-clad half-plastic babes and mosquitos the size of small hams. So you can imagine the "oh my God what the hell is going on" look that was splashed across my face the first time I was outside in single-digit temperatures and quickly realizing that skinny-ass bitches such as myself are not meant to survive in these types of conditions. It was sort of a cross between the people's eyebrow and the expression on the face of that guy from the Pistons-Pacers game right when he figured out Ron Artest was about to jack him in the mouth. Well, if you can't picture what that would look like, just come by and see me sometime because it is so goddamned cold up here that my face is probably permanently frozen in that position. I'm like those cartoon characters that get shut in a meat locker for a week and come out blue and with icicles hanging off of their noses.
 This is your cock in one degree weather. |
 This is your left ball in one degree weather. |
Yeah, I'm the kind of guy who stands at the bus stop with his girlfriend in sub-zero temperatures and is like, "hey, we should huddle for warmth" or "I hear friction is a good way of increasing body temperature" or some other such unfortunately-timed inappropriate comment. However, whatever you have heard to the end that huddling for warmth will actually warm you up is completely false. Huddling for warmth does little except cause you to permanently freeze to the person you are huddling with, and while this may be preferable if the person you are huddling together with is Hot Andrea, it could really suck if you are with someone less attractive or if you accidentally bump into creepy old man in an oversized trenchcoat. No, huddling for warmth really just succeeds in pressing your cold ass clothes up against your body and making you realize how fucking frigid the temperature is and make you seriously contemplate jabbing icicles in your brain until you pass out. Your best bet when the wind chill is that brutal is to just turn your back to the wind and try to position your body so that no part of your arms or legs is actually touching any piece of clothing. That way, the wind will sweep right up under your coat or pants and your heavy winter gear will afford you roughly the same amount of protection as a pair of Union Jack boxer briefs. So in the end your choices are basically, "do I want to jump into the Arctic Ocean, or use this icy pond as a slip-n-slide?".
Even your gay friends can't save you now.
Dude. I was walking the other day, and a huge ass chunk of ice fell off the top of a five or six story building and smacked me right in the shoulder. Holy shit, did that hurt. It was like some dude ran up behind me and smashed me between the shoulder blades with a shovel or something. I spun around and was like, "what the fuck" thinking that someone had like thrown an icy rock at me or something, but there was nobody there. The people I was with informed me that a huge block of ice had fallen right on me and that it was freaking funny or something. Holy crap that shit hurt. Plus, then the ice started melting and was like an ice cube down the back, which was unpleasant at best. I had seen a big chunk of snow fall of some woman's head the year before, and it was like one of the funniest things I had seen since that old woman had the subway doors shut on her, but it was a total pain in the ass when I got a taste of my own medicine. The moral is: ALWAYS look up when walking past a tall building after a snowstorm.
Three Feet Is a Shitload of Snow
The best part of the blizzard this weekend was watching a cop car get stuck in the snow outside our house. That ruled. We spend a good part of the afternoon Sunday just listening to tires spinning out on the street outside our apartment and watching jerks try to dig out their stupid cars which they drove into snowbanks like dipshits. Here's a free tip, jerkwad: DON'T DRIVE IN A BLIZZARD. I don't give a crap where you think you need to go, it's probably not worth digging the snow shovel out of your trunk and trying to dislodge a one ton vehicle from the icy hand of death while you get pelted in the face with a Mega Maid-sized snowblower. It does provide entertainment value for me, however.
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| The scene outside my apartment this weekend. | |
I got the "come in if you're able to" email yesterday evening, indicating that I better get my no-car-having ass in to work at 8am this morning for a nine hour shift of freezing my ass off and typing warranty reports. In Florida, you get "Hurricane Days" when there's no rain, but in Boston you can be at risk for frostbite just by walking out your front door and you still have to report as schedule. It totally sucks. Much like this update.
Me on my way to work this morning.
Links of the Week: How to Fake it as a Pop Music Critic The Anagram Site |