Okay, hot is supposed to be used when a cute, shirtless, tan, dark-haired, dark-eyed guy walks by.  Hot is the appropriate adjective for the sweet delicious apple nail polish red corvette a blond gets out of (just ask George Jones).  Hot would be the right description for a combination of the two:  a muscled-up, nicely dressed boy hopping out of a cool ride with a sexy, yet modest swagger. 

Heck, we can even use the term caliente when the waiter brings the steak and lobster platter and tells you the bottom is too-warm to touch.  It can be mentioned when you reach for your morning cup of survival coffee from the local barista.  It can describe the baked potato that has steam billowing out.

Hot can be the oven that was forgotten and left on for hours, or the campfire used to make your wieners and smores.  Perhaps it accurately describes the flames coming from a NASCAR wreck or the sexual tension between co-eds, but let me assure you it shouldn’t be used in conversation when talking about the weather for weeks on end!

I feel like it’s so hot we should be telling the “it’s so hot, your momma done used me as a fan last night” jokes.  I don’t know about you but here’s what I think shouldn’t be scalding:  the steering wheel, the door knob, the drooped-over, nearly dead plant, the bottle of water that I put in the car 15 minutes ago, nose hair follicles, mail in your mailbox, or your feet as you attempt to walk between lawn chair and pool. 

Detest would be an understatement in portraying my feelings toward heat advisories that suggest not leaving my house because it’s the kind of burger-grilling, egg frying, dog panting, sweat-dripping crazy hot that makes you see a Mike’s Hard Lemonade mirage in the front door window.  There’s nothing worse than butt crack sweat lines and bubbles of perspiration taking a lazy river approach to meandering down my neck, chest, and fat rolls.  It’s just not right.  It’s not kind.  It’s not acceptable.  Not only do you have to do laundry more often, you have a higher A/C bill, you have flashbacks to the foul smell of junior high locker rooms after the mile run when you wring out your shirt after mowing the lawn, and worst of all, you might even consider going nekkid for all the neighborhood to see!   

I know they call them the dog days of summer but even Snoopy would have flown his plane outta here if he’d seen that! 

So the hot has to go, and by go I do not mean nose drips to the ground.  I mean the ridiculous heat needs to find its way back down to the 80’s (and I don’t mean the Cyndi Lauper kind).  But in the meantime, just keep your shades pulled, okay?

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