Not in that I’m-Paris-Hilton-and-everything-is-so-hawt-and-sexxy way that makes you want to harm small, fuzzy things. It’s truly hot here in the T Dot. As I just heard it so aptly put, “It’s, like, soooo hawt, dude. If I stand out there for 5 seconds I can fry boogers in my hand.” To which Dude replied, “For real.”
(I can’t wait for Richard to get to this stage of life so that I can hit him up with dude-speak. I’m gonna write all these gems down.)
It’s 33 degrees here today – add in humidity and it’s 42 (degrees Celsius). And of course, the Toronto Transit boys’n’girls with their impeccable timing, staged a wildcat strike this morning. I’m actually ok with the strike. They have concerns, no one is listening. And they claim they were locked out by management. Thank the Bus-and-Train God that they’re not hockey players or we’d all be walking for a year.
So we all walked, biked, or drove with more than one person in our vehicles this morning. True it’s not minus 25, but it’s hawt! Steamy, sticky, smelly. Why didn’t they do this last week when it was nice out? Why do it when everywhere smells like the zoo? Oh, TTC. Your timing. Your timing …
I would write a poem or something. Maybe something snazzy and clever about cooking phlegmy substances on your overheated digits. But I can’t. I’m hawt. And I have to walk home with a thousand other stinky people. There is no art in this moment for me my friends.