Sweatin' Like a Whore in Church

I hate summers in the Deep South. If you're from the North, imagine walking around in a warm and wet blanket for six months out of the year. Because it's not just hot, it's humid. And water (if you remember your science from high school) conducts heat like a mother fucker.

So pretty soon you're covered in this soupy sweat shit all day, and there's nothing to do. You can faint if you think terribly strenuous thoughts. Before the advent of air conditioning, my grandfather said that people just lounged around butt naked all day on their front lawns. Made weed whacking an adventure, he would claim. Of course, he was an alcoholic, but I'm pretty sure that's a pretty strong point.

In the middle of July, crack dealers will switch to selling ice water for a few weeks, because there's a greater profit margin. Hookers give it away for free if you rent a hotel room with a swimming pool, I hear. Usually they get along famously with the crack dealers for those few weeks, causing a crime drop in the middle of Lincoln for a while.

The Sno Cone shacks around town get temporary tax-free status, as their clientele begins to approach something of a cult status. Their customers camp out in tents, read from the company's manual, and hold quiz bowls on the subject matter. It's pretty freaky stuff.

I could go on and on, but trust me, it's pretty fuckin' hot down here.