A Quick Word: 100 degree temps are as enjoyable as a dentist visit

Screw this heat and its mother, the sun.

Happy 4:20 pm posting. There are few things in life that my mind will forever refuse to change its stance on.

**WARNING: The word “fuck” will be used in this article, just like Rolling Stone Magazine and Esquire Magazine regularly do. Live with it, or click out for Huff Post.**

“Heat” is a masterpiece.

Fruit does not belong on pizza.

Hot weather is not enjoyable.

It’s currently so hot outside, my nice pool is too warm to swim in. 97 degrees with a heat index of 106. Essentially, if my bald head would stand underneath the sky’s mother oven for more than 20 minutes, you could fry an egg on top of it. Not a direct scramble; more like a slow, French cuisine type prep.

I hate it. Despise it. This weather is something you can feel in the early morning. The humidity acting like the mean, killing bitch from “Blade Runner: 2049,” destroying everything in its wake until Ryan Gosling stood in her way. Well, St. Louis is out of Ryan Goslings at the moment. It’s awful outside.

After a quick catering delivery and even quicker workout-the gym felt three times as warm, and was too crowded-I came home to take a swim with my kid. 30 minutes was our goal, and we hit the damn time period to a tee. But it became less than enjoyable 10 minutes in. Unless you’re a kid or have friends in the pool, what does one really do in there if he or she can’t float on a raft? Floating under the unblocked sun is like asking for a small serving of skin cancer a few decades early.

Again, the people who find their depression lessened and overall way of life uplifted, I feel happy for you. So happy that I think about you when I am wrapping my head in a cold towel and thinking of white powder on my feet. One can understand that what they need and desire isn’t similar to someone else’s needs, but the ability to complain does make the sizzling temps roll off easier. Until I step outside, that is.

My wife is the polar opposite. An October, California baby, she prefers this sweltering episode of “see what starts to smell first.” She drags me out into it, even when I don’t want to. For me, it’s the climatic scene of “Commando,” where Arnold is suiting up for the ultimate battle with the overweight bad guy who dressed for a rave instead of war. I am armed with OFF bug spray. We’re talking about the green can, and not the sporty yet shitty orange OFF spray.

When I go outside, I crawl in the deep right next to Adele in order to protect myself from blood thieves who need human blood to harvest their babies. And I say, fuck every mosquito’s baby. Fuck them all. Why? Because after they take some crimson out of you, mosquitoes leave fresh saliva on the skin. That’s what makes it itchy. The blood pull? Nope. It’s the spit, like Robert De Niro taking a big, hairy shit in the bank before robbing it in “Heat,” the greatest movie of all time.

100 degrees or more is expected for four of the next ten days. I hate it. I despise it. But I’m so glad you enjoy it.