Why do we call it a heat wave? Waves are supposed to be refreshing, cleansing, cool, ride-able. Waves tumble over you when you're twelve years old, visiting relatives in California, the hollow hoot of the water collapsing around you, so cold your teeth chatter. Or they're supposed to be friendly, like saying hello to a friend, or they're supposed to be a bonding experience, like at a Syracuse Chiefs minor league game.
Can 100 degrees wish me a good day from across the street? Can 80 percent humidity get out of his seat and raise his arms and spill his Bud Light when the sea swell of humanity corners its way around the stadium. I. Think. Not.
If it's hot, it's not a wave. If it's a wave, it's not made of heat. So, let's rename it, jerks. It's a piledriver. Or a tackle. Or a grizzly bear. A big, wallowing mammal of mugginess, terrorizing the streets. And, now, this blog.
True Story Scale: 10
Sorry. I don't normally complain about the weather.
True Story Scale: 0