Heat: The Joys of Excessive Heat and the Pleasant Acrid Sweat Staining my Burning Armpits.
I woke up this pleasant morning sprawled atop a waterlogged mattress soaked in heat-induced bodily fluids, sweat mostly, but questionable from the concerning quantity of pore juice that could fill multiple mason jars with a refreshing, yet salty beverage -- like tasteful saline water flavored not with delicious extracts, but with my bodily excretions. My recently-dry jogging shorts and my acrid bed sheets, like the mattress, bore the texture of a damp wash rag held under a soft stream of running water -- wrapping me like a steaming double-beef burrito that had been left out in the rain, and compelling me to delusively question if I survived another nightmare with the human-eating 6-foot-tall ducks, before realizing that its 95 degrees in my f*ckin' bedroom, and the moisture is not contained to my jogging shorts. I swung my leg over the left side of my bed, but I was jolted by a gentle tug on my testicles, that had been eloquently welded to my left thigh, from the same salty sludge converting my bed sheets into a half-used rag; those same testicles attempted to overpower the stench of my armpits that were emanating a pungent odor strong enough to deter my cat from approaching. Heat, the antagonist of this story, is the byproduct of an omnipotent God who does not know how to properly regulate his creation's climate, either from negligence or sheer stupidity.
According to science -- a fictitious topic, similar to religious studies or psychology (not entirely fictitious, but I don't need a doctor to inform me that I have problems; my mother does an adequate job), attempts to explain molecules and matter and weird-tasting hallucinogenic mushrooms and f*cked up personality traits and even the weird growth on my upper thigh. This subject, which modern youth have been brainwashed into believing because "someone said so", claims that heat is the result of a large ball of explosive gases, positioned close enough to prevent molecules from freezing, but just far enough away to not incinerate human life, with bizarre fluctuating temperatures that range from almost lethal to almost lethal, a claim with no empirical proof, as the sun is hotter than a German stove and exists somewhere deep in the galaxy. How a collection of simple-celled monkeys rationaled that the large yellow blob in the sky is really just a planetary campfire instead of the egg yolk of a giant prehistoric duck that has been drifting through outer space for thousands of years, continues to baffle my uneducated brain. But the idea of a duck drifting through the universe shitting space eggs is amusing and a sky-fire that regulates the temperature of a giant rock is boring and unimaginative.
Heat was an initial flaw of the design of the planet; heating a rock with a distant fire is no more effective than burning gasoline in a used plastic drum when sitting around a campfire. But, to exacerbate the issue further, in recent centuries, a species of invasive monkey native to the entire land surface, began burning trash in barren fields to generate electricity that can heat microwaveable dinners, turn on light bulbs and vibrators, and magically load Pornhub into our browsers when we're bored and alone at 1 in the morning. When travelling to Stop & Shop for processed meat instead of slaughtering their own cattle, humans burn combustible liquids in their cars, releasing carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, which further heats up the planet. Melting ice caps are not a concern; flooding only affects those at the shoreline, like Florida and California -- places we can afford to lose. But according to "trustworthy" sources, that have other "trustworthy" sources claiming the opposite, humans are causing additional heating of the planet, which correlates to additional sweat stains in my T-shirt.
Excessive heat has many undesired effects: sweat, odor, warm beverages. But the most disastrous impact is when I am within close proximity to women. When conversing with a woman, my body naturally tenses up like the clenched cheeks of a suspected cheater on the Steve Wilkos Show during a polygraph examination, my mouth renders incapable of forming basic sentences likely to induce a friendly response, and the nerves governing my flight-or-flight instincts is programmed to dash away in anxious embarrassment. Needless to say, I am at an evolutionary disadvantage, and now, to combat unregulated heat from governing the temperature with a fuckin' ball of fire in the sky, my body autonomously emanates odorous excretions that reminds women that they are late for their dentist appointments. On one hand, this decreases the chances of finding a suitable mate, while indirectly shielding me from sirens, child support obligations, annoying pedestrians at Walmart, and most animals.
The decision to regulate the Earth's temperature by spinning a giant rock around a massive ball of fire is an unnecessary construction to prevent wildlife from dying, when an omnipotent God should be capable of engineering constant temperatures of 65 degrees, universally dispersed across the planet. But considering God's terrible execution of his ideas -- inventing cancer, autism, and residents of Alabama, it is not surprising that God could not find an efficient way to regulate the temperature of a solitary rock. Factor in God's sociopathic tendencies, such as drowning millions of humans in rainwater because a couple of them were imperfect, one must consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, God is overheating our climate to fulfill some sick, guilty pleasure.
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