With the summer months approaching, I am becoming increasingly anxious. Not because the urge to go swim with my deep-sea friends is torturing me, or because long days basking in the sun allure me. It’s just too damn hot, and I don’t like it. Let’s get one thing straight from the beginning; the sun and I are not friends. In fact, it is the longest running battle of savagery I know; me vs. the sun.
We Irish are blessed with a myriad of superpowers. However, our kryptonite is ironically the very thing that gives Superman his powers, our asshole yellow sun. The blood of an Irishman is too thick for these grueling summer days. That is why we have to drink so much; it thins our blood so we can more aptly blend with the non-superhuman. After 23 years of being absolutely miserable three months out of the year, I have a gripe with Mr. Sun.
The increasing temperature produces a strange phenomenon. This monster of a beast is known as “Swamp Ass”. Swamp Ass is a cruel fate for the glandular inferior. Behold:
Scary. Especially if you have an ass that large, Swamp Ass is the last stigma you want to befall you. It is basically a neon sign reading, “Hey ladies, stinking fat ass over here.” If you are trying to run any game, whether it is with some ladies, a business deal, or swindling the idiot down the block, Swamp Ass is an instant kill.
This is why the business suit standard is black; this color can counteract the evils of Swamp Ass. However, do not fret when Swamp Ass strikes. You should be glad your glands are working correctly; they are cooling your fat ass. So, if you come across a stuck up bitch who gives you lip about your Swamp Ass, just give her some wisdom from Kevin James, “I’m just a delicious piece of man meat, and you’re gonna have to deal with it.”
Sunburn is more wickedness unleashed by that nefarious ball of gas. My superpowers decline exponentially when the sun is bombarding me. I was walking home from work the other day, and it was a reasonable 75, yet the UV index was at some unnatural level. I could actually feel my skin getting hotter and burning. I had to race home like a vampire on the Summer Solstice. (For all you retards, that’s the longest day of the year. Hence, that day has the most sun exposure. Eh, I don’t know why I waste my talent on you.)
I had a dream (nightmare?) the other night about me being at the beach for a day, next thing I knew, I woke up with sunburn. I’m not worried about the sun though, because I’m going to live forever, or die trying.
There are however, activities that I love so much that I will venture outdoors and brave the ills of the sun. Topping that list is the most savage game; horseshoes. Horseshoes is probably the only thing I enjoy about the summer. In Williamsburg, our cul-de-sac would coordinate days off with our respective places of business just to play guilt free shoes. The first stake would be planted around noon, and the games would last until the final rays waned on the horizon. Horseshoes cannot be played with less than a case of beer. This is a tailored made drinking game. Any game where you throw around heavy, possibly life-threatening objects must be coupled with massive consumption of beer.