5 Reasons I Hate Summer

summer heatI woke up this morning and, for the first time, I could see autumn from here.  What a relief!  It’s not that I hate summer; it’s just that summer is so-o-o-o-o long and sweaty and inconvenient and bug-infested and sticky and annoying and … I think I’ve made my point.

Here are five reasons I’m happy to finally see autumn coming.

Summer is noisy — Everybody and his sister thinks they have a moral obligation to share their taste in music with the universe.  From the middle of May to Labour Day, Earth’s atmosphere is wall-to-wall stereos, blasting away like the Seven Trumpets of the Apocalypse.  It’s a wonder other planets don’t get pissed off and call the cops.

Summers are underdressed — It’s as if the entire world went to the beach and never came home.  I’m no prude, but men, shirts (even t-shirts) should have sleeves, not gaping holes; dirty feet are not fetish material, especially in a bank or a restaurant; and ladies, boobs and bum cheeks should go on the inside of whatever you’re wearing — that’s why you’re wearing it.

It’s hot — Mother Nature goes nuts every the summer — that’s her job — but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

The food sucks — I like BBQ as well as the next man, but I don’t believe 30,000 years of human development should be thrown away every time the sun shines.  We’re not Neanderthals, and contemporary life should feature better cuisine than a glob of potato salad, a lukewarm beer and a slab of overcooked meat snatched from a backyard crematorium by somebody wearing a “Kiss the Cook” apron.

And finally:

Nobody’s around — Every time you want to do something important, the person you need to sign the form, stamp the approval or initial the receipt is always on vacation.  There is nothing more frustrating than standing there, up to your elbows in some bureaucrat’s idea of paperwork Nirvana, while the one person you simply have to have to complete the process is at the beach, dancing half-naked around the fire while her drunken secretary is busy flipping the burgers — all to the tune of “In The Summertime” by Mungo Jerry.


Why I Hate Summer!

Now that summer’s practically over, I can safely say I was never a big fan.  I don’t mean this summer in particular.  All things considered, it was pretty good.  I’m talking about summers in general: that interminable time between frivolous spring and serious autumn.  To me, summers have always been a kind of hurry-up-and-wait clock watcher, full of relentless heat and go out and play.  Translation: it’s too stinkin’ hot to do anything except get skin cancer, so let’s pretend we’re having fun until it cools off and we can do something interesting.   It’s no coincidence that half the season is called “dog days.”  Here are the six and a half reasons why I hate summer.

1 – Everybody complains about the heat.  For ten months of the year people pray, sacrifice small animals and practically sell their soul on eBay for summer to arrive.  Then,the minute it gets here they spend the next two months bitchin’ about how hot it is.  Folks; believe me, nobody needs to know where the water is collecting in your underwear – or why.

2 – Nobody wears enough clothes.  There is a small, select group of people in this world who look good semi-naked.  The rest of us need to be a whole lot more judicious about what we choose not to wear.  Here’s a good rule of thumb: if it looks like your ass is eating your swimming costume, you need to do that in the privacy of your own home, not at the mall.  Men, just because you can take your shirt off it doesn’t mean you should.  Women, if most of you is overflowing your wardrobe, you need a bigger size.  Remember: just because it zips doesn’t mean it fits.

3 – Barbeques.  Humans have spent the last 50,000 years in a steady evolutionary path away from their half-animal ancestors who huddled under trees for shelter.  So what’s the first thing we do when the weather turns warm?  Run outside and cook dinner over an open fire.  I don’t care what anybody says barbeques are all about swishing the flies off bad cuts of meat which are then placed in a crematorium until everybody’s too drunk to give a damn what they’re eating.

4 – Loud music.  It’s summer.  The surface temperature of any given street is measured in solar units.  As a small protection against heat stroke and eventual death, people have their windows open – day and night.  Suddenly, every moron with a stereo cranks that baby up to DefCon 4.  SUVs with blacked-out windows cruise the night, sounding  like Heart/Lung machines, the seventeen-year-old white kid two blocks over thinks he’s Lil Wayne’s nephew and granny in the fourplex just loves Shania Twain.  This is what the CIA does to Al Qaeda prisoners to make them talk.  It’s like spending your vacation at Gitmo.

5 – Traffic.  Every year, one minute after they throw the checkered flag at the Indy 500, it’s ladies and gentlemen, start your engines.  For the next two months, half the population takes to the open road — except there is no open road because half the population’s on it.  Between vacationing commuters who haven’t driven an automobile since this time last year and the Department of Holidays (Highways?) tearing up every inch of asphalt with a curb on it, nobody is going anywhere without pushing their stress level to apoplectic shock.  Just getting to 7/11 for a slurpee is a twelve obscenity job – and that’s if you’re walking.

6 – Idiot Weathermen.  The fact is there are only so many ways anybody can say, “It’s going to be so-o-o hot tomorrow you’re going to want to kill yourself.”  Therefore, every summer, television stations give their weather people idiot jobs to do.  They run the contests, interview the lemonade stand kids and give out the birthday greeting to folks like Mabel Hawthorne who’s ninety-one years young.  Eventually, they show up at the State Fair, where they eat Deep-Fried Mars Bars and make absolute fools of themselves screaming on the Tilt-a-Whirl.  There’s got to be a better way to make a living.

6.5 – Useless baseball games.  Major league baseball plays something like 60 million games a year, and between Independence Day and Labor Day most of them are meaningless.  How many times can Toronto play Seattle for God’ sake?  It’s the only real sport in the summer.  The least they could do is make some of it interesting.

Back in the day, when we toiled for our daily bread, we needed summer, if for no other reason than to remind us that Mother Nature still loved her children.  However, in our contemporary concrete canyon existence, summer isn’t a season anymore; it’s a travesty.  It turns us into half-naked savages, grunting around a backyard barbeque, screaming at the kids to turn that damn music down, while simultaneously picking portions of our apparel out of our crevices and wishing it would rain.  God, I’m glad it’s nearly over.

Summertime – and The People are Greasy!

Today, I saw the first sign that yet another spring is steadily steaming towards summer.  The tank tops have come out of their long winter hibernation.  Soon, shorts will follow as millions of women (and more than a few men) shave, whack and cream away their winter pelts in preparation for partial nudity.  From there, it’s only a matter of a few degrees and all that exposed flesh will start reeking of sunscreen in a sweet serenade to the solstice and beyond.

I have nothing against the human body; all of my friends have one.  Nor do I mind summer, although it’s not my favourite season.  However, I find it quite odd that every year our culture demands we take off most of our clothes in homage to the sun, then smear ourselves pasty with unidentifiable chemicals in paranoid protection against it.  There’s an A in this logical train, and a B, but for the life of me, I can’t find C.  I’m actually worried that future anthropologists will take one National Geographic-funded look at our society and conclude we were a stupid, frivolous people who worshipped flab.  That would be the natural conclusion if our civilization meets its demise anytime between the end of May and Labour Day.

I can just imagine the 3D hologram documentary: a team of scientists digging up scores of corpses, all perfectly preserved (and permanently stuck together) by the SPF 60 embalming fluid we are imbibing through every pore.  The monotone voiceover would be priceless.  (Read this in a standard BBC accent.)
“We don’t know a lot about the Normerica people, really.  However, from the data we’re finding, we can conclude that they spent most of their wealth on food.  As you can see, they were abnormally fat and practically naked.”
“Why do you think they gathered around water?”
“We don’t know why exactly, but some evidence suggests they were trying to wash off this slimy crap we’re finding everywhere.  Tissue samples show that this is probably the substance that killed them.”
“Other scientists have postulated that the Normericas actually used these dangerous chemicals to coat their bodies as part of a Death Cult ritual.  What do you say to that?”
“Most serious scholars dismiss those theories as academic sensationalism.  If there were any of these so-called Death Cults, they would most certainly have involved food.  Just take a look at the size of these people and notice the family grouping — even the children.  Look at the distended abdomen, the heavy thighs; here we see signs of adolescent cellulite.  No, it’s quite apparent that food was the Normericas’ number one priority.  Their whole lives revolved around it.  We believe they discarded their clothes as a visual affirmation of their devotion to food.  I doubt very much if they concerned themselves with the damage these chemicals were doing until it was too late.  Of course, this is still speculation, but we hope this particular find will shed more light of the Normerican culture.”
“Thank you so much, Dr. Kardashian.  This is Justin Bieber XVII, reporting live from the Pacific Coast outside Las Vegas, Nevada.”

It could happen!

I realize that we’re rubbing our way through the ozone layer at such an alarming rate that the rays of our life-giving sun are becoming dangerous to exposed flesh.  I also realize that our society has developed a sophomore titillation with peekaboo, and since we abandoned discretion back when Paris Hilton was a puppy we need to protect ourselves.  However, the logical solution is not an extended chemical bath — especially since, in the last two decades, we’ve collectively gained enough weight to populate a whole new country.  Here’s the deal, folks.  I don’t care what season it is, or how sexy you want to be, if you look like a stunt double from Free Willy the movie, cover yourself!   Not only will you being doing yourself a favour by not playing hide and seek with melanoma, your neighbours will thank you.  Perhaps not to your face but, believe me, they’ll appreciate your efforts.  And guys, this includes painting yourself orange and showing up at football games with your shirt off – it’s not appealing.  In fact, as Red Green once said, “You’re frightening the children and confusing the babies.”

I know summer’s coming, but this year, instead of spending tons of money on clothes that hardly cover what Mother Nature provided and greasing the rest of you up with God only knows what chemical concoction, could we just pause for a second and look in a mirror?  As a man of the world (with an ever-increasing equator) I know of what I speak.