Few things can match the sheer brutality of a breezeless summer day in Georgia. The sun beats down with unrelenting fury, merciless in its quest to see us mortals wilt, and neath the wicked lash of its rays all surfaces become ruthless irons beneath the feet. The air, sodden with moisture too oppressed by the sun to feel inspired enough to fall, and too laden to drink the heavy sweat that beads upon the brow of man. The sweat lingers, then, a shining, shimmering second skin, unable to cool, and thus it turns it’s frustration to making it’s wearer share in it.
This is not a world for modern man, whose body yearns for the chilling breath of an air conditioned coolness, a frosty respite from the harsh reality of a summer’s heat. How, I wonder, did we last so long as a species beneath this and wickeder climes? How did the men who walked this land even a hundred years past endure this oppression? And more importantly, the question I ask above all others?
Where the fuck is my A/C repairman?