Usually, we at The Writings try to keep things lighthearted. We poke fun at life's quirks. We make light of all we encounter. We even back waterfowl for the country's highest office, despite knowledge that a duck would never be able to carry states where hunting is popular. Such shenanigans are typical business around here. Not today. Today is different. Today is the day The Writings takes a firm stance on an important issue.
Henceforth, The Writings shall be known as a blog that is firmly anti-summer.
That's right, I've had it with summer. What good comes from a season where the weather is so hot that one perspires just thinking of going outside? The temperatures in Kansas have been so sweltering lately that I'm fairly confident area hotels are going to start advertising their parking lots as saunas.
This staunch anti-summer attitude also stems from the fact that the author's workload increases exponentially in the year's sixth and seventh months. Apparently the only reason days get longer during this period is so one can spend more time behind his desk.
Sure, some might argue that someone who enjoys baseball as much as I do should love the summer months. If I had time to get to any games, I might agree. As things currently stand, I still am unsure whether Kauffman Stadium was actually renovated or whether the Royals are playing televised home games in front of a large green screen.
Now you might be wondering how one can commit to an anti-summer agenda when they only support their stance two reasons. Personally, I think the fact that my windows may very well be melting and that I've been too busy lately to buy a jug of milk should be enough, but I'm prepared to give my argument further backing.
What season finds you continually swatting at mosquitos in the evening, and leaves you feeling itchy enough to seriously consider diving into a thornbush the next day?
What is the only season where, when out in public, the wardrobe decisions of others continually remind you that God created very few perfect bodies?
What season sees you continually retreating to the shelter of a basement in anticipation of severe weather?
What season gives people who have no business anywhere near explosives the chance to embrace their inner pyromaniac, leaving house pets everywhere terrified?
What season finds television networks trying to pass off knockoffs of Japanese game shows as "must-see" programming?
The answer to all these questions, my friends, is summer. I'm sorry, but summer stinks.
**** Please note: The author reserves the right to turn his back on this stance when August arrives and he has the chance to take a vacation.****
Henceforth, The Writings shall be known as a blog that is firmly anti-summer.
That's right, I've had it with summer. What good comes from a season where the weather is so hot that one perspires just thinking of going outside? The temperatures in Kansas have been so sweltering lately that I'm fairly confident area hotels are going to start advertising their parking lots as saunas.
This staunch anti-summer attitude also stems from the fact that the author's workload increases exponentially in the year's sixth and seventh months. Apparently the only reason days get longer during this period is so one can spend more time behind his desk.
Sure, some might argue that someone who enjoys baseball as much as I do should love the summer months. If I had time to get to any games, I might agree. As things currently stand, I still am unsure whether Kauffman Stadium was actually renovated or whether the Royals are playing televised home games in front of a large green screen.
Now you might be wondering how one can commit to an anti-summer agenda when they only support their stance two reasons. Personally, I think the fact that my windows may very well be melting and that I've been too busy lately to buy a jug of milk should be enough, but I'm prepared to give my argument further backing.
What season finds you continually swatting at mosquitos in the evening, and leaves you feeling itchy enough to seriously consider diving into a thornbush the next day?
What is the only season where, when out in public, the wardrobe decisions of others continually remind you that God created very few perfect bodies?
What season sees you continually retreating to the shelter of a basement in anticipation of severe weather?
What season gives people who have no business anywhere near explosives the chance to embrace their inner pyromaniac, leaving house pets everywhere terrified?
What season finds television networks trying to pass off knockoffs of Japanese game shows as "must-see" programming?
The answer to all these questions, my friends, is summer. I'm sorry, but summer stinks.
**** Please note: The author reserves the right to turn his back on this stance when August arrives and he has the chance to take a vacation.****
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