98 Degrees (Not The Band)

It's Sunday at 4:56 p.m. in La Crosse, Wis., and it is 98 degrees. It's hot enough to . . . well, let me just compile a list. Today it's:

-hot enough to melt your grandmother

-hot enough to set leaves on fire by farting on them

-hot enough to discourage fornication on the roof of your tin shed

-hot enough to destroy your entire Michael J. Fox wax statue collection

-hot enough to write a really crappy column about how hot it is

-hot enough to walk around the mall in boxer shorts without getting kicked out

-hot enough to melt the ice cream sandwich in your pants

-hot enough to boil the caviar in your codpiece

-hot enough to run around the neighborhood in a devil costume, frightening people who are stoned out of their skull

-hot enough to send death threats to weathermen

-hot enough to start a large brushfire in Arizona (sorry about that)

-hot enough to make Janet Jackson's entire body melt into a puddle of bubbling plastic

-hot enough to . . . oh, this is just silly.

Okay, let's move on to something else. Since we're talking about hot, let's discuss something (or rather someone) that's not so hot.

Let me ask you a question. Is it Monday? Are you sad because you missed a "great" party this weekend that you didn't find out about until today? Don't feel bad, reader. Let me show you why you shouldn't be upset. Look below to see a picture of what most girls at parties who wouldn't turn you down look like.

That's likely what your mom looked like when she met your dad at the keg party where he impregnated her. Just think: if your dad had picked a better-looking girl to bump uglies with, you might have turned out more attractive. Okay, so I'm not one to be talking. So sue me. Why don't you try to fill up a whole column when it's 98 degrees outside, jackass.

She is disgusting, though, isn't she? That's reality for you. Sure, there are girls at parties who look like the one below,

But none of them are going home with you. Or me. Or anyone, for that matter. They just go to parties to tease weak, shy men, and then they go home and talk to themselves in the mirror about how hot they are. That's why everyone should act like jackasses to them.

Oh, sorry! That's my bitterness coming through. How rude of me. I have a prescription for that. *gulp* Let's move on.

At this point, we've come to the point where we've reached the point where the point is that I have nothing much left to say. How to end the column then, you ask? Well, nothing fills up blank, unfunny space like a funny picture. Since a picture is supposedly worth a thousand words, the three pictures I used in this column make it a novella-sized 3,453-word masterpiece. Whew! What a job! By the way, my donation box is down lower on the page. Enjoy the horrible sexual innuendo of the picture.