As we near the historic 3,000-comment mark on this here blog, I thought I’d take a break from self-imposed exile to let our faithful readership in on a closely-held secret:
In August, in Texas, it is hotter than Hell.
I was there last week for work and let me tell you, I felt like a Viking in Caracas. At 6 a.m., with the sun still below the horizon, I couldn’t see out the hotel window because it was totally fogged up. From the outside. Curious, I went out to sample the air.
It was like getting punched in the face with a goose. More than 80 degrees and damper than the inside of the Padre’s boxers after this play:
By 10 a.m., it was 95 degrees and 90 percent humidity. It made me feel like this:
OK, so enough with the transparent and crappy excuse for the baby pix. Really, it’s beneath me. I feel shame. So here you are: