Hello friends!
Hasn't the weather been lovely lately? Isn't this a wonderful time of year? The sun shining, flowers blooming, animals fucking everywhere you turn your head—what could be better than the God-damned renewal of nature's beauty that is spring, verdant and overflowing with the wonders of creation?
It's all just so excruciatingly delightful, isn't it? Look! There're some baby ducks and a desiccated old man in a golf visor and an idiot on a unicycle—""Hello, idiot!""
Doesn't it make you want to revel in the sublimity of the natural world and celebrate the abundance of life???
Fuck you.
It seems as though every year, as soon as the four-and six-legged vermin come out into the sunlight to have sex with each other and nibble on filth, you all crawl out of your holes to resume wandering around aimlessly in public places, clogging up the sidewalks on the way to and from barbeques.
Sometimes you stop completely to share observations about the current temperature, humidity and presence or absence of cloud cover.
""Sure is a beautiful day. You know, they say it's supposed to get up to 76 degrees.""
After listening to you all bitch about the cold and snow all winter long, I swear to god there's nothing worse than having to hear you go on and on about suntans and balmy afternoons every April, like warm weather is something you just discovered at the back of your closet, rather than a predictable, recurring natural event.
""Hey, this weather is really something, isn't it?""
""Yeah, we should make sure to remind everyone about it every six seconds so that it doesn't go away forever because no one believes in it anymore.""
""Oh no, that would be awful!""
You know what I like? Blizzards and sleet and hail—the shit that becomes a hazard to public health. And not because I think it's pleasant—no, I hate having my fucking eyelids freeze together too—I just like to see everybody else hobbling along in droves outside. Because I know that as long as there's snow on the ground, I won't see any culottes or public drum circles.
After April 15, on the other hand, everywhere I go is...
""Hey, Matt. Sure is a gorgeous day to get drunk and throw beanbags back and forth on the front sidewalk for 11 hours!""
I look at him and think, ""Someday, I'll eat pancakes on your grave.""
""Hey, Matt. Want to come join our demonstration now that the weather's finally nice enough to protest?""
""Sure thing,"" I say. ""It's so liberating to be freed from the oppression of sleeves.""
""It's just soooooo nice out! So much so, in fact, that I'm unable to talk about anything besides how goddamn pleasant it is. Oops, I applied this tanning lotion wrong and now it looks like I have a beard. Lala-fucking-la.""
It's like having a white-noise machine around at all times, except that I'd never sleep next to something that goes on for so long without shutting up.
You know what we could do to celebrate warm weather? We could organize a huge picnic on a boat. And fill it with plastic deck furniture and hibachi grills. And make sure there was plenty of fried food and beaded jewelry on board. And organize a bunch of different events, like a Frisbee tournament, and a ""Wonderwall"" cover song contest, and an airbrush art exhibition, and a panel where people could loudly air their opinions about the merits of various cheap cigars and shitty beer, and a semi-ironic game of capture-the-flag, and a 24-hour open mic for poetry scrawled in tiny notebooks while smoking American Spirits in crowded parks, and a sidewalk café, and a convention where people could share their riveting judgments about yesterday's humidity and vague predictions of tomorrow's. And then invite aboard everyone who's just super excited about summer (oh my god!).
And then we could sink it. How would that be? Would you like that?
You disgust me.
Don't bother contacting Matt at hunziker@wisc.edu. Pricks.
