Too Damn Cold

Okay, whoever failed to pay Mesquite’s heating bill is instructed to immediately make amends with the appropriate utility company and return our desert oasis back to it’s intended condition of searingly hot.

For those who haven’t ventured outside the warm confines of their personal abode in the last week or two, let me give you a weather report:

It’s cold.

No, wait, that’s not accurate.

It’s way cold.

Hmmm…not forceful enough.

It’s damn cold.

Getting there, but not quite right.

It’s “I’m not a frickin’ Eskimo, I hate ice on my lawn, and I’m going to strangle the next idiot who asks ‘is it cold enough for you?’” cold.

There, that about sums it up.

The current cold snap is endangering Mayor Bill Nichole’s popular claim that “we play golf 12 months a year.”

That may be technically true, since there are some golf lunatics who will actually swing a nine-iron while wearing a winter parka.

But if you are a golf purist who accepts the standard definition of “golfer” as “someone clad in loud polyester pants and mismatched polo shirt swinging a lightning-conducting rod at an elusive white ball,” then what those guys in the carts are doing can’t be construed as “golfing.”

“Freezing their Titlists off” would be the correct term.

Aside from the personal inconvenience of bundling up against 35-degree temperatures in what is supposed to be the burning desert, this stretch of North Pole artistry has deprived local residents of their favorite pastime:

Calling their friends up north and bragging about the nice Mesquite weather.

The conversation loses some bragability when your friend in Brainfreeze, Minnesota replies “35 degrees? It was up to 38 here. Of course, you wouldn’t know it while lounging in front of this nice fireplace. By the way, is your air conditioner still making that awful noise when you try to pry the thermostat up to the ‘Almost Livable’ setting?”

It’s a cruel irony that, all summer long, Mesquetians hunkered down in their homes and cars, afraid to stand outside more than 10 seconds for fear of spontaneous combustion.

Now, it’s a fear of having body parts flash freeze and snap off on the way to El Rancho.

Face it, we’re not equipped emotionally or sartorially to withstand this climate.

Most residents gleefully sold their winter clothes and fur-lined underwear when they abandoned their previous warmth-challenged address to make room for all the new shorts and t-shirts that our Easy-Bake Oven existence demands 10 months out of the year.

Now, no matter how many “Wolf Creek” polo shirts you put on, hypothermia is going to win.

And regardless of what the song says, Jack Frost is not “nipping at your nose.”

He’s kicking our butts.