Tag Archives: cool

It’s Hotter than a Snake’s Ass in a Wagon Rut!

Photo: Jeff McNeill/Flickr

It’s hot!

Okay, it’s not just hot, it’s really hot!

Okay, it’s not just really hot, it’s like really, totally hot!

Okay, it’s not just like really, totally hot, it’s like really, totally, oppressively hot!

Okay it’s not just like really, totally, oppressively hot… “it’s hotter than a snake’s ass in a wagon rut!”

Yeah, I don’t know what that means, but Robin Williams said it in “Good Morning Vietnam”, so it’s got to mean something.

I looked up a few “It’s Hotter…” quotes. Here’s some highlights:

“It’s hotter than a billy-goat with a blow torch!” I don’t know what this means either but I can only imagine if my two goats, Naughty and Heath were donning blow torches, things would be getting pretty hot.

“It’s hotter than a two-peckered goat!” Pretty self-explanatory, I suppose.  How about a two-peckered goat with a blow torch?

“It’s hotter than a pussy in a pepper patch!” Must have something to do with cats.

“It’s hotter than shit sauce!” I don’t know, I’ve never tried shit sauce.

Anyway, the Midwest, like a lot of the country is in the midst of a record-setting heat wave, with temps in the 100’s. It hasn’t rained in God knows how long and everything is brown and dead.  Seems like in years past we would sit outside two to three evenings a week in the summertime, watching thunderstorms roll in. My 120+ year old house doesn’t have air conditioning, so we put those window units in a bunch of our windows and spend a lot of time sitting around in our underwear. On days like these they seem to be doing not much other than blowing the hot air around.

I have to admit though, hot summer days sort of have this romantic, sexual appeal. It makes me think of Hemingway sitting at a primitive wooden table, in a rustic shelter in Africa with a cold glass of whiskey and a Royal Deluxe typewriter. It makes me think of beaches and cold drinks and salty, burnt skin.

In fact, just yesterday…

I was out doing some work around my property, digging some holes to repair some of the rotted fence posts around our pastures.  I was wearing a pair of Levi’s, heavy work boots and a white, fitted, cotton v-neck t-shirt, worn almost transparent from many years in the washer and dryer. My ripped arms burst out of the sleeves with every shovel full of dry, dusty dirt. Within minutes, hot, searing sweat was dripping down my body, glistening over my pecs and abs and soaking my now see-through shirt. As I worked, the hot sun beat down on my skin, burning and tanning it, deepening the distinguished creases and wrinkles that decorate my face and neck. My hair, coaxed back with salty sweat, styled better than any hair gel could ever provide. Shovel full after shovel full of dirt, my muscles ached with burning pain, rest and cool air the only thing that could ease their desperate misery. My lips, parched and sunburned, craved water, cool and sensual and life-giving.

After a few hours, my wife returned from work and drove into the driveway in a red 1964 Mustang. “Where’s the blue mini-van”, I wondered? As I approached the car, ready to query where it had come from, my thoughts quickly changed as she stepped out, wearing a tight pair of denim, daisy-duke shorts and a plaid, country-girl blouse, tied up in the front.

“Wow, they let you dress like that at work?” I asked.

“Casual Friday,” she replied in a sultry, sexy voice.

“You look good,” I stammered.

“You too” she replied, “you’ve been working?”

“Yeah, for a few hours.”

“Can I get you a glass of ice water?” she offered

“Yeah, that would be great.”

A few minutes later she returned from the house with a large glass of water filled to the brim with ice and with cool, wet condensation running down her arms.

“Tip your head back,” she said.

As I tipped my head back, I could feel her wrap her free arm around me as she pulled her hot, sexy body close to mine. Our burning, luminous sweat mixed as she poured the cold water down my throat and over my chin and chest. As our bodies merged together, her lips touched my ear and she whispered in her steamy, sultry voice….

“Steve, wake up, it’s 8:00 o’clock, Madeline has softball practice at 9:00.”

 “Yeah, I know baby, that’s so hot!”

“Hot, what are you talking about? Wake up, it’s 8:00 o’clock, we have to get Madeline to softball practice by 9:00.”

“What… huh…? Oh, yeah, softball practice… alright, alright, I’m awake… I was just dreaming… I think the heat is getting to me…”

So, it is hot where you are?  Feel free to share your “hotter than…” quotes.  And please… this was purely fictional… my wife doesn’t drive a red 1964 Mustang.

What’s not fictional? It’s definitely “hotter than a snake’s ass in a wagon rut.” I hear it’s supposed to cool off next week!

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