Summer Heat

I don’t care what evolutionary scientists have to say, I just do not believe that humans have progressed that far from our animal ancestors. I swear to you, standing upright is basically all we have over our canine friends. Yes, yes, men are dogs, this has been established since the beginning of recorded time with their whining and scratching, but honey women are too and I can prove it. You know that girlfriend who’s in heat? You know you have one, we all do, and it has nothing to do with the fact that it’s 95 degrees outside. She’s that girl (we’ll call her Missy) who seems to actually be able to turn men’s heads away from the television with an invisible magnetic force, or maybe it’s with her visible magnetic breasts, but it hardly matters. You walk into the bar in your flirtiest sundress with your cute summer bob and you might as well be invisible because every man in the room has his sights (and everything else) set on your pal. The next thing you know, you’re alone at the bar, buying your own drink, while the hounds are sniffing around your friend’s ass and making efforts to mark their territory by being the first to buy her a drink. She’s lucky they don’t pee on her leg, bless her heart.

Now don’t believe her wide-eyed expression when she finally remembers your presence and returns to find you so incredibly bored that you’ve actually been watching Sports Center, the scrolling scoreboard lulling you into a daydream where you “accidentally” shove her in front of a city bus and inherit all her fabulous clothes. It’s like she has some special scent that only men can smell, and, what’s worse, she knows it. For though she protests, albeit rather weakly, that these men are such a nuisance and she really came here to hang out with you, she cannot help but bat those big puppy eyes at the Great Dane beside her. Naturally, the hounds will want to follow her back to the Animal Shelter she’s created in her bedroom, leaving you to finish a plate of nachos while concocting another homicidal fantasy- great just what you need, an extra side of envy with your plate of deep-fried misery.

And you know you shouldn’t blame Missy, it’s biological, it’s beyond her control, it’s... ridiculous is what it is!! . The temperature rises above 70 degrees in this town and everyone takes their freaking clothes off. Men pant around like bulldogs, drooling all over the place at a couple of bare shoulders. I swear I don’t understand it. It’s like the humid air flips a switch in the male brain shifting their canine instincts into overdrive, while girls like Missy, with their short skirts and halter tops, seem to glide through the air as if existing in a moisture-less vacuum. I, on the other hand, arrive soaking wet with frizzing hair and armpit stains, looking like a marathon contestant after a 3-block walk from the train – not exactly the spaghetti-strapped vision I had hoped to be. So there she is exposing obscene amounts of flesh, while I’m in the bathroom drying my flesh off. It wouldn’t matter though, I could be standing naked in Pamela Anderson’s body and it wouldn’t make a difference cause it’s Missy they’re after, so either get out of the way or charge admission. The best you can hope for when you’re out with one of these Missy-types is a free drink off the guy trying to get in her pants, and as I have neither money nor shame, I’ll happily stand inside her force-field until the taps run dry.

Don’t bother being jealous of poor Missy; she will eventually tire of the mutts scratching at her door, and don’t bother feeling sorry for yourself because you don’t have a pack of hounds to yourself. Just accept that we are all animals deep down and that bitch is in heat!!!