A Scorching Southern Summer Embrace the Chaos
Uncle Bobby, I’m not sure how much longer I can take this heat. Every time I step outside, my shoes melt a little and I lose another ounce of hope. The humidity feels like Satan’s hot breath, and someone told me August is worse. Please tell me this isn’t permanent. How are we supposed to survive the rest of summer without snapping?
Scorched E. Waffle
Ah yes, welcome to the annual hell sauna, where your skin sticks to your car seat, your sweat sweats, and even the devil’s thinking about moving north. July’s been out here acting like it’s got something to prove — but August? Oh no, August ain’t gonna let that stand. August’s warming up in the bullpen right now, stretching its hamstrings and whispering, “Hey y'all… watch this.”
We’re in that magical season where the heat index hits triple digits before breakfast, the air’s so thick you need gills to breathe, and your deodorant is giving up and filing for workers’ comp.
And don’t even get me started on the kids. They’re feral now — the snacks are gone, the screen time rules are rubble, and the school year is still two full weeks away. Every parent I know is hanging on by a juice box and a prayer, praying that school supplies magically appear in the cart while they weep in the Target aisle.
Meanwhile, the tourists are still here, God love ‘em, driving 12-under in the fast lane, asking if the Gulf is saltwater, and dragging their sunburnt kids into Waffle House at 2 p.m. while the locals are trying not to boil alive in the parking lot.
So how do we survive it? Hydration? Patience? Meditation?
Nah. You survive it by embracing the chaos. Wear your sweat like armor. Scream into the void. Blast the A/C until the power grid begs for mercy. And when August shows up, standing shirtless on your front lawn with a box of sparklers and a jug of lighter fluid, just salute that lunatic and say, “Bring it on, you sweaty bastard.”
Because this ain’t just weather — it’s a rite of passage. It’s summer in the South, and if it hasn’t broken you yet… congratulations. You’re one of us now.
— Uncle Bobby