Dear Terry & Lisa (a recent email to very dear Burbank, CA friends),

Hi, I hope you had a fun weekend. Feeling better? Hope so.

Coffee? In this heat? Iced coffee, maybe. It’s called Stumptown because the rest of it melted off.

It’s hotter than a hoppin’ horny toad on red Texas asphalt, my friend! It’s so hot up here that when Global Warming showed up at a Monday night mixer, it ran crying all the way home to its mommy like a big sissy baby.

Hey, Global Warming, if you can’t take the heat stay out of Oregon. You big sissy baby. Global Warming’s a big sissy baby!

I tried writing to you from 3rd period, today, right after our nap, but my entire box of 64 Crayolas melted into a kaleidoscope of colored crapola.

It’s so friggin’ hot I can fry an egg on my forehead. I opened the refrigerator to make a sandwich and that little light yelled, “Shut the fuckin’ door!”

I’m hungry.

Texas is filing a class action lawsuit against the NOAA for messing up and sending them highs in the 70s, an off-shore breeze and pretty puffy clouds. Oregon wants to join in, but the entire state legislature is passed out from heat exhaustion.

I got a perv call from the Death Valley, earlier. No, not someone in the valley. From Death Valley itself. It was just this heavy breathing. I knew it was Death Valley because I heard those damn Borax mules braying in the background. The snickering tumbleweed was the clincher.

I think the heat is melting my . . . oooh, horsey.

baaaaaaa aaaaa aaaaaa

Please send ice cubes. Fedex, overnight. Or a 2-ton rooftop air conditioner. Please send us a sturdy roof, first.

I went to the store, today, to buy a Popsicle (since my refrigerator was not being very friendly) and when I opened the cooler, a Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia container told me to go to Hell. I wish I could. It would be cooler in Hell. Please send me a ticket to Hell.

I sat down in the not-so-frozen food section and cried. I tried licking the inside of the freezer door, hoping I would stick to it and they’d have to lock me in for the night.

Then the local Heroine of Albertsons ran down aisle three, waving a squeegee, and saved my sorry ass. Stupid gung-ho bitch. I hope her Florence Nightingale cape gets stuck in a paper shredder and she slowly chokes to death on her own bravery.

Hmm, I think the heat makes me a little cranky. How are you guys? I’ll call youse, tomorrow, after the swelling in my brain goes down.

Love, lunacy and linoleum,

The Kat