The dog days of summer are slapping us down like Muhammed Ali slapped George Foreman down in 1974. Cue up Martha & The Vandellas or Linda Ronstadt—whichever you prefer—‘cause we’re in an honest-to-God heat wave, whether you measure it by Farenhot or Helcious.
If he were still alive Johnny Carson would be saying, “It’s really hot out there,” to which we’d all shout, “How hot is it?”
“It’s so hot I saw two trees fighting over a dog.”
“It so hot I caught Doc and the band snorting ice cubes.”
Yes, my friends, it’s sizzling out there. They call America a melting pot. If you ask me, the melting pot is a freakin’ cauldron. Mississippi’s burning again. It’s like we’re the epicenter of global melting.
My Balcony friends have all been bitching about the heat.
My good friend Leon, a very insightful man, said, “It’s so hot that when I got in my car and turned on the radio some band called The Heatles were singing ‘Helter Swelter.’”
My bud The Sheik, said, “It’s so hot that I put bacon strips on my tomato plants and 15 minutes later I had BLTs for everybody!”
Sir Martacus, one of the Knights-of-the-Long-Table, said “It’s so hot that they installed a fan in the debt ceiling.”
Twinkle Toes: “It’s so hot that Ya Ya’s frozen yogurt’s melting in the streets like The Blob.”
Bullfrog: “It’s so hot my iPhone succumbed to spontaneous combustion and turned into a Hellphone.”
Diamond Girl got delirious and thought she saw Margaret Hamilton on the Courthouse lawn. She screamed to the mirage, “Hey, witch! We’re melting! We’re melting!”
Preachers who don’t give the fire and brimstone sermons this time of year are missing out on the best chance they’ll ever have to convert a multitude of sinners. Who in their right mind wants more heat than what we’ve already got? We’re about as close to the gates of Hell as we can get and it ain’t gonna help one bit to stop drop and roll.
It’s so hot that that Ron Shapiro’s thinking about opening another theater called The Stroka.
It’s so hot that the clock tower on the Courthouse looks like a Salvador Dali painting.
It’s so hot that Farenheit 451 is selling like hotcakes at Square Books.
It’s so hot that when Donald Trump says, “You’re fired,” he whips out a flame-thrower and shrieks, “Burn, baby, burn!”
It’s so hot that the town of Coldwater changed its name to Boiling Mad Inferno.
It’s so hot that Waldo’s sleeping in a cooler in the back of McEwen’s.
What do you do when it’s blazing outside? You adapt. I heard that Heaton & Heaton put their Hawaiian shirts on sale—66.6% off. Hope springs eternal. I rushed down to get one, not giving a tinker’s damn if it would go with cowboy boots or not. As fate would have it, the racks were empty. “Where’d they go?” I screamed. “Where’d they go?!” Mr. Heaton pointed to the door.
I ran outside just in time to see Jim Dees turning the corner toward Proud Larry’s carrying a huge box with 666 Hawaiian shirts in it. I yelled, “Hey, Dees!” He just gave me an evil grin and kept on going. I heard him singing as he strolled out of sight, “Goodness gracious! Great balls of fire!”
It’s hot as all get-out and just getting hotter.
If you can jump in a pool, I think you oughter.
Sit on some ice if your butt can take it.
Hat-up your brain so the sun won’t bake it.
Turn on the AC. Whip out the beer.
Drink all you can ‘cause the end is near. —The Sundown Cowboy
I close with this gem my high school English teacher, Mrs. Corrine St. Clair Guild used to quote:
“As a rule, man’s a fool.
When it’s hot he wants it cool.
When it’s cool he wants it hot,
Always wanting what is not.”
And that’s one fool’s blistering View from The Balcony. 
