Hotter Than Hell

So I'm getting ready to go out of town. And it's hot. I mean it's beyond hot. Wear black outside for five minutes and it really does feel like you could catch fire. Or that fireballs will come raining from the sky at any moment. Maybe that would be a good thing. It would be pretty hard to argue against global warming if fireballs poured out of the sky.

I go the dry cleaners to see if they'll do some emergency cleaning for me. I have some nice shirts that I'd like to wear on my trip to Chicago. Problem is, they've been lying in a dry cleaning bag since at least last summer. Too lazy and cheap to clean them I guess. Or I've had such casual jobs I've gotten by with just a tshirt over the last couple summers. Anyway, I was determined to look my best so I thought I'd get these shirts cleaned.

The place across the street from my place says they have to ship everything out, and there's no way they can deliver them the same day. I figured as much. Very few dry cleaning places are going to deliver on the same day. Buy hey, worth a shot. And it turns out it's not a completely wasted venture. She tells me to try the place down the street. They do all of their dry cleaning on site and may be able to turn it around the same day.

I procrastinate. I sit in my air conditioning. I surf the internet. I make some lunch. A few hours later I get in my car and go to the other dry cleaning place. Upon walking in the door I feel like I'm going to die. It must be 120 degrees in there. A fan is on the floor and it's blowing behind me. It's hotter than hell. It's as if Gene Simmons is lapping at my legs with that long tongue of his and breathing his fire breath on me. Unbearable. I step out of the way of the fan. It's making things worse. I want to bolt.

An Indian woman comes out with the full headdress and gown on. She's dripping with sweat. I ask her if there's any way she can turn around an order for a couple shirts on the same day and she says no. Or more accurately she says "it's hot." When I ask her when she could get them done she repeats "It's hot." Then she says that she sent the guy that does the irons home. "Tomorrow...hot too.'

I feel like a jerk. This lady could die trying to get my shirts done for me. And if she did them for me I'd probably want them ironed too. Oh, I'm a bastard. So I leave and tell her to try to stay cool, and I head for Target. Maybe Dryell will do the trick. So what if it really doesn't do jack for stains. At least nobody dies.