The Canadian Art Of Never Being Satisfied

I'm loving these soaring temperatures. Two of the cheeriest words I can see in a sentence are 'heat' and 'wave'. The sun could come down to within twelve feet of my head and roast me alive and I would be a very happy man. We had the most brutal, vicious, unrelenting winter ever on record. Now sky-high temperatures in the thirties are here. And yet I hear nothing but complaints from people.

I don't mean to put these people down or disrespect them in any way, but they are dumb and they should die. Have you forgotten the bone-chilling misery of this past winter, you chronic grousers? Has the fact that, for six months, your chief activity was shivering escaped your recall somehow? Short of an act of Parliament, what will it take to make you finally content? Get out of my country. Go live in Guam. You're getting on my nerves.

I realize it's the Canadian Way, a sacred Canuck tradition, to grumble about the weather no matter what. But come on. Get real. Half a year of Antarctica, followed by the wettest, chilliest non-Spring ever, FINally yields to some genuinely glorious weather and it's too hot? Give me a break. Or, better, let me give you one, in your femur. These are people who, if they were starving to death, and you came along and gave them a five-course meal, would whine that it was too salty.

But it's not the heat, they say, it's the humidity. No, it's the stupidity. Nobody's wild about humidity, I'll grant you. But everything is relative. That's why they call it the relative humidity. Compared to freezing, humidity is a gracious gift from God. Every day of the Winter Of My Dire Discontent, I prayed aloud for humidity. Please, Lord, I beseeched the ice-encrusted heavens, let it get stuffy. Let my clothes cling damply to my reeking armpits. Send, dear God, some humidity to save me. But no. I suffered frigidly on.

Those days are gone now, though, believe me, they will remain forevermore a traumatic memory. I welcome the humidity that has taken their place like occupied countries rolled out the carpet for the Soviets that liberated them from the Nazis. Neither is optimal, but one is WAY better than the other.

So put up, my country kin. And shut up. Breathe the moistened air deep into your soggy lungs, nurse your joyful sunburns and count your balmy blessings. Take your rightful place in the world of global warming. Run out into the streets and spray aerosol cans festively into the air.

Like the song says,

"I can't get no satisfaction. I must be Canadian."