There's no exquisite sin greater than central air
By: Eamonn Rockwell
Issue date: 6/1/07 Section: Ed-Op
Originally published: 6/1/07 at 3:42 AM EST
Last update: 6/1/07 at 3:42 AM EST
Originally published: 6/1/07 at 3:42 AM EST
Last update: 6/1/07 at 3:42 AM EST
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But some of us live and pretend to work in the not-too-deep south. Most houses and public buildings in my town have ample supplies of central air-conditioning that can be enjoyed at any time. My house is not one of them. While there is an air-conditioning unit in my parents' room and my brother's room, I do not have the luxury of being loved by my family and have to spend every summer relying on weak fans to keep my nuts from completely sticking to the mattress. The fans usually fail, and while I have built up a slight tolerance to the searing heat, global warming has made it impossible for my resistance to keep up with the temperature. While I initially thought the hot flashes and night sweats I was experiencing were due to the fact that I was going through menopause, I later discovered that this was not the case and that the only solution would be to get an air-conditioner.
Beating the heat before Hollywood told me about global warming was tough, but not impossible. Mostly it just consisted of sitting on your porch swing playing the banjo all day until Sheriff Tucker came on by and insisted that you either put your clothes on or quit playin' that gol-durned banjo music until the big hoedown tomorrow night at the old Miller barn. Those were simpler times when the water was pure and the banjo music was frenzied. But thanks to global warming, sitting outside naked with a banjo covering your shriveled, sweat-soaked genitals is no longer possible. The heat alone would fry you alive and turn you into beef jerky so dry that not even a British man would be able to understand your ensuing jokes.
In addition, the decline in the amount of rainfall in recent summers has made the air drier than the aforementioned beef jerky. While this would normally be a good thing because I hate humidity and the terrible things it does to my long, luxurious hair, it has turned my green hometown into a replica of a desert boomtown, complete with grizzled gold miners hunching over a pan in a dried-up creek. The oppressive dry heat makes it perfect to cook delicious racks of ribs in mere seconds, but makes everything else almost impossible. The only people allowed outside are working people between the ages of 17 and 50, but these warriors receive little aid in their battle against heatstroke. Children and the elderly are the most at-risk group during the summer, and despite being the two most useless groups in the country, billions of taxpayer dollars are spent keeping them cool and hydrated. Poor people who are neither cute nor elderly, such as yours truly, are forced to broil in the sun and become angrier as every second passes without air conditioning. This is why riots happen during the summer even though a winter riot could theoretically be more destructive what with the icicles and the snowballs.
With all of these factors working against me, I begged my parents to buy another air conditioner or at least find one on the side of the road that they could fix up and put in my room. Their response was a punch to the gut followed by a knee to the jaw, meaning I would have to look elsewhere to find an affordable unit. Having nowhere else to turn and being unable to get a job that would allow me to pay for a really cheap air conditioner, I am begging the non-existent readership I have to collectively pitch in and buy me the cheapest working air conditioner you guys can find. I'm also begging the much larger majority who hate my column and everything it stands for to pitch in as well. If I can't complain about the temperature, then my ability to write a column basically evaporates and I'm left with nothing but cold air, and that benefits everybody.
Eamonn Rockwell is a freshman majoring in communications. He can be reached through ed-op@thetriangle.org.
Beating the heat before Hollywood told me about global warming was tough, but not impossible. Mostly it just consisted of sitting on your porch swing playing the banjo all day until Sheriff Tucker came on by and insisted that you either put your clothes on or quit playin' that gol-durned banjo music until the big hoedown tomorrow night at the old Miller barn. Those were simpler times when the water was pure and the banjo music was frenzied. But thanks to global warming, sitting outside naked with a banjo covering your shriveled, sweat-soaked genitals is no longer possible. The heat alone would fry you alive and turn you into beef jerky so dry that not even a British man would be able to understand your ensuing jokes.
In addition, the decline in the amount of rainfall in recent summers has made the air drier than the aforementioned beef jerky. While this would normally be a good thing because I hate humidity and the terrible things it does to my long, luxurious hair, it has turned my green hometown into a replica of a desert boomtown, complete with grizzled gold miners hunching over a pan in a dried-up creek. The oppressive dry heat makes it perfect to cook delicious racks of ribs in mere seconds, but makes everything else almost impossible. The only people allowed outside are working people between the ages of 17 and 50, but these warriors receive little aid in their battle against heatstroke. Children and the elderly are the most at-risk group during the summer, and despite being the two most useless groups in the country, billions of taxpayer dollars are spent keeping them cool and hydrated. Poor people who are neither cute nor elderly, such as yours truly, are forced to broil in the sun and become angrier as every second passes without air conditioning. This is why riots happen during the summer even though a winter riot could theoretically be more destructive what with the icicles and the snowballs.
With all of these factors working against me, I begged my parents to buy another air conditioner or at least find one on the side of the road that they could fix up and put in my room. Their response was a punch to the gut followed by a knee to the jaw, meaning I would have to look elsewhere to find an affordable unit. Having nowhere else to turn and being unable to get a job that would allow me to pay for a really cheap air conditioner, I am begging the non-existent readership I have to collectively pitch in and buy me the cheapest working air conditioner you guys can find. I'm also begging the much larger majority who hate my column and everything it stands for to pitch in as well. If I can't complain about the temperature, then my ability to write a column basically evaporates and I'm left with nothing but cold air, and that benefits everybody.
Eamonn Rockwell is a freshman majoring in communications. He can be reached through ed-op@thetriangle.org.
