So. Either Global Warming is a factual existence creating unusual weather patterns across the globe or I’m becoming a crotchety old bastard with little patience for the heat. While the truth is that I’m becoming crankier as the calendar pages flip, it is truer still that the weather is more extreme and unpredictable than ever before.
As a scientist, my musings re: Global Warming are not based solely upon the mountains of research and measurements made by other distinguished scientists worldwide. Streaker Jones has taught me that empirical scientists use data gathered by others only for doing comparisons to their own collected data and observations. Just because some guy over to Poland tells you it hurts to zip your pecker in a metal zipper, you, as an empirical scientist, must test his theorem before making rash statements thereupon.
To review my studies re: metal zippers versus penile flesh and skin, go over there ====}}}}} and buy my stupid fucking book, Full Rising Mooner. You’ll find that study contained in the pages of Chapter 21 as I recall. Which reminds me that some of history’s greatest scientific discoveries have been made at the cost of the scientists’ health. Like the guy way back who first put an unopened can of pork-and-beans in the campfire or that guy who flew with feathers waxed to his fake wings and got too close to the sun.
Sometimes scientists are required to make sacrifices for their art. And let me tell you that science is art—art at every level from sub-molecular to universal. If art is the creation of beautiful things or thoughts, then science is art. And like regular art, the beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Just like Jackson Pollock is a sloppy house painter to me yet a critically acclaimed virtuoso to others, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity is a stunningly beautiful string of thoughts that led to atomic bombs.
OK, I’m not getting ready to tell you that I’m on Albert E.’s team in the science league, but I have been making some calculations and observations that prove Global Warming is factual. As a thoughtful scientist, I have used a non-typical double blind testing/evaluation method to prove my ideas. The first series of tests involve the garden—plant date changes, rainfall and temps and so on—and the second set involves my scrotum.
When I was a boy, our garden was run by my grandmother under the auspices of the Farmers Almanac. Gram would study the Almanac and tell us what to plant when, when to water or fertilize and how to plan harvest chores. When you can and preserve an acre’s worth of tomatoes every year you need to do some planning.
For years, hell decades, Gram’s predictions and plans were spot on. Save an occasional freak storm, the Almanac was a dependable guide. Now the Farmers Almanac is so undependable it’s best used as toilet paper. And it makes shitty toilet paper.
You can’t depend on any historical data for rain or temperatures or bugs or blights. We usually plant the bulk of our summer garden in late March. Miss the last freeze, average date March 8th, and catch all the historically great spring rains. But the last eight years have been drought years and our last freezes have come in January.
For that fucking matter, our typical first 90-degree day has moved from May back to March. This year I planted summer veggies starting February 10th and we had a week of 90-degree weather in early March that wilted everything to the ground. Most all of it perked back up when we got our spring rains six weeks early, but see what I mean?
It’s too hot in May for the tomato blooms to set because they need overnight temps under 70-degrees. We’ve only had two nights under 70 since the last week in March. At the breakfast table this morning we we enjoying a plate of sliced Cherokee purples with our scrambled eggies when I read an article about the effects of Global Warming on several endangered species. New readers should know that I took the newspaper from Mother’s hands because, simply said, she’s an asshole.
After reading the article to the table, I made a comment about how Global Warming has effected the big family garden. Gram pointed a finger skyward—a hint that she wants to speak as soon as she has swallowed most of her mouthful of food—and then redirected the knobby digit my way.
“I blaimt you fer tha problems inna garden, Mooner. Wasn’t ’till I give it ta you ta wrangle afore it got all fuckered up.” Gram speared another slab of tomato and dropped it in her mouth, chewed, and with purple tomato juice on her lips added, she said, “I was gonna kick yer skinny ass fer ya an then I recollected ’bout how all them seals was getting’ squished when tha gravy was fallin’ off inta tha ocean. That’s tha blame onna oil men, Mooner. That shit ain’t yer fault.”
I answered, “Well, the glaciers are melting alarmingly fast, Gram, but it’s not just the oilmen causing the problem…” I stopped without adding additional reasons for Global Warming. I needed to quit while I was out of the doghouse for a decade of under-performing homegrown produce. And speaking of the garden, I got up from the table and headed out to smash stink bugs.
The black, hard shelled smelly little fuckers have arrived a full month early this year and they’re into everything. Only effective way to kill them is to slap them between your bare hands. (Be sure to wash afterwards and don’t touch any sensitive skin with those dirty hands.) It was while killing stink bugs that the second observational tool of my Global Warming studies came into play.
Like I’ve said, it’s hot and terribly humid here and especially so today. We’d been out to the garden for a couple hours and the sun had started beating down, heating the water-soaked air into a fetid stew. I was sweating head-to-toe and all my clothes were soaked. I was in the rows of okra and there were a cluster of stinkers at my ten o’clock and three feet over my head. As I reached to slap the buggies, I felt a tug on my thighs and then the sound duct tape makes when you peel it off a balloon.
“Bbrrruuuupppt,” the sound, followed by, “Sonofabitch that hurt!” almost shouted by me. My scrotum had stuck to my leg again and reaching to squish the stinkers had ripped it loose.
Now, as a scientist I’m required to not jump conclusions when the evidence is thin, but you notice I said that my scrotum had stuck to my leg again, as in another time after a previous time. The additional observational weight to my conclusion was observed last Saturday night. SAC Ellen was in town and just for the one night. We had a nice dinner but sat outside in the heat because my date has been, “Somewhere cold.” Anytime she leaves the country she won’t tell me where she was.
National security can be aggravating.
Anyway, she owed me a blow job from her last visit, and she offered to pay up before we got to the serious sexing. Seeing as I’m always up for a blow job, I said to her, I said, “Sure,” and I slipped out of my shorts and undies and splayed out on the bed. SAC Ellen started working kisses from my neck down to blow job country, doing little lip tugs at my skin as she went. I felt her secure my scrotum with her lips and then the pressure as she tugged. She tugged repeatedly and started to grunt with the effort.
“Holy shit, Mooner, your nut sack has rooted to your leg. We need to call a plumber.”
We laughed and discussed creative ways to unstick things and then debated whether she’d want her mouth on any of it when they came unstuck. So I hopped up and showered and returned to successful relationships, and I woke up Sunday morning thinking about how Global Warming had negatively effected my sex life.
I think I’m on to something here. I think I have discovered an entirely new area of detestation caused by Global Warming. But before I can make any bold statements I need to find more hard evidence. Have any of you guys had Global Warming effect your sex lives?